The window I love is in the kitchen of my parents' house in Abuja, where I'm living again while I finish my master's degree. It's above the sink, quite a small window, but it faces east over the back of the house.
From it you can see our garden first, which is mostly a mango tree, a few banana plants and my mother's vegetable beds. Beyond the garden wall there's an empty plot full of tall grass, and then in the distance you can see the big rock that rises over that part of the city. In the rainy season, everything turns bright green and clouds sit on top of the rock.
I usually look out of it in the early morning. I'm the first one awake in the house, so I make tea and stand at the sink drinking it before anyone else gets up. Sometimes there are birds in the mango tree, and once I saw a family of monkeys crossing the wall, which was quite a shock.
I think I love it because it's a quiet moment that belongs only to me. During the day the house is full of noise, with my younger sisters, visitors and the generator. But at six in the morning the light comes over the rock and through the window, and everything feels calm and hopeful. It's also a view that tells me what season it is, so I notice time passing in a way I don't on my phone. When I lived in a student hostel for three years, my window looked at a brick wall, and I genuinely missed this little view more than I expected.