The first time I visited a proper library was at my alma mater, Lagos State University, Ojo, in my first year of study as a student of English Literature. A few hours later, I was covered in hives. My face, hands, and ears got so large and itchy, that my eyes barely opened. Thankfully it was a Friday. Covering my face with my scarf and packing up my things, I took the next bus home. I discovered I was allergic – to what? To date, I don’t have the answer. After spending a week at home in recovery and covered in lots of calamine lotion, I swore off visiting the library. Yet, I was an avid reader. I started investing in books (I couldn’t afford many), and where I couldn’t buy, I’d borrow books from friends and classmates. Usually, this meant getting a really short turnaround time from whoever owned the books. I’d read everywhere – on the bus to school (usually the Danfo or Coaster buses plying Mile 2 to Iyana-Iba/LASU gate), when I catch a break from classes, at the cafeterias, at Mr. Emeka’s shop (the man whose computer shop business my friends and I visited to type school assignments or make copies of books). But I never went back to that library, and I never broke out after that.

The next time I went to a library was in 2012. I was in my final year of undergraduate study and working on my project; Socio-political effects of war on women or something along those lines. I was using a few war texts to back up my research. Key among them were the Biafra war books – history, faction, and fiction. I wanted to get my hands on as many books as possible to enrich my work. Yet I was afraid. Afraid that if I stepped into a library again, whatever caused my first and only allergic reaction to date was waiting for me again. Yet, I dared to. This time, I visited the National Library in Yaba. Oh, the books I discovered, the texts, news articles. Many of them were on the Biafra war. Some on the World Wars. Yet because I didn’t know if a trigger was waiting for me, I hurried in, grabbed the books I needed, scanned through, took pictures of pages, authors’ names, and publication year, made copies of pages, (everything I needed to reference my work) and left the building in under an hour. It’s a wonder to realize how resourceful we can get when we need things and have no choice around it. This time, I didn’t break out. No allergic reaction. Nothing. But I never went back to that library either. Mainly because it was too far a commute from my house, plus I didn’t want to jinx it.

When I moved to Canada, one of my biggest regrets was not being able to move with all my books. Aside from the cost of shipping almost a full bookcase that I had in Lagos, it was also the fear that some of them may not survive months on the water if I were to cargo them. What if seawater got to them and damaged them? And so yet again, I’m finding ways around getting my hands on books. Every time I hear of a friend coming to Canada from Lagos, I’d ask if they can bring me a book or two. Almost three years now, and I still think my shelf needs more books.

Lately, I’ve been back in the Library. This time in Milton, Ontario. A small town about 45 minutes to the west of Toronto. It is a small town with less than 150,000 people. It is small enough to not have the usual noise and madness of suburbs like Toronto, Mississauga, or Brampton, yet close enough that when I need the distractions, I can drive to these places. A lot of people have asked me why Milton. Especially as a single woman who typically should be chasing the highs and adventures of bigger cities. I tell them I lived in Lagos for more than half my entire life. Anyone who has lived in Lagos knows that the noise and adventure find you everywhere. And after being in advertising for more than 10 years, you know you’ve been at the centre of crazy. You cannot escape it in Lagos. I did not like the noise although I loved the vibrancy.

This year, I’m discovering the joy of finding new books again. Of holding paper in my hands and smelling that unique scent of books. In the last 3 months, I’ve read more than 10 books. More than the entire list I’ve read in the time since I’ve been here. Milton is special, it feels a lot like home. I could walk the entire streets in my dreams. On some nights, I probably did. It is in this small town that I’m connecting again with everything that sets my soul on fire – my community, my writing, my advocacy, my creativity, and people. One day, I’ll write about the trails, and the farms, and the neighbourhoods, and the familial feel, and the Go trains that do not run all day, and why this small town will always have a huge place in my heart. For now, I’ll keep loving what I find on its library shelves.

Maybe this is my cue to join a book club. The verdict is still out on that one.