We set up on a small stage in the city that raised me. The soundcheck felt like a collage of memories – school uniforms, church pews, my mum’s voice, the first time I ever grabbed a mic without shaking.
Benin City has a way of folding you back into yourself. The air smells like old stories and fresh ones waiting to happen. Every street corner has a soundtrack if you listen closely enough.
Walking through old streets
The morning of the show, I took a quiet walk near my old neighbourhood. A few people recognised me; some didn’t, but it didn’t matter. I was just a girl trying to remember who she was before life got loud.
I thought about the choir rehearsals that ran late into the evening, the aunties who told me to “sing it again”, the uncles who slipped crumpled notes into my hand after a performance and said, “Don’t stop.”
The show itself
When the band started, something inside me settled. It wasn’t about proving anything; it was about saying “thank you” – to God, to the city, to everyone who saw me before I fully saw myself.
There were moments during the set where I had to bite back tears. One song in particular, a quiet one, felt like it was being sung back to me by the room.
After the show, a young girl came up and said, “I didn’t know someone from here could sing like that and travel the world.” I told her the truth: you don’t have to become someone else to be seen.
Benin will always be home – not because it’s perfect, but because it’s where my voice first learned to be brave.