Bayo Husaini

It was one of those typical grey Dublin mornings. The clouds hung low, and the drizzle never seemed to stop. I got into the office, took my seat at the desk, and plugged in my headset. The call center was buzzing as usual. It’s been five years since I left Nigeria for this city—long enough to get used to it, but still, there are days when I miss home terribly. I’m 41 now, and the weight of responsibility has never really left me.

This day, I received a call from a customer having trouble with his laptop. As soon as he spoke, I recognized the familiar tone in his voice. His English was thick with the same Hausa accent that I grew up with. After a brief exchange, he asked, “Are you Nigerian, too?” I smiled. We switched to Hausa immediately, and it felt like slipping into a pair of old shoes. Comfortable. Familiar. We laughed a little, sharing that rare connection you only find far from home.

For a few moments, it felt like I was back in Sokoto. Back where the sun blazed over the dusty roads, and you could smell the earth after it rained. We talked about small things—the weather, the food we missed. He said he was also from the north. It was brief, but it warmed my heart in a way that Dublin’s grey skies never could.

When I hung up, I noticed my boss watching me. He motioned for me to come into his office. “You’re not allowed to have private conversations here,” he said sternly. I tried to explain that it wasn’t a personal chat, just a brief exchange in our shared language. He didn’t seem fully convinced, but eventually, he waved me off.

I went back to my desk, but my mind lingered on that call. It wasn’t just about the conversation—it was a reminder of what I had left behind. My parents, back in the village, growing older. My children, who I haven’t seen in years, but whose school fees I pay with every paycheck. I thought of my wife, managing everything alone back home.

It’s strange how a short conversation can take you back across oceans.