“Where are you from?” It’s the first question people ask, and I usually answer fast. Nigeria. It’s true, and it’s easy.

But it isn’t the whole truth. I was born in London. Then I lived in Nigeria. Then back to London. Then Atlanta. Then New York. And every time I moved, I changed a little to fit in.

People say my accent is hard to place. In the US, I learned to blend in. The way I spoke shifted. Back in the UK, it shifted again. In Nigeria, again. My friends noticed before I did. They said my accent had changed, and they didn’t always mean it kindly.

For a while I wondered whether I’d been fake. Which one was the real me?

I’d hear myself switch accents, languages and energy depending on the room, and feel like I was performing. Like I owed someone an apology for not picking one.

The truth took me years to see. None of them were a mask. Every version was a part of me. The London kid, the Nigerian son, the guy who found a home in Atlanta and grew up again in New York. I wasn’t switching between people. I was all of them at once.

So now, when someone asks for my story, I jokingly tell them I’m from the Atlantic. But I mean it. It’s the one thing that touches every place I’ve called home.

Where are you from, really? I’d love to know.