There’s a Yoruba proverb my mother used to say when things got a little chaotic in our crowded Brooklyn apartment: “Kí ilé ó tó rò, ó ní gbóná fáfá.” Roughly translated, it means, “Before the house becomes serene, it must first be hot and noisy.” As the middle child in a family of seven, serenity wasn’t exactly a frequent visitor in our home. But for all its noise and heat—literal and figurative—our house on that tree-lined street in Brooklyn shaped me in ways I’m still unpacking. It was there, in an apartment that always smelled like jollof rice and possibility, that I discovered what connection really means.

A Tale of Two Homes: Lagos and Brooklyn

First, let me paint a picture of where it began. We left Lagos when I was eight—a sprawling metropolis teeming with boisterous markets, endless sunshine, and the hum of product pitches from saleswomen with voices like choirs. Moving to Brooklyn was waking to an entirely different rhythm. Lagos was laughter spilling through open windows; Brooklyn was shouts at sunrise, neighbors blasting Biggie Smalls on a Sunday morning, and kids playing basketball well after the streetlights came on.

But oh, Brooklyn taught me hustle. Not just the kind of hustle my pops had as he ran his tiny bodega or how my mom pulled double shifts as a nurse, but the hustle of relationships. See, in a big family, every relationship feels magnified. One second, you’re at your brother’s throat over who gets the last slice of suya from the fridge; the next, you’re plotting together how to sneak into the kitchen without tipping off grandma.

Brooklyn flipped that same script in the larger social world. A neighborhood crush could easily find out your life story before you even worked up the courage to say, “Hey,” at the bodega. Privacy? Yeah, not so much. Instead, what Brooklyn and that crowded little apartment taught me was how to show up authentically—partly because I didn’t have a choice. When life places you in the middle of five kids and within earshot of the entire block, you learn to be real or risk getting roasted.

You’re Never Too Cool for Flirting (or Fumbling)

Lagos gave me some swagger; Brooklyn gave me a sense of humor. What I quickly learned as a kid trying to adjust to a new culture (and later as a young romantic) was that laughing at myself was a survival skill. I remember once, during senior year of high school, I tried to impress a girl in my literature class by comparing her to Sula from Toni Morrison’s novel. Big mistake—she hadn’t read the book and thought I was making fun of her unusual laugh. My attempt landed somewhere between tragic and comedic, but the lesson stuck: Be clear, be kind, and for goodness’ sake, know your audience.

If you think flirtation requires perfectly executed lines or smooth movie moments, let me tell you—Brooklyn will humble you. Real connections aren’t about perfection; they’re about being willing to put yourself out there, flaws and all. Kind of like when you’re queuing up at the Crown Fried Chicken, popping your gum extra loud, only to realize someone cute is standing behind you. Life, like Brooklyn, hits you unfiltered. And you know what? Sometimes, that rawness is where the magic happens.

Food, Family, and the Power of Saying “I’m Listening”

Growing up, Sundays in our apartment always had a ritual: church in the morning (with my dad’s very off-key hymns booming over our neighbors’ complaints), followed by an afternoon feast. My mom would whip up Nigerian classics—egusi soup, puff-puff for dessert, and fried plantains that could rival anything sold along Allen Avenue in Lagos. These meals weren’t just about filling our bellies; they were about filling the space between us.

It’s funny how, to this day, those family dinners inform how I approach relationships. Whether you’re sitting at a literal table or just metaphorically trying to make space for the people you care about, there’s something so vital about giving your undivided attention. My friends joke that I approach every relationship like it’s my turn to pass the pepper soup. What can I say? When you grow up hashing out annoyances over fufu, you learn that intimacy often starts with, “Okay, tell me everything,” paired with warm food.

If I’ve learned anything from those Sunday meals, it’s the importance of listening. Not in the passive “uh-huh, sure” way, but actively. Lean in, put your phone down for a second, and really hear what’s being said (or sometimes, what’s left unsaid). You’d be amazed at how transformative a well-placed “I hear you” can be, whether you’re navigating tricky family dynamics or starting a new love story. Listening is underrated—but trust me, it’s where real understanding grows.

Mentorship in Unexpected Places

When I moved to upstate New York for grad school, I’ll admit—I dragged Brooklyn with me like an oversized suitcase. I insisted on keeping my Timbs despite the summer heat, and I peppered my conversations with “y’know what I mean?” even though nobody at the cozy town coffee shop seemed to know what I meant.

But somewhere between the snowfalls and the silence, I found space to reflect. Brooklyn will teach you grit, no doubt about that, but quiet places teach you contemplation. At first, I missed the comforting chaos of my upbringing. Then I realized that reflection—real, honest, uninterrupted reflection—has its power, too. It made me think about the places that raised me: what they taught me, what I’d overlooked, and how my sense of self was forged through their contrasts.

Looking back, it even shaped how I approach mentorship in both writing and relationships. Connecting with others—whether through teaching high school lit or partnering to figure life stuff out—isn’t about imposing your experiences onto someone else. It’s about guiding people to excavate their own truths. If Lagos gave me stories and Brooklyn made me bold, upstate New York reminded me of the beauty in silence.

Love, Like Home, Changes You

If there’s one thing I know about home, it’s that it won’t stay singular. What feels like “home” at eight won’t feel the same at eighteen—or twenty-eight, for that matter. Falling in love is just another way of building home, if you ask me. It’s messy, uncomfortable at times, but it’s also where you’re most yourself: vulnerable, lighthearted, and alive. Whether it’s your neighborhood, your family table, or the person holding your hand, the sense of home grows when we allow ourselves to dig deep.

So if you’re wondering how to find and nurture connection, take it from someone who had to navigate cultures, continents, and one too many awkward dates: Start where you are. Embrace the noise. Laugh at what’s messy. And remember that not every house is serene, but even the noisy ones can teach you a lot about love.