I’d been in Umudioka for six weeks, a small Igbo village in southeast Nigeria where everyone knew each other, and I was a stranger. At 27, I’d left Lagos after a rough breakup, hoping village life would mend me. I rented a small bungalow near yam farms, but the villagers’ polite “Kedu?” at the market felt distant. I was an outsider, my city trainers and faded jeans marking me as out of place.Umudioka had its own rhythm I couldn’t grasp. At the local buka, folks nodded silently, their orders of fufu and vegetable soup already known by Mama Chika. In the village square, elders swapped tales of wrestling matches, their chuckles fading when I passed. I wasn’t shunned, but I wasn’t seen. Evenings, I sat alone on my veranda, the quiet of the farms louder than Lagos traffic.

One harmattan night, I saw a fire’s glow beyond the banana trees—laughter and a talking drum carried on the breeze. My neighbor, Chief Emeka, who’d nodded when I arrived, was hosting a gathering in the square. I’d seen these before—chairs in a circle, palm wine flowing—but never got an invite. That night, he called out as I fetched water. “Chidi! Fire dey square o. Come if you like.”

I hesitated. My city vibe didn’t fit here. But the chill bit, and the fire looked warm. I grabbed a jacket and walked over, slippers crunching on sand. The square buzzed: flames crackling in a clay pit, kids waving sticks, folks chatting over palm wine. Chief Emeka handed me a calabash, his rough hand brushing mine. “Welcome,” he said simply. I nodded, feeling like I’d crashed a family party.

I perched on a stool, sipping palm wine, eyes scanning. Mama Chika, now in a bright wrapper, teased a man in a cap. Nneka, the market cloth seller, tapped a drum, humming an Igbo tune. Their talk of harvest festivals and village politics flowed easily, but I didn’t know their codes—nicknames, proverbs, the way they laughed close. I felt like a boy among elders, waiting to be sent off.

Then Nneka paused her drum and looked at me. “Chidi, you sabi song?” My stomach knotted. “No, I no too know,” I mumbled, face hot. She grinned and started “Ugo Chinyere.” Mama Chika sang, voice bold, and soon half the circle joined, their breath fogging the air. Chief Emeka nudged me, smirking. “City boy, you must know am.”

I didn’t, not really—just bits from weddings. But their voices pulled me in. I hummed, quiet, then louder, catching the melody. Nobody laughed. Nneka nodded, drumming steady, and Mama Chika belted the chorus. The fire sparked, and for a moment, I wasn’t the Lagos guy. I was in the song.That moment lingered. I started noticing things—Chief Emeka leaving yam tubers at my door, Mama Chika sneaking extra meat into my soup, saying, “You too lean.” Nneka called me “nna” at the market, like I’d always been there. Umudioka’s language—small gestures, quiet care—was sinking in. I learned to greet elders with a nod, ask about Emeka’s crops, laugh at Nneka’s jabs about my accent.

That fire didn’t erase my city itch or make me a villager overnight. But it taught me belonging isn’t about knowing every word. It’s showing up, humming along, even if you’re shaky. Now, when the square glows, I don’t wait for a call. I grab my jacket, pull up a stool, and join the song. Belonging’s like a fire—just keep adding to it, one spark at a time.