When We Were Fireflies

The plane touched down in Ibadan just as the sky broke into soft, pale grey. Rain had fallen overnight, leaving the airport tarmac damp and shining like glass. Adanna rested her head against the window for a moment longer than necessary, watching as raindrops clung to the edge before sliding down in silence. She hated landings. Too final. Too much like endings dressed up as beginnings. The customs line was slow. People murmured in Yoruba and English, some mixing the two with ease.

A toddler in front of her started to cry, and his mother bounced him gently, whispering, "No cry, pele, we don reach." Adanna shifted her weight from one foot to the other, the handle of her camera bag digging into her palm. She held it like a shield. Even when she wasn't working, the camera anchored her-solid, familiar, mechanical. "Welcome home," the immigration officer said with a tired smile as he stamped her passport. She nodded, but didn't reply. Home. That word had felt like a question mark for so long. Outside, her grandmother's driver, Musa, waited with a cardboard sign that read MISS ADANNA in neat, block letters. He hadn't aged much-still lean, still polite, still fond of chewing mint gum that filled the car with a cool, sharp scent. "Ah! Small madam," he greeted with a grin, opening the car door for her. "O ti pe ju! You're finally back." Adanna smiled faintly. "It's been too long, Musa." "Your grandma don prepare yam and egg for you," he added, loading her luggage into the boot. "She cleaned your old room by herself yesterday. Said no house girl fit do it properly." Adanna chuckled. That sounded like Mama Rose-cleaning things that were already clean. She could imagine her lifting old photo frames, muttering prayers under her breath, then dusting the same shelf twice. Her grandmother's routines were a kind of love language. As they drove into the city, the memories rushed in like sudden heat. The red rooftops, scattered like pepper seeds across the vast hills. The street hawkers yelling over each other, their voices full of urgency and hope. The okadas weaving between cars like water through rock. The heavy scent of fried plantain and roasted corn thickening the air. Everything had changed. And somehow, nothing had. By the time they reached the house, the morning sun was peeking through the clouds like a shy child. The old colonial-style bungalow still stood tall, its whitewashed walls now faded with age, but still beautiful. Bougainvillea vines curled lazily around the porch rail, their petals wet with dew. "Mama Rose!" Adanna called as she stepped inside. From the kitchen came a loud "Ehen! My baby has returned o!" followed by hurried footsteps, the slap of rubber slippers against tiled floor, and then the warmest arms she'd ever known wrapped around her in a tight embrace. The hug smelled like cloves, antiseptic, and palm oil. "I thought I had lost you to that London life," Mama Rose said, pulling back to inspect her. "Look at your cheeks. You look tired. Your eyes sef-like someone that has been thinking too much." Adanna smiled. "I missed you too, Mama." "Ehn ehn. Come inside. Sit down. Let me bring food. Hot yam and egg with plenty onions. I even fried plantain because I know you'll still be hungry." There was a silence as she bustled toward the kitchen, but it wasn't awkward. It was the kind of silence that held questions wrapped in care-questions like What happened?, Why now?, Are you okay?-but none of them needed to be asked yet. That was the gift of Mama Rose: she never rushed your story. Later that night, after a quiet meal and a hot bath drawn with eucalyptus oil, Adanna sat by her old window. Her camera rested in her lap, untouched but close. The fan above her spun slowly, pushing humid air in lazy circles. Outside, the neighbourhood buzzed with soft generators, distant voices, and the rustle of mango leaves in the wind. She didn't know exactly what she'd come here to find. Closure? Peace? A beginning? But something told her... She hadn't come back empty. Not entirely. Something had survived the leaving. And maybe-just maybe-it would find its way home too.