This year’s winter has a familiar ache.

It remined me of my first Canadian winter.

Does it feel strange because I pressed reset when I moved to the city? I’m not entirely sure but it only whispered one thing.

Home. 

Home is what I’ve thought about and what I continue to think about.

I miss home. I miss my neighborhood and the familiar faces I’d see whenever I walked from the bus junction to our family house. And the little church across the street? 

I can see it vividly today. 

I see the red roof with glass walls. The woman with the kiosk whom I bought candy from before I became sober from being a candy junkie. She was nice and already knew what my regular purchases were.

There was also the man who acted as our technical saviour. He sold almost everything you can think of. From phone chargers to light bulbs, headsets, and phones. 

Right across the corner was my hairdresser. That woman plaited my hair with beautifully adorned African hairstyles! I miss her and her unmatched skills.

Then there was also the pharmacist. He was our go to for pretty much anything medicine related.

And yes! The tailor or should I say fashion designer? That man? He had unparalleled skills that even my very own mother couldn’t resist. 

We also had neighbors and those with small stores who, even if we never bought anything from them, still knew us because we existed.  

Everyone knew everyone. I’d hear familiar or maybe not-so-familiar voices saying hello when I walked down the street. Others would ask

“Are you the one living over there?”

“Is your father so-and-so? I think I met him once!”

I miss all of it. And I wonder why the feeling is so sharp today. Maybe it’s because the TTC employee who I’ve unconsciously attached to home wasn’t there today.

Mr. TTC employee was one of the closest reminders I have of the communal way of life back home. I always looked forward to chatting with him every day after work. We stopped to check in on each other before heading to my platform.

I expected the same today.  

But he wasn’t there. I saw someone else. I said hi but I didn’t get the usual warmth I always got from Mr. TTC employee. While I hope Mr. TTC employee is ok, that moment reminded me that culture differs, but it lives in me. 

When I first moved to Canada, one of my biggest shocks was the individualistic nature of the society. Everyone moved as if they had no time. I lived in apartments where I knew no one and no one knew me. It’s funny and sad that my next-door neighbor, whom I’d only seen twice had a baby a year later. 

Everyone appeared busy and was going somewhere. They must have time for everything, yet it still felt like no one had time for anything. 

I felt invisible. Like I was slowly being carried away by time without forming memories with my environment. It was shocking then and it’s still shocking now. 

Recently, I met a Nigerian who knew my name and existence from someone else. We met by coincidence. Immediately she saw me; she called my name. We talked, connected instantly and gave each other a very tight and warm hug. 

It was just a hug and not just a hug. It was more than that. It was a reminder of the cultural values we carried with us.

It whispered, “I see you and I hope you see me too.” It reminded us of our identity and who we are as people. 

It was nice. It felt really good. Because I’m just a girl who’s trying to survive in a new city without feeling invisible. 

But as I write this, I’ve realized something.

I carry my values with me. I always do. And we all do.

When people at work tell me, “You’re easy to talk to”, it’s not me. It’s my identity speaking.

When people say I do a great job staying in touch, my first reaction is really? “Wasn’t I supposed to?”

When I greet and say hello to people outside my office building, it’s not random, it’s my cultural voice doing the talking.

And for my office colleagues who we’ve gotten to know each other and still getting to do the same, that’s the Nigerian in me. 

I carry who I am with me in a way I hope I do justice to. 

Home, they say, is where the heart lives.

I may be miles and oceans away. And while my heart will always be home, it feels good knowing I’ve built and am still building relationships here that help my heart stay alive.

So, at the end of the day, I can have a home, or rather, another home away from home, especially one with a red-roofed church in my heart and a familiar hello at the station.