I’m sitting on the cold floor of a hotel room in a strange town, crying. I’ve finally figured out why I came here. It wasn’t for solitude, as I had convinced myself and told my sisters when I left Lagos; it was because I was running from the loneliness.
As it speeds off, you stare out the window at the bridge snaking overhead. You remember the stories your mom told of a time when that bridge—the Third Mainland Bridge—and not the underwater train was the major link between the Mainland and the Island.
At a time when I often found myself tongue tied and unsure of myself, she was what I wanted to be—self-assured and stubborn enough to stand her ground when it came to making decisions that were not necessarily understood by others.