In the warm and reserved  town  of Ikokore, the sun sat on the rooftops like it was baba landlord waiting to collect rent from its tenants and the clouds smiled upon Mother Earth as though they had finally made peace . I, Foluke  is  at Ajase, a  village blessed with abundance of harvest and high mountains. “ No stranger would dare  to climb it “ I thought inwardly. Yet walking through the forest, I felt no fear  . The air itself whispered calm and the trees danced to the rhythm of the wind. For Ajase was a place of peace . 

     The aroma coming from iya seki’s big black pot  drifted through the  warm air, rich and inviting wrapping itself around me until my tummy began to rumble in response . My nose followed the scent , each step I took  led me closer to the heart of the village. Atlas ! “ I found her “ there, beneath the large orange  tree  iya. Seki stirred her pot with a bamboo paddle, the steam from her pot rising like incense into the sky. 

   Children played and  danced nearby, their laughter rang in my ears like bells , while the elders sat in a small circle , their voices slow and soft in wisdom .  Life at ajase moved at its own rhythm, untouched by the pain and suffering of the outside world “  

As I sat down on a small wooden chair carved from the finest wood, I offered to share a bowl with the villagers. They didn’t reject my open arms . Then I realized that Ajase was more than a place of harvest and towering mountains. It was a place where harmony and peace tasted like food, where tradition and beliefs were the order of the day. For it lived in every folktale told by the fire in the soft blending voices of the elders, and where the community made strangers into family. 

Ajase !, Ajase ! 
And in that moment I knew I had found a home . ©️ANN.