Issue 3: Love & Homesickness.

Leks and the City, except the city is Oberlin, Ohio

By: Lekan Aleshe-Shittu, Staff Writer

The topic of home is a contentious one. Many argue that home is a physical space — four walls which contribute to or at least, are reminiscent of all-consuming feelings of care, comfort, and unconditional love. To these people, home is a concrete structure bound by space and time, brick and mortar. It is its ability to be perceived by sight and smell, that solidifies the fact that it is a home. It has no other defining characteristic except its physicality. Even the dictionary supports this claim; home — “the place where one lives permanently.” What a fucking dull definition. I used to be one of those people who believed home was rooted in the material. To me, it was the pink and brown bungalow I would return to each day after school. Then, it became the peach colored terrace-duplex we moved into when I was thirteen. I find it rather interesting that growing up, I never questioned why these buildings — nothing but colorful cement with a few couches in the interior, seemed so deeply important to me. I used to look forward to going home. Whether I was at school, a party, a meeting, or a friend’s, home was my release. My space to exist freely without the pressures of conformity. Yet, I never thought to ask myself why. Yes, I loved home because of my bed and my privacy and my safety. But is that why it meant so much to me? Its physicality? Its tangibility? Probably not. I think I loved home so much because of the people who inhabited it. It is now, that I am incredibly far from home, that I have come to this realization. 

Hi, friends. Long time no see. It has been a while since I have written for this column. As I mentioned in the last issue, writing for “Leks and the City” has become a form of relief. A sort of catharsis.  I’ll be real and say that I often dread writing each issue though, because it is usually quite a difficult ordeal. But I am also so incredibly grateful for it. I am grateful for it because it provides me a chance to reflect and I am of the belief that consistent and continuous reflection, is one of the most important things a human being can do. If you don’t know what this column is, I began “Leks and the City, except the city is Oberlin, Ohio,” as a manner in which I could document my experiences as a black, African, international student at a predominantly white institution such as this one. My life here, and the way in which I view and interact with Oberlin  is vastly different from the way the thousands of mostly white, mostly rich American students view and engage with it (as you can probably tell). And that is fine. I do not think there is anything inherently wrong with that. But I do think it is important to share other perspectives. And that is what I aim to do. I often dissect the overarching themes that pervade my experiences here. So far, I have shared my thoughts on white saviorism (specifically, the weird-ass conversations I’ve had with some people on this campus) and what it feels like to be a minority for the first time (surprise surprise, it’s not great, but it’s definitely interesting). This issue though, is a little more vulnerable. It hits a little close to home (haha see what I did there?) 

A few paragraphs ago, I mentioned that I used to think of home in the physical form. Home to me is Lagos, Nigeria. It’ll probably be home for as long as I live, which I find rather hilarious, because it is a loud, overwhelming, bustling megacity that smells of smoke, and piss, and struggle. But it also smells like excitement, and love, and electrifying energy and I am full of adoration (albeit a little fear) when I think of it. And that, my friends, is where I am going today. Home is not the physical or the tangible. Home is love. Adoration. And I cannot wait to feel it again. 

I left Lagos for boarding school in Johannesburg, South Africa when I had just turned 17. My understanding of home as a physical entity ceased to exist immediately after I moved.  Leaving was difficult, and I was wracked with inordinate amounts of fear, and a gnawing sense of loss the day that I left. I wasn’t sad because I was leaving Lagos. In actuality, I was thrilled. I was sad, because I was leaving love. Specifically, my mother. Yes, leaving home was frightening, but what was most frightening was the fact that I would not see my mother throughout the school year. She was what made home, home. And so, when I left, I thought of her over and over again. I longed for home, but in reality, I think I longed for her. For the first few days of boarding school, I was bogged down by a heavy sadness. All I could think of was going back home —  to Lagos, to my room, to my mother. So much was happening — I was in a new country, at a new school, surrounded by new people, and while it was all so utterly exciting, home took a hold of my mind. It found a foothold in my brain and dug itself deep into my psyche. For the first few days, I cried. It was all I could do in the face of such incredible change. I could not comprehend the fact I did not live in Lagos anymore. 

After a number of weeks though, I began to get into the rhythm of boarding school. Slowly, it started to play out in a manner that I did not expect it to. I began to love it. I made a friend. Then another friend. Then another, and another, and another. Each spot around campus became inextricably linked to a memory. A little patch of grass by the dining hall is where my friends and I had picnics. The quad is where I read books and listened to music with another group of friends, and the classrooms were where I held late-night dance parties with people I had come to care so deeply about. My room was no longer just my room. It became a haven for sleepovers, 3:00AM conversations, and rancorous bouts of insane laughter. It was where I ate a whole chocolate cake on the floor with a friend after a particularly long day, where another friend held me as I cried myself to sleep, where another friend and I dissected life and love. Soon, I would barely think of Lagos. South Africa had become home. 

It became home because of the people that I cared for. People who I could not fathom leaving. They quickly became pieces of me, and still are, even in this very moment. When it came time to fly back to Lagos at the end of the year, I would be filled with this fear and sense of loss that plagued me when I originally left. I wasn't sad because I was leaving South Africa. In actuality, I was thrilled. Boarding school was hard. I was sad, because I was leaving love. Specifically, my friends, my teachers, the moments that had become memories that I’d dream about for decades to come. It became quite hard to handle. Whenever I was back in Lagos, I longed to go home to my friends. To boarding school where I had experienced a brand new, almost intoxicating form of love. Whenever I was in South Africa, I longed to go home to my mother, where I felt cared for, comforted, warm. My understanding of home had become warped — a distorted version of the idea I once had of the phenomenon. An idea rooted in the physical. How could I long for two places at once? Why did I feel like I was home whenever I was in either Johannesburg or Lagos? That was when it hit me. It was the people in those places that I longed for. The manner in which they made me feel. Realizing that love was what constituted home was an eye opening experience. Lagos is home, but so was South Africa. So is London, where my brother and my sister-in-law live, and where I spent the whole of winter break. At the risk of sounding cliché, home is truly where the heart is. I am so glad that I have so many. 

That being said, I have not felt at home in a while. Since I moved to Oberlin, I have felt quite far removed from that feeling of home. That feeling of connection. Winter break with my brother in London was the closest I have felt to it in months. Thanksgiving break with my friends in Kenya is a close second. In between those times, I have struggled to make Oberlin home. I am comfortable here, though. In terms of the physical, one could argue that the Afrikan Heritage House on South Campus is home for me. My room (which I have grown to love and long for at the end of the day) is home. But I do not feel at home a good amount of the time. Or at least, I didn't last semester. This semester, I’ll admit, is a little different. I am not sure why. The idea of home is rather interesting because of the incredible amounts of nuance present when examining it. There are moments when I have felt flashes of home, of comfort, of connection here. There are other moments when I have not. Probably because I am not surrounded by love as I am used to. Last semester, I was plagued with debilitating homesickness. It was a new phenomenon to me. While I understood the concept of homesickness, I had never felt it to the extent to which I did last semester. It was reminiscent of the first few days of boarding school, except this time, it lasted months. I had lived away from home for two years prior to moving to the U.S., but I had never felt as homesick as I did last fall. And so, moving and adjusting to Oberlin has been incredibly difficult. Because while I am comfortable, I miss my mom. I miss my friends. I miss home. I am hoping to make a home for myself though. The only homes I have ever known are thousands of miles away on another continent, but I will try to make one here. I am incredibly grateful to the people who have begun making one with me. 

Thank you for reading, and see you in the next issue,

Leks.