I’m From

Airevbowan Olaghere

I’m from Uzebba, a small town in the warm south of Nigeria,  
where red earth clings to bare feet and the evening air hums with crickets’ songs.  
I’m from Kingston’s laughter and Bamako’s dust,  
from mango trees, reggae rhythms, and the muezzin’s call to prayer at dawn.  

I’m from the Afemai people, the wandering souls of Edo and Yoruba blood,  
my ancestors’ footsteps mapped at 7° 0'N, 5° 54'E —  
coordinates of memory, of home and departure.  

I’m from Idon, my oldest brother,  
who became father and mother when both were gone too soon.  
I’m from Lua, my wife of 21 years, who has journeyed with me across continents—my  
compass through life’s wanderings.  
From Rosalee, my high school teacher,  
whose gentle words opened the door to the Bahá’í Faith—  
a faith that shaped my soul, even after belief moved on.  

I’m from pounded yam and egusi soup,  
from jollof rice’s fire, bush meat’s smoke, moi moi’s softness,  
and dodo’s sweetness beside the heat of pepper soup.  
I’m from creole kitchens, spicy curries,  
and the tender burn of Hunan food shared in foreign lands.  

I’m from tales my mother told by moonlight—  
of the wise tortoise who outsmarted an amorous king,  
from laughter and wonder that stitched the night together.  
I’m from highlife and juju music, from Afrobeat’s heartbeat,  
and folk songs of sorrow and joy that kept traditions alive.  

I’m from chaos and movement,  
a life packed in suitcases and scattered artefacts  
from Nigeria to Jamaica, the UK to the US, from Mali to China, Seychelles to Australia—  
a dishevelled shelf of places I now carry in my heart.  
I’m from resilience, from trust in the goodness of people,  
from the faith that we are, and must be, our brothers’ keepers.  
I’m from the homeless wanderer longing for the joy of tranquillity,  
for the mercy of providence and the sweetness of finding home.  

——

Here I Am

Airevbowan Olaghere

Here I am, in Boorloo, on Whadjuk Noongar Country,  
after decades of wandering  
from red earth towns, island winds,  
and cities where prayer rose before sunrise.  

Now standing on ground with stories older than memory,  
learning to listen with ears shaped by elsewhere,  
quieting what I carried  
to hear what Country is saying.  

Here I am, under a summer heat  
that presses hard against the skin,  
learning to move slowly,  
to respect the sun’s authority.  

Intrigued by six seasons  
that do not follow the Gregorian calendar— 
time marked instead by wind, rain, soil, and flowering,  
by what arrives and what retreats.  

Here I am, learning that listening is relational  
in spaces shaped by story, patience, and trust.  
Where listening with head, heart, and feet  
is not metaphor but responsibility.  

In a circle of stories,  
I sit with others to hear what is spoken and carried underneath.  
Names, memories, and silences pass between us.  
I learn that listening is not waiting to speak  
but making room for what arrives.  

Here I am, pursuing a path in social work,  
I learn that colonisation is not past tense,  
that listening is an ethical practice,  
and that wellbeing is inseparable  
from Country, culture, and truth.  

Here I am, still becoming,  
trusting that if I stay and listen carefully enough,  
I might one day find my place in the listening.