It’s been 36 hours since I arrived in Umulowe, and honestly, it’s been a circus. My luggage is still missing, I’m an emotional mess, and if sandflies had a ranking system, my skin would be their five-star resort. But, as I’ve quickly learned, life here doesn’t stop for your first-world problems. 💅

It’s not all bad, though. Remember how I said communal living means everyone knows your business? Well, in this case, it’s working in my favor. The entire village seems to have taken my lost luggage personally. One lady/aunty/big sis/relative in particular, who returned from the States, has turned into my personal advocate.

She asked for the airline’s customer service number (shoutout to Value Jet for doing the most… or the least, really) and got to work. Watching her switch effortlessly between polished English and fiery Igbo was nothing short of Oscar-worthy. I mean, she chewed out the rep so passionately, you’d think it was her luggage that was missing. At one point, I almost whispered, “Aunty/Sis/Relative, it’s okay o!” But before I could, the rep hung up on her. Classic. 🙄

While I’m mildly stressed, my dad is on cloud nine. His Adaobi is home, and nothing can ruin his mood. Not my complaints, not my sandfly-induced welts—nothing. And honestly, I’ve stopped trying to complain because I’ve realized something: I’m living in his kingdom now.

Here’s the kicker—I’ve discovered my dad isn’t the man I thought I knew. In the village, he’s the guy. The elder everyone flocks to, listens to, and reveres. Oh, and apparently, my dad has a ton of children I’ve never heard of. No, seriously. They adore him, and I’ve come to learn he’s been paying for countless school fees, earning their unwavering loyalty. To them, he’s not just my dad; he’s their hero, their village prince. And let me tell you, these people would take a bullet for him without hesitation.

Knowing this, I’ve decided to stop fighting the tide and just go with it. So, here I am, being paraded around the village like some kind of relic. We stroll into strangers’ homes unannounced, sit down, and—without fail—they pull out something to eat or drink. Privacy? Never heard of her. Personal space? Not in Umulowe. It’s all about community and connection, which is both heartwarming and mildly exhausting.

Speaking of food, let’s talk about breakfast. That’s when it hit me just how ridiculously fancy my usual life is. The water for my tea came from the oldest, most beat-up kettle I’ve ever seen in my life. I mean, this kettle looked like it had survived wars and maybe even the invention of fire itself. My first instinct was, Nope, not today, but then I thought, “Don’t be that person. It’s boiled water. You’ll live.”

Still, I couldn’t help but cringe at the presentation. The whole thing was so… rustic. And yet, there I was, sipping my 3-in-1 tea, trying not to overthink it. And you know what? It was the best cup of tea I’ve had in ages. So good, in fact, that I shamelessly went for seconds. And thirds. All from that war veteran of a kettle. Life lesson learned: presentation might be everything, but taste trumps aesthetics. ☕

Now, would I gladly come back? Honestly, not unless duty calls. The experience so far is a mix of comedy, culture shock, and survival skills I didn’t know I had. But is it getting better? Well, we’ll see. It’s only been 36 hours, after all. I guess the only way forward is to embrace the chaos—and maybe stock up on bug spray while I’m at it. 🦟*😉😂