It took leaving the rainforest for the desert to understand who I was. Eleven years ago, I moved to The Sultanate of Oman, stepping into a world of vast dunes, rocky mountains, the endless blue of the Arabian Sea and the Gulf. The architecture gleamed white against the fierce sun, and everywhere the air carried the quiet hum of a place shaped by centuries of trade and tradition. The landscapes were breathtaking — dramatic, resilient, and full of quiet poetry.

It was a striking contrast to Southwestern Nigeria, where I was born and grew up surrounded by restless rains and fertile forests and sometimes chocking humidity. Yet I didn’t fully grasp that difference until the desert taught me how deeply I belong to the equatorial region.

Living in The Middle East taught me something no geography lesson ever could: The absence of radiant green revealed how deeply I am shaped by it.

My first year in Oman was filled with vivid dreams. Almost every night, I saw shiny palm trees in abundance, different species of trees heavy with fruit, their leaves shimmering after rainfall. In those dreams, I wandered through dense greenery alive with birdsong and the damp smell of earth. It was as if my subconscious insisted on returning me to Nigeria.

By day, though, I embraced life in Muscat —  made good friends, walking through the bustling souks where frankincense burned sweet and smoky, admiring the Sultan Qaboos Grand mosque, visiting the beaches and feeling the warmth of the people’s hospitality everywhere I went. The desert was foreign to me, but never unwelcoming.

At dusk, the dunes shift from gold to rose to shadow, as if the land itself breathes with the setting sun. In the silence of the open expanse, you hear your own thoughts more clearly. Oasis appear like miracles, reminding you to treasure what seems ordinary elsewhere.

It was in that stillness that I recognized something about myself: I am tropical at the core. My body longed for humid air, for the rhythm of sun and rain, for the wild abundance of green. Yet I also came to appreciate what the desert gave me — patience, perspective, and an enhanced understanding of life.

What I felt in that part of the world was not simple homesickness. It was recognition — the realization that environment shapes us as much as culture and history do. The forests, swamps and humid skies of Lagos were not just memories of home; they were part of who I am.

The desert, too, left its mark. Its vastness sharpened my sense of scale. Its cold nights and scarcity taught me gratitude. Its silence reminded me of what truly mattered. Oman did not erase my longing for the eternal summer zone — it revealed it, and in doing so, gave me a clearer sense of self.

I had not appreciated my tropical background until I lived in the desert. And once I did, I understood: home is not only a place. It is also a climate of the mind.

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