I usually wouldn't write a thing like this, but i'm going to do it anyway.
At the start of last week whilst reading Half a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi, the book itself sparked up a lot of conversation and one conversation that I had with a guy really annoyed me.
It started off with little jibs before I finally moved tables at work and as I spend the majority of my lunch breaks reading, this not only annoyed me because of his ignorance but also because I felt that
I had given him far too much of my attention and not enough on my book.
"You don't speak the language so I can't connect with you". Pause. I'm sorry, what?
When he finished this sentence he was referring to the fact I don't speak yoruba as I am of Nigerian descent. Usually I wouldn't pay any mind to this, but seeing as this was a night shift and already it was 2 am, I wasn't really in the mood. He continued to say that i'm not really nigerian as the origin of my first name for a start is french but with an English spelling. He noted that being brought up in London means that i'm only from Britain. Huh? And believe it or not this all started because of a book. The questions of how many times have you been to Nigeria in a prideful manner, not only made me further disgusted, but angry.
I don't know when it became okay for someone to tell me that i'm not what I am because i'm different to what they are used to. Furthermore, I can't and won't tolerate ignorance, so I got up, moved and read my book with the repetitive sounds of I'm sorry, it was a joke, whaling in the background.
It got me thinking though, about a time I went to Nigeria to find out more about my heritage. I was 14 years old and I told my mum that i'm going to Nigeria. No money, no visa and I was pouring out with a stupid kind of confidence that only a teenager could get away with. Nevertheless, that summer I found myself flying to the motherland. On the flight, whilst stabbing my plastic fork on British Airways' take on Jollofrice, I got praised for travelling alone, "oh you brave girl", which only left me mortified as flying by myself was one of the familiar. That summer I went to see my grandparents and other family members, most of which I did not even know, but one of the other highlights was meeting my uncle Gomez.
I planned to go to Nigeria to find out more about my family history, especially on my father's side as I had absolutely no clue what exactly made the other half of me. I was always in search for those answers, but I soon realised that sometimes those answers are best left unsaid. As I pulled up in Lagos to a large block of flats with my aunty we journeyed up each tiresome stair.
With a wide smile, he greeted us at the top. My uncle Gomez was tall with vintage brown spectacles and in one of those crisp white shirts that you'd find if you rummaged hard around Portobello market.
As the conversation got going with chicken nuggets and chips flying in my mouth, I felt at home. This was the first time we'd ever met and I'd found out that he had two children who both graduated from Oxford (no pressure on a 14 year old right there) and was a notable lawyer in Lagos that spent his time writing for the newspaper (as i'm writing, he reminds me a little bit like Odenigbo from HAYS).
Before I left, I found out that I have Brazilian origins, a quarter to be exact, and just as I headed out, he didn't hold back to say that my father was a stupid man, which made me laugh. The search didn't necessarily end, it just slowly died as the answers I had been looking for confused everything I knew. When I came back to school after summer I told a few friends about the journey I had, with a few listening to hear that i'd met my cousins, who liked looking at me weirdly, but I wasn't expecting them to deny that I was of Brazilian descent. It was only when I came to uni that I realised that many people get shot down from other african people as they themselves don't believe that it's actually possible for an african in this world to be mixed unless your skin is of a caramel tone. I was not only offended but actually discouraged to speak about my ethnicity and about how Nigeria fascinates me.
And now being at the age of 21, I have realised through all my searching that you define you. It took me this long to find out the real answer. That you don't need to feel defined about what other people say you are. I'm Nigerian because i'm a Nigerian, regardless of whether I have an English accent or not, or whether I can/can't speak the languages, or if I do/ don't know the history. I'm a Nigerian and i'm proud to be one. You are not more or less than someone solely because you might know this and that or because of how you appear to be. I had to go all the way to Nigeria, to find out about myself and I came back even more puzzled.
This is why I started this blog. We're all on the same journey, on the same mountain. We suffer in similar ways and we laugh when we find that the journey is hilarious. A journey full of different facts, opinions and limitations that keep you captive but i'm not interested in the barriers of life. I'm only interested in the freedom that Christ has given me. I'm interested in the findings that I come across and the art I see and I'm using my time to document and illustrate how I use it. I love where i'm from and i'm using this blog to remind me in the future of how I became the woman God destined for me to be.
I have learnt
No one has the authority to tell you who are, as you're a child of God. You are sheltered under the shadow of his wings, so just remember you define you. Just you.
No comments:
Post a Comment