When the invitation landed in my inbox to contribute to the “Call Me” multi-author series—a collection of standalone novels chronicling the lives of Africans studying abroad—I felt an immediate mix of excitement and sheer terror.
Why? Because I hadn’t traveled much.
Therefore, writing about a place I’d never been to felt like dancing on a tightrope without a safety net. Research is great, but there’s something about feeling the pulse of a place, about inhaling its essence, that brings a story to life. I longed to carve my words from experience, to tell a tale steeped in nothing but the truth. And yet, the story wouldn’t let me go. It whispered, it nudged, it insisted.
So, I wrote it anyway.
When Call Me Naeto hit the press, I did the only logical thing. I went to Arizona to see the world I had built on paper, to walk in the footprints of my protagonist, to touch the edges of his reality and make it mine.
Arizona was an unexpected choice for a story about a Nigerian ballet dancer studying in the United States. The obvious pick would have been New York, but I wanted something different. Something bold. I wanted to step away from the expected and dive into the extraordinary. That decision led me straight to one of the seven wonders of the world—the Grand Canyon.
Oh, but first, a little detour.
My sister was graduating from Grand Canyon University (GCU), and what better excuse for a road trip than a double celebration? Her academic triumph and my literary pilgrimage.
It was a milestone moment for both of us—her years of hard work culminating in a cap and gown, and my words finding a home in a book that now felt more real than ever. We reminisced about our childhood dreams as we packed the car— She giddy with excitement, me, lost in the poetic symmetry of it all.
With the sky a boundless blue and the air humming with possibility, we hit the road on a sun-drenched Sunday afternoon. We had planned on leaving early, but Scottsdale had enchanted us to stay up late to a night of mocktails and laughter. When we refreshed our bodies enough for a trip, we rolled out at noon, caffeine in hand, excitement crackling in the air, and miles on miles of smooth interstates ahead of us.
The thing is, this particular road trip wasn’t just about getting from point A to B—it was a journey of reflection, a merging of past aspirations and present achievements. And as we sang along to Daughtry’s Home, I knew this was a trip we’d never forget.
We made pit stops, of course—because what’s a road trip without a little indulgence?
When we got back on the road, the desert stretched endlessly before us, golden and wild. The scent of sun-warmed earth seeps into the car through the cracked windows. Sedona called to us with its crimson-hued cliffs and mystical energy, and we answered with selfies framed against the breathtaking red rock formations.
The winding roads teased us with glimpses of hidden valleys, their shadows stretching long and mysterious. We zipped past Bearizona National Park, where the scent of pine mingled with the distant growl of unseen creatures, and then past Williams, the quaint and storied gateway to the Grand Canyon, where Route 66 nostalgia lingered in neon signs and rustic diners. And then, after miles of anticipation building like the crescendo of an unsung ballad, we arrived—breathless, exhilarated, and ready to lose ourselves in the grandeur that awaited.
Stepping into the Grand Canyon felt like stepping into the pages of my own book. I had written about this place in vivid detail, but nothing—not the meticulous research, not the fact-checking, not even my own imagination—could have prepared me for the sheer majesty of it. The canyon stretched infinitely, a masterpiece carved by time itself, each layer a story, each hue a whisper from the past.
Mather Point took my breath away.
As I stepped closer to the edge, the world seemed to widen before me, an endless sea of amber and crimson stretching into eternity. The sun, a molten sphere of gold, began its slow descent, setting the sky ablaze with hues of rose, tangerine, and violet. A hush fell over the canyon as if time itself paused to admire the spectacle. My heart pounded in quiet reverence; my breath stolen by the sheer magnitude of it all. The words I had written seemed to rise from the pages and weave themselves into the wind, wrapping around me in a surreal embrace, as if the very canyon whispered back its approval.
I thought of Naeto, of the journey he took, of the way this very canyon had shaped his story. I thought of the way life imitates art, how sometimes we write to discover, and in doing so, we end up discovering ourselves.
A rush of emotion prickled at the edges of my vision, a lump of something unnamable settling in my throat. Joy? Gratitude? Awe? Perhaps all three. I had come here seeking validation for my words, but what I found was something deeper. A connection. To the land. To the story. To the boundless beauty of a world that, no matter how much we write about it, still holds infinite wonder.
I had come here seeking validation for my words, but what I found was something deeper. A connection. To the land. To the story
Darling, if you ever get the chance to visit the Grand Canyon, take it.
Stay overnight. Wander through the village where life persists in defiance of the elements, where doctors and supplies are flown in as part of a rhythm as ancient as the rocks themselves. Open yourself to the language of the Canyon. Let it speak to you in its silent, breathtaking way.
This isn’t goodbye, baby. It’s just ‘till we meet again.’