This is Part 2 (Part 1) of a three-part series exploring the idea of “home” in the diaspora. These are mainly personal reflections and pieces of conversations with friends.
Today’s post is about homesickness, or, as they say here in Germany, Heimweh (pronounced haim-vé). Somehow, I think the German word feels more intense, heavier, more piercing, almost as if it carries the ache in its very syllables.
The glow and the trap of memory
When you leave home, something strange happens to your memories.
They start to shine.
The food seems tastier in memory than it ever did on the plate. The warmth of community feels magical. The values of home seem stronger, the bonds deeper. We polish these memories until they glow, and in hard moments abroad, they keep us going.
But there’s a trap. Home was never perfect. There were struggles, frustrations, even things we once wanted to escape. Distance blurs those edges, leaving us with an edited version of the past.
Romanticising home
This glow isn’t accidental. It happens for reasons:
- Memory softens the edges. Time highlights the laughter, food, and celebrations, while dimming the hardships.
- It’s how we cope. In lonely and cold places, the idea of home becomes a refuge: “There’s a place where I truly belong.”
- It’s resistance. When you face stereotypes daily in a foreign land, idealising home becomes a shield: “You may not value where I come from, but I know it is beautiful and strong.”
And sometimes, these debates even spill onto social media. I remember these reels asking whether Nigerian food actually tastes better in London than in Nigeria itself. Some claimed that London jollof outshines the Lagos version. Others disagreed, saying nothing abroad could ever match the freshness and atmosphere of food back home.
To me, this debate isn’t really about food, it’s about memory and comfort. Comfort like the sharp heat of freshly ground pepper spreading through your body with that first spoonful, or the scent of crayfish rising from a steaming pot. Abroad, those sensations carry the weight of longing. That invisible seasoning — nostalgia — can make a plate abroad feel more powerful than the “real” thing at home.
The realities of home
But romanticising home has a shadow side. Sometimes, when we finally return, reality does not match the glowing picture we’ve carried in our minds. Streets feel different. People have moved on. Even recipes have changed , people are now putting crayfish in “pomme pilé” (abomination….. krkrkr).
The shock is real: to love home deeply and yet not recognise it fully.
But here is the truth, at some point you realise: Home isn’t perfect. It never was. But it’s still mine.
The ache of guilt
If memory is sweet, guilt is bitter.
Homesickness is not just about longing; it’s also about responsibility sometimes. The guilt of being absent when family needs you. The guilt of safety while loved ones struggle.
And for parents waiting years for family reunification, the ache deepens. Children grow up without you. Partners learn to survive alone. And when papers finally come through, you sometimes meet again as near-strangers. Love still there, but requiring patience and rediscovery. Like an instrument that must be tuned again before it can play in harmony.
And then comes another worry: that even once reunited, you and your family will never be fully accepted in the new land.
The weight and the wonder
A friend once told me:
“As an African, you can never feel at home in Germany. You will always be on the margins because of your skin.”
I understood the pain. Xenophobia and exclusion are real. They scar the heart.
But I had to reply:
“Do you know, in this same Germany, you can meet people who will do more for you than even your own parents?”
Both realities exist. There is rejection. But there is also love.
There are people who will see your humanity before your passport, your brilliance before your accent, your soul before your skin.
And when you find this, it makes you realise: home is not only about blood or birthplace.
…..Upcoming post: Becoming both
