Of Bittersweet Goodbyes

When I first became aware of myself, I was confused. I had stubby fingers and arms that I felt were too long for my body. My hair was of medium density, and my mum loved to braid it down and attach beads to it—colorful beads. Anything less, and I would throw a fit. Because I was still the last-born child of the family, anything I wanted, I got. Who were you to say no to the Obonganwan?

We drove down the streets of Uyo to my father’s office in the black Peugeot 504, a car I was starting to dislike because we now had a new navy blue BMW with a sunroof and ice-cold air conditioning. A car that, in 2006, screamed, I have arrived. I was way above the 504 now, and I made a mental note to bring it up to my parents at dinner that day.

“Why are we not using the new car?” I leaned sideways to ask my sister in her ear. Our driver loved to blast the radio so loud that we had to talk into each other’s ears.

“I overheard Mummy say that he couldn’t drive the car because it was automatic,” she replied.

I didn’t know what that meant, and I didn’t bother to ask—I liked to act as though I knew it all, a trait that I haven’t outgrown. I was going to ask my dad later in the day.

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Fast forward to 2025, and I’m in a workspace with my laptop open. I load the Nigerian Law School site, my anxiety going through the roof. Once it opens, I click through the site until I see that I have gotten the admission. I breathe a sigh of relief. This was just the first part of the whole process.

I thought of my room, which I had left in utter chaos. Clothes were strewn everywhere as I tried to pick what would be traveling with me, what I’d leave at home, and what I would give away. Excitement crept in, but it was quickly doused by my anxiety. “Am I really doing this?” , I asked myself.

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As I drove back home, I took my time to look at the streets and rows of houses. I would soon say goodbye to the town that had been my home for more than fifteen years. The family, the friends, the restaurants, churches, boyfriends and lovers, different sisterhoods and clubs I had formed over the years, ex-friends and boyfriends, coursemates or schoolmates who, for some reason unknown to me, hated my existence.

As the years passed, I grew to hate and resent this town, where—if you were curious enough—you could trace my existence back to the Civil War.

You couldn’t fathom how behind we were in almost everything until you visited other states. Our neighboring state, Port Harcourt, had done so much with itself as an oil-producing state, and here Akwa Ibom was, still struggling. Businesses here often don’t thrive—either because of poor management or lack of patronage. If it’s not a lounge or bar selling beer, or a spot serving spicy roasted catfish with a side of pepper soup and dog meat, forget it. Ah! Let’s not forget about the palm wine, very important.

Then we have our ever-lovely government, which is only concerned with building infrastructures that are, more often than not, big for nothing. State funds worth millions are thrown into dormant factories, built under the guise of economic growth and false promises of creating employment for the youths. All withering away with overgrown plants and weeds, which, more times than not, become homes to vagabonds.

It’s a facade to siphon state funds and brag nationally, while the youths remain unemployed. At this point, election campaigns are nothing but an insult to the average Akwa Ibomite.

To make it here, you had to be a politician—or a politician’s boy-boy. Empty-headed, self-proclaimed “PAs” or “SAs” to one politician or the other, awaiting their chance to be awarded a political position for being faithful to their master. Often, they don’t get these positions because they are worthy or deserving of them. Their boss does it as a way to say thank you for the years of loyalty and servitude. Putting unqualified people in government. It’s a circus here—and in the whole country at large.

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I really can’t wait to leave this place. I won’t be seen here for a long time. But I’ll miss it, though. I will. My formative years have been here, and some things will be branded in my psyche forever.

Like my first kiss—soft and sweet, which left my neck hurting because the guy was quite tall. My driving school, where I bashed the car many times. The club I went to with my friends over and over. The restaurants that know my order by heart. The church that drew me back to God after my agnostic days.

I have fallen short of the glory of God a few times, but there’s nothing quite like redemption. A chance to start afresh, to cleanse and renew—a do-over.

So, as the car speeds past Nwaniba Road, through Shelter Afrique, the new Dakada Estate, to the airport, I wind down the window to take in the air and sights. And it dawns on me—I’m leaving here. I’m finally leaving this place.

“Good riddance,” I say as the car drives off.

But as the town fades into the distance, I realize that, despite everything, this place has shaped me. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll return one day and not as a girl desperate to leave but one with a new identity.

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