They say the aroma of home can find you, even 6,000 miles away. For me, it comes in wafts of ata rodo, sizzling goat meat, and freshly pounded yam that hits the table still steaming. The kind of steam that fogs up your glasses and makes you wipe them clean to see the beauty that awaits.

Every evening around 6:30 p.m., just before the reservations kick in and the clamor of clinking cutlery begins, I stand at the heart of Òunje, my proudly Naija restaurant in Lafayette Square, St. Louis, and take in the bliss.

I’m not talking about that type of restaurant. You know, the watered-down “fusion” establishment that serves jollof quinoa or egusi hummus. Nah. Òunje is pepper soup that makes grown men cry. It’s suya so hot you see visions. It’s fried plantain with caramelization that’d make your ex slide into your DMs at 2 a.m., talking about “I miss your cooking.” It’s where I’ve seen Wall Street bankers sweat through designer shirts and still ask for seconds.

People come in curious, they leave converted. Baptized in palm oil and obe ata.

My staff, mostly second-gen Africans and a few brave locals who now speak fluent Yoruba sarcasm, prep for the night rush that is soon to come. Chef Tola curses at the spices, Dayo arranges plates with the precision of a surgical technician, and Kemi tests the pounded yam with a finger poke, nodding in approval. This is my tribe, my haven, the place my soul goes to find rest.

This isn’t where my story began, though.

My story found its roots in Kaduna, in the dry heat of a fractured childhood. Where dusts belly-danced and the air tasted of mangoes and diesel.

I was eight when the riots began. Bayo, my older brother, who was ten at the time, wrapped his arm around me as we crouched in the corner of our bedroom. We’d heard gunshots before, but that night, the streets blazed. The orange glow from outside bathed our walls in a hellish sunset.

The smell of smoke mingling with fear is something your body never forgets.

Our neighbors, the Abubakars, lost everything. I still remember Musa Abubakar’s face, ash-streaked and hollow, when he came to say goodbye. The next day, my father whispered, “We leave tonight.” He didn’t pack his Rolex or his suits: just passports, birth certificates, his wife, and two sons.

We landed in Minneapolis, Minnesota. I remember the snow. I hated it. The cold bites your bones and leaves you wondering if God’s fridge is open. It makes your nostrils stick together and your tears freeze halfway down your cheeks.

It was a bleached-out reality, an icy shift from Technicolor to black and white.

My parents, once big fish in Nigeria’s nouveau riche pond, became cleaners.

My mother, who once hosted governors for brunch, cleaned motel bathrooms. Her hands, once adorned with gold rings, cracked and bled in the Minnesota winter. My father stocked shelves at Target. The same man who once negotiated million-naira deals now arranged canned soup for an hourly wage and the possibility of a 401 (k).

I’d never seen them cry in Kaduna. In Minneapolis, I caught them weeping in whispers, huddled under a blanket too thin for American winters but thick enough to muffle the sound of broken dreams. It wasn’t long before they left Minneapolis for the concrete jungle.

New York was loud. School was hell.

I was chubby, brown, loud, and my accent could slice cheese. They called me “cocoa puff,” “elephant boy.” Bayo fought. He’d come home with bloody knuckles and detention slips. Me? I stayed quiet. I became a shadow expert, slipping between hallways, stealthier than a ghost. Some nights, I cried into the sleeve of my coat, praying for a way to make myself invisible. Other days, I toughened up, learned to laugh at myself before others could. I became the class clown, failing academically, but succeeding in sarcasm and insults so targeted that my victims sought therapy to heal. I got detentions, suspensions, every punishment in the book. On the brink of an expulsion, my father stepped in.

His punishment? A trip to Ibadan.

That visit to Ibadan was my awakening, an anchor to my drifting soul. The air embraced me: hot, humid, honest. My uncle took me to a buka in Oluyole; not the fancy places with printed menus and uniformed waiters, but a roadside joint where plastic chairs tilted on uneven ground and cats lurked, hoping for scraps.

There was this Iya with gele that reached heaven, defying gravity and possibly local bylaws. Her arms were thunderous, powerful things that looked like they’d been stirring pots since creation. She slapped down a bowl of amala and ewedu with the kind of grace Michelangelo would have sculpted. The bowl didn’t just land; it announced itself. I took one bite, and something inside me healed. It wasn’t just food; it was remembrance. The amala was silky-smooth, the ewedu slippery with potential, and the gbegiri thick with stories.

I ate with my fingers, letting Nigeria reclaim me one bite at a time.

I came back to the U.S. with a fire. I lost the baby weight, traded Oreos for skipping ropes, and poured myself into culinary school as soon as I graduated from high school.

I trained at the Institute of Culinary Education. Between classes, I’d call my mother for recipes, scribbling her instructions on whatever I could find. Napkins, metro tickets, sometimes my own arm. “No, Mama, I can’t just ‘add small salt.’ How much is ‘small’?” I graduated top of my class. Got a gig at a Michelin-starred joint in Manhattan, then became a partner. I learned techniques that made French chefs nod in approval, but at night, I dreamed of pounded yam.

I ran a food truck out of a converted yellow school bus on my off days. My food truck, called Afrobeats & Bites, was remodeled. I painted it a brazen color of the Nigerian flag, decorated with added fairy lights, and blasted Fela Kuti loud enough to wake up Brooklyn. The menu was simple. Fried moimoi on weekdays, Puff-puff on weekends. It was tough, but I was tougher. I worked hard at it, grinding harder than garri in a mortar. My hands smelled permanently of scotch bonnet peppers, and I wore my burns as medals of honor.

Years later, when my parents moved back to Lagos, bless their stubborn hearts, I knew it was time. I packed my knives, left NYC, and came to St. Louis. The city had color, culture, and the kind of neighborhoods where everyone knew the corner store aunties who could spot a fake ID faster than the police. Lafayette Square felt at home. Ancient brick buildings with stories in their mortar. Trees that had seen generations come and go. I built Òunje there, from scratch. Every nail, every tile, every spoon was selected with the reverence of choosing a life partner.

Now, the restaurant is my legacy. But it’s also my healing. Every dish is a memory. Every spice, a prayer. Every laugh around the dining table, a reminder that trauma doesn’t have to be terminal. On quiet nights, after closing, I sometimes dance alone in the kitchen, spatula as microphone, singing Burna Boy off-key but with all my soul. My sous chef walked in once and just backed out slowly. Respect.

Bayo? He’s a neurosurgeon now in Chicago. Still bossy. Still thinks my food is “too spicy.” This is from a man who operates on brains but can’t handle habanero. When he visits, he brings fancy wines and medical journal papers that I pretend to read. I remind him that spice saved our lives. He disagrees, then eats three plates of jollof anyway, sweating bullets but too proud to reach for water.

As for love, well, let me tell you about Rewa.

She runs a flower shop down the block called “Petals and Roots.” Eats meat, loves pounded yam, and spends every Christmas in different states in Nigeria. The first time she walked into Òunje, she ordered goat meat pepper soup, sneezed after the first bite, and still finished the bowl. Didn’t reach for water once. Just dabbed her nose with a handkerchief, an actual cloth handkerchief, not tissue, and kept eating. I knew then she was wife material.

It’s not official yet, but we’re getting there. Love, like egusi, must be stirred slowly. Too much heat, too quickly, and the whole thing curdles. She brings flowers to the restaurant every Monday. Arrangements that speak in color what words cannot say. Last week, it was birds of paradise surrounded by baby’s breath. I put them by the window where the morning light hits just right, turning ordinary air into something sacred.

So yes, life abroad isn’t all struggle. Sometimes, it’s spice, survival, and slow-dancing to Asa songs while plantains fry. It’s watching American customers learn to eat with their fingers, hesitant at first, then diving in with abandon. It’s sending money back home and knowing your cousin’s school fees are covered.

It’s hearing your mother say “I’m proud of you” in Yoruba because some feelings are too big for English.

And for a boy once scared of snow and school bullies, I’d say I turned out alright. More than alright. I turned out Nigerian, through and through. Just with an American passport and stories that bridge continents.

In the kitchen of Òunje, under lights that flicker sometimes when it rains, I am finally, completely, home.