I Know it Sounds Crazy, But I Miss Nigeria...

Regular readers of my blog will know by now that I'm not afraid to change my mind. I can stand 100% behind a position today, then change my mind later based on new facts, evidence or change of feelings. (Witness my 'I love her/I love her not/I love her again re: author Chimamanda Adichie) Heck, even my faith in God wavers sometimes. It might be a character flaw, or it might be a sign of intellectual honesty and an unbiased open-mindedness. I'll go with option two.

Whatever it is, the fact is that contrary to my kinda negative portrayal of Nigeria in a previous post and my rush to leave it a few months ago, I now miss it. I miss Nigeria. I wish I didn't though. It would be so much easier to turn my back on it, what with its Boko Haram and Ebola and a plethora of misfortunes and calamities and dangers and problems facing the country every day, plus the impending elections in 2015 that many predict will cause even more bloody unrest.

 Good ole' Nigeria: My embattled country

But I lay down at night and wish I was back in Abuja.

There are two major factors that draw me back to Nigeria, one of which is my profession. Yes folks, being back in England has humbled me career-wise. Where in Nigeria I was top of the food chain thanks to my impressive British education, training and experience; impressive portfolio of previous work, impeccable British accent and the confidence that comes with knowing your country values you and wants you, which shines through and makes you even more attractive to prospective employers and clients; in England I'm having to start from the bottom again, not that I was ever even at the top to begin with.

My almost three years abroad has knocked my professional trajectory back down a few pegs, but more than that is my own perception of self. I feel less wanted here. My colour, my experience, my time spent abroad in an unsavoury country, all of that has merged together to give me an inferiority complex, which I presume is written all over my face as I sit in waiting rooms waiting to be interviewed. The chip on my shoulder must be so big right now. Sometimes I even talk myself out of a job before applying: "Nah, The Guardian wouldn't want me, I didn't go to Oxbridge and I'm the wrong kind of Black."

 Bad News: They didn't want me

Actually, regarding The Guardian newspaper, despite its credentials as a liberal, left-wing publication and champion of minorities, I went to its offices in London for a job training/interview stint years ago and was blown away by how male-white-middle-class the whole office was. There were maybe two white women, no brown or Black faces and everyone there were of a certain 'type,' the type that go to Starbucks and order Fairtrade organic lattes, wear distressed jeans, spent a year in Africa working for a charity, are vegetarians, want to live in Brixton but send their children to private school and buy modern art. I felt so out of place there (I'm not a vegetarian and Africa to me is a reality, not a facilitator of my yearnings to be a good person) and it must have affected my performance because I didn't get the job.

I don't wish to play the race card, in fact I hate it when people play the race card, but I'm afraid that after returning from Nigeria - where I felt so good about being me; so wanted, celebrated even, for being me; where I rubbed shoulders with the movers and shakers of society and met and worked with important people, where all that I am was cradled and nurtured and upheld as wonderful (I could also spell better and type faster than most people out there too, I felt like a superhero) - the British job market has being a slight shock to the system. I started to question my abilities. Maybe I'm not as good as I thought. Or maybe I am and they just refuse to see it and give me a chance because I am Black.

Race relations in the UK is miles better than what it is in other non-African countries of course, and there are vast swathes of England where your colour doesn't affect you negatively, and I can honestly say that apart from two instances when I was in my late teens where I'd visited a majority-white part of Surrey and some silly young men shouted racial slurs at me, one from a high rise building and the other from a moving car (I still think maybe I heard them wrong), I have never faced any overt racism in England in my life.

Sure there are instances when I felt I should have positively gotten that job because I was so right for it, and when I didn't I was convinced it's cos I was Black and didn't pass the 'Can I hang out comfortably with her down the pub after work' test by my would-be employers. But on the whole, I never thought being Black held me back until I finished a Masters degree and still couldn't get a nice journalism job (the kind that came with a business card). Then I went to Nigeria and finally tasted success, then returned to England again and saw that such success is hardly enjoyed by people that look like me, and the Blacks that are successful here are of a certain type too. Damn, I wish I'd gone to Oxford. I had the grades for it, but I didn't pursue it because I thought I'd feel out of place there. It's my biggest regret in life.

My children MUST go to Oxford or Cambridge. It's like the only thing that can guarantee your success if you're Black in the UK.

So I long for Nigeria because I feel ignored and not up to par in England, and having to go from Editor to Office Administrator has been oh so depressing. I feel like shouting out: "Don't you know who I am? I used to chair weekly Editorial meetings you know! I have a Masters' Degree for Christ's sake!"

I work in central London surrounded by huge beautiful office buildings made of glass, and I envy the immaculately dressed ladies in their heels and skirt suits that call such buildings 'My Office,' whilst I wear flats and my colleagues will look at me in wonder if I dressed in a suit. I also noticed that the Black people I see in this part of town are almost always shabbily dressed in jeans and trainers; the Black/minority ethnic service class that serve the white business class.

My Future London office: Amen

Sure I can work my way to the top, but how long will that take? And can I ever achieve the career highs in London that I enjoyed in Abuja? Will a qualified Black woman under 30 ever be the sub-editor of a British national newspaper? I doubt it. Not only are the requirements more stringent in England (the standards are admittedly lower in Nigeria, although this should not detract from my suitability), but there is always a white person that the employer feels will be 'more suited' to the role, or who has the right look or better education or upbringing or experience or looks like the employer's nephew or uncle.

I guess I shouldn't blame them though, like employs like. The subtle and overt tribalism in Nigeria is similar to the subtle and overt racism is in England. But rather than work hard to break the Black ceiling, I just want to return to a country that likes me as I am. A country that will gladly take me back.

I also miss the freedom of being in Nigeria. I don't feel as constrained there. Here if you step out of line even a little bit, even innocently, like for instance parking in the wrong place by accident, you get into trouble straight away, no second chances. In Nigeria things are more laid back, more casual. You can smile your way out of trouble, and rules that hurt no one can be bent (I know Nigeria takes this philosophy way too far though.)

In Nigeria, in a land where anything goes, I felt emboldened to LIVE. Life was for the taking, and if you can get it, it's yours. You could go from zero to millionaire in a matter of days, and the rewards for good work knows no bounds. Generosity of wealth and spirit abound, and you could start a business tomorrow that will make you money immediately, no lengthy paperwork and licenses needed.

In England things are more prescribed and limited. No sudden moves. It's a stay in your lane, paycheck to paycheck lifestyle, and as winter approaches, a grey cloud seems to descend on everyone and we all stay deep in our daily routines; everyone in big black coats under grey skies, all living for the weekend or the next holiday abroad to somewhere sunny.

I also felt thoroughly invested in Nigeria. I felt that I was part of the narrative. I complained with everyone about everything, but deep down it felt good to have ownership over the woes of the nation. Nigeria still being problematic after 54 years of Independence was my problem too, and I wanted to make it better. I had a voice that sounded like everyone else's. Nigeria was mine for the loving, hating, liking. But in England, sometimes I feel detached from the primary concerns of most of its citizens, and other times I am actively opposed to the popular opinion.

The British love cats and dogs and there are several TV programmes and charities dedicated to their welfare, but I care not a jot for pets. Homosexuality is also now normal here, when I left England in 2011 I don't recall homosexual couples being on home improvement, antique hunts and other mundane aspects of British TV, but now every other couple on TV seems to be gay! Then there is the national preoccupation with cancer. Every where you go one organisation or another is trying to fight and beat cancer, but I don't want this disease shoved down my throat every day. Yes it affects many people, but do let's stop going on about it.

Then there's the average British person's love of a good moan. They moan about everything here, and their hate for politicians is so uncalled for, especially when British politicians are actively working hard in their jobs and are genuine public servants, and the minute they do something wrong they're out (did you hear about the journalist who faked a Twitter account to seduce an MP, and when he fell for it and sent back pictures of himself in pyjamas, the MP had to resign?). They should all try living in Nigeria for a week, they'll run back and hug all their MPs. Those on benefits moan that the council won't give them a bigger house, can you imagine? In Nigeria if your local House of Rep member gives you a bag of rice in his bid to get re-elected, you rejoice, here they are bitterly complaining that the free house and free money the government gives them is not enough.

In Nigeria, despite the harsh, unfair circumstances, Nigerians have the best sense of humour about it all. They insult and rain down curses on their leaders, but their patriotism is alive and well. They get up and get on with it, they hustle and they make life work for them. They have terrible habits some of them, but no one sits and complains and expects the government to help them lose weight or stop smoking or give them contentment, cos they know that's not happening.

I also like that Nigerians are on average religious-minded and traditionally inclined; they value marriage, respect, morals and propriety. Even though many sins occur behind closed doors, they are eager to portray a respectable facade. But in England, tradition is receding and nothing is sacred anymore. Anything goes in the name of post-modernity, and my traditionally-minded self cannot hack it.

So there are many aspects of British life that I feel is alien to my experience. Whearas in Nigeria, I felt plugged into every social issue and felt as strongly about certain things that ordinary Nigerians did. I could (and very nearly did) join protests in Nigeria about various issues, but I can't see myself protesting about anything in England.

I visit Nigerian blogs every day and follow many Nigerians on Twitter- I'm avidly keeping abreast of Nigerian news and views because it's more alive to me.

Does that mean I'm not British enough? I guess I fit into my 'Nigerian coat' better than I fit into my 'British coat,' but the irony is that in Nigeria I am more British than Nigerian to everyone else, and in England I'm Black British and that's OK, but it also means I find more people like me on the lower echelons of society than at the top, which is where I want to be.

Could this be a case of the grass being always greener on the other side? Human nature is a funny thing: a few months ago I couldn't wait to leave Abuja, now I'm yearning after the very thing I ran from. Don't get me wrong, England is a fabulous country and I'm lucky to be able to enjoy its many privileges, the NHS being number one. If I could take the NHS with me I would relocate to Nigeria tomorrow.

I guess I want to have my cake and eat it too. I want to to succeed, but in a safe country.

So I'm torn you guys. One minute I want to stay in England and make it work because it will be so worth it in the end, then the next I want to run back to Nigeria so I can feel alive and be called 'Madam' again. Then I think of falling sick in Abuja or of Boko Haram and I thank God I'm back in England. Sigh.

Nigerian Weddings vs British Weddings

I was captivated by the elegance and efficiency of the Royal wedding between Prince William and Kate Middleton. There was a real sense of regal simplicity and everything ran smoothly.

'The Kiss' by the Royal Couple

But what would the wedding have looked like Nigerian-style? Below is a look at the differences in culture between a Nigerian and a British wedding.

INVITATIONS
Brits: Invitations are sent out weeks ahead to guests with final numbers strictly adhered to for catering and seating purposes. The invite is usually from the bride and groom and the design and style can be elegant or humorous.

Nigerians: The concept of invitation-only weddings seems selfish to Nigerians so everyone is welcome, even the bride's friend's sister's neighbour or the groom's tennis coach's girlfriend's aunt. But invitations do go out and are usually formal and from the couple's parents requesting your attendance to their children's wedding.

VENUE
Brits: The church is no longer the only acceptable place for Brits to swap vows and weddings now take place in McDonald's, on roller coasters, under water and in pubs.

Nigerians: Religion is of huge importance to Nigerians and the majority of weddings take place in a church or mosque. The thought of conducting a service in an informal setting is laughable and would bring shame and ridicule to the traditionally minded parents of the couple.

A Yoruba Bride and Groom in Traditional Wedding Dress (flamboyant cakes are popular)

PARENTAL INVOLVEMENT
Brits: The couple's mothers tend to want to dictate a large portion of the occasion and are very hands on with arrangements. They can, however, be forced to be flexible so that everyone is happy.

Nigerians: The couple's mothers tend to want to dictate a large portion of the occasion and are very hands on with arrangements. The younger generation often succumbs to the desires of the elders.

TIME-KEEPING
Brits: Time-keeping is important and efforts are made to keep to schedule and not over-run. The Order of Service are followed closely and even speeches are timed to the minute.

Nigerians: Time-keeping? Ha! Does anyone even arrive wearing a watch? A 12pm start is really a 3:43pm start, the bridal party is expected to be very fashionably late, the sermon can last an hour, the reception starts when everybody gets there and the Order of Service is used as a hand-held fan.

WEDDING PARTY
Brits: The wedding party consists of three or four pairs of bridesmaids and grooms men, a best man and maid-of-honour, a page-boy and one or two flower-girls.

Nigerians: The wedding party consists of nine or ten pairs of bridesmaids and grooms men, a best man and maid-of-honour, two or three page-boys and three or four flower-girls.

A Nigerian wedding party

DRESS CODE
Brits: Smart, formal dresses, suits and hats in conservative colours. Female guests avoid wearing white so as not to upstage the bride.

Nigerians: Colours galore! From the monumental geles on the women's heads to the elaborately patterned aso-ebis and ankara dresses on show, fashion is a serious factor in Nigerian weddings. Sunglasses are common and large jewellery, matching accessories and green crocodile-skin shoes for men are welcome. Friends and family of the bride wear the same coloured fabric tailored to suit their individual styles and the groom's guests wear another.

The couple have two opportunities to showcase their couture, first at the traditional wedding (with a separate cake, traditional vows, bride price and lots of postrating before elders) where everyone wears native attire, then at the white wedding although guests can wear native dress to both.

Example of the vivid wedding 'uniform' (aso-ebi), sunglasses and thick jewellery at a Nigerian wedding

SERMON
Brits: The sermon by the Vicar is scripted and traditional and lasts no more than 20 minutes.
Nigerians: The sermon by the Pastor is unscripted and includes much advice, humorous marriage anecdotes and audience participation and can last an hour.

RECEPTION DECORATION
Brits: Colour-themed, draped chairs and tables, centre-pieces and favours.
Nigerians: Colour-themed, draped chairs and tables, centre-pieces, favours and snacks like chin-chin and puff- puff, canned drinks and large juice cartons waiting on the tables.

A Benin/Igbo Bride and Groom in Traditional Wedding Dress

NUMBER OF GUESTS 
Brits: Guests can number from 10 to 300 for a large wedding.
Nigerians: Guests can number from 200 to 3,000 for a large wedding

SEATING
Brits: There are place-names and everyone knows where they ought to sit. There is also a top table for the bridal party.
Nigerians: There are no place-names and everyone sits where they want. There is a top table on a stage for the bridal party.

A Hausa Bride and Groom in Traditional Wedding Dress

FOOD
Brits: A set menu of three courses including dessert, tabled or from a buffet with alcohol a-plenty from a bar
Nigerians: A varied buffet serving up to twelve dishes including jollof rice, fried rice, yam, meat and fish dishes, salad, sauces and pounded yam. There is no dessert (except the wedding cake) but lots of soft drinks and non-alcoholic malt beer like Supermalt. There is usually no alcohol.

MUSIC
Brits: A live band playing guitar-led music or a wedding singer
Nigerians: An energetic live band playing drum-led music with religious lyrics, or if the couple is rich, a famous musician like TuFace or Ice Prince.

Example of Nigerian Wedding Cake (Probably for a Traditional Wedding)

DANCING

Brits: Bride and Groom have the first dance, then guests dance demurely until drunk when their moves become more comical and exuberant.

 

Nigerians: Bride and Groom have the first dance and are expected to energetically showcase their dance skills whilst guests paste dollar bills on their foreheads which drop to the ground and are gathered up by a member of the bridal party employed for such a task. The guests then dance with exuberance without the need for alcohol.

GIFTS

Brits: Wedding presents are expected and given, often from a gift list but giving money is frowned upon.

Nigerians: Wedding presents are expected but many guests arrive empty-handed. Giving money in white envelopes is common and appreciated. Towards the end of the evening, guests receive personalised gifts bearing a picture of the couple and a message from the gifts' sponsor, e.g. calendars or mugs with a smiling picture of 'Bunmi and Ade; 22/05/10 May God Bless Your Union; Love from the Adenuga Family.' Wealthier couples give out luxury gifts, from televisions to designer handbags to select guests.

 

Union between the Western and the Traditional

Movies, Race & Politics: Half of a Yellow Sun vs Beasts of No Nation

I just watched Beasts of No Nation, mostly because of the furore surrounding the fact that its most recognisable star Idris Elba, who I greatly admire, was amongst the black actors absent from this year's Oscar nominations. Apparently BONN should have received nominations for Best Picture or for Elba or the child star Abraham Attah, who was quite brilliant in the role of normal kid turned child soldier.

Idris Elba: A fine actor and a fine man

#OscarsSoWhite?

But I feel that the whole #OscarsSoWhite controversy is uncalled for. I think that African Americans are been entirely too demanding, I mean, what if out of 12 movies up for contention, the best five had white actors in the lead? Should a black actor be included in the running simply because of his skin colour despite not being good enough? Jada Pinkett Smith, the most vocal of the complainers never got any sympathy from me. Her husband Will Smith, although lovely, perhaps wasn't good enough in Concussion, a film for which Pinkett Smith feel he should have been nominated for Best Actor. I haven't seen it so I can't say.

Will Smith and Jada Pinkett Smith: Black Hollywood's power couple

But I just saw the whole hoopla as another way the liberal media forces people and establishments to tow the liberal line by instantly demonising anything or anyone - whether it be a social media posting or a comment/action captured on video or recorded - deemed sexist (against women though, rarely against men), racist, anti-Semitic, anti-Muslim, anti-transgender or homophobic and forcing everybody to never air an opinion outside the 'accepted norm.'

In American political terms, where once I was a Democrat who proudly attended President Obama's inauguration in Washington, as I've grown older I've become more Republican (minus the love of guns). Today I would call myself a Conservative Libertarian, so I feel free speech should apply to everyone without fear of sanction unless they threaten violence, and everyone has the right to be offended. But these days the 'Hallowed Six' of Women, Blacks, Jews, Muslims, Transgenders and Gays have achieved a status in the mainstream and social media where their causes are championed without prejudice and any perceived 'hate speech' against them is instantly jumped on and stamped out, with perpetrators insulted and banished. Where's the freedom in that?

Duck Dynasty Star: Fired because of his Biblical views on homosexuality

Celebrity Big Brother 2016: Winston McKenzie was the first to be voted out of the house to a chorus of boos when he spoke out against homosexuality. His angry, tearful house mates said they couldn't live with someone like him and there were numerous complaints from the public about his words. Now who's being intolerant?

The bad guys in this new order of things are Christians, traditionalists, non-Westerners, the older generation and the independent-thinking brave who are in disagreement with some actions of the Hallowed Six. Now I'm not advocating hate, but the freedom to disagree and air differing views about these groups. I don't agree with homosexuality, and being a Black woman, another may dislike me because of my race or sex, but we should both be allowed to hash it out without it being a crime, because that is life. I once had a long and heated debate about God on Twitter with a white, atheist American man, where I spoke about my faith and he said that if he ever met God he'd spit in his face. But in the end we politely signed off and I felt that I had benefited from the exchange.

No need pretending we all love each and are all okay with outlandish events like a man turning into a woman (see my post: Bruce Jenner and the Moral Decay of Society). And those who believe that the Bible is against such and such shouldn't be booed out of a public space. They should be entitled to their say and their opinions respected. You may ignore them or argue against them, but don't fire them, sue or imprison them or force them to apologise and recant their genuine opinions. It should be as easy to say 'I don't agree with homosexuality' as saying 'I don't like onions.' It's simply an opinion.

That's why I like Donald Trump. He's been so delightfully un-PC and counter-cultural in his Presidential campaign that I enjoy many of his utterances. Sure he lacks the diplomacy, tolerance or temperament to be a good President, but boy has he shaken things up and given those of us who believe what we believe a boost. Plus, watching him on many seasons of The Apprentice, he never once came across as a bigot in any way, and many others have stated that they've never seen this intolerant side of him, so I believe the promise of power has turned him into the worst version of himself. But I digress.

Donald Trump: He may be extreme but I like his fearless chutzpah

So the oppressed have now become the oppressor, a militant enforcement watchdog who clamp down on true diversity of opinion. They might still face hardships in the real world, but online and in the media they rule. This means blacks are always right and deserving of every accolade on a 50:50 even split with whites, despite being only about 13% of the population in America, less than 5% in the UK and not being well represented equally in every field simply because of lack of numbers or talent.

Not every movie with a Black lead will be Oscar-worthy, and even white people are snubbed by the Academy Awards, like Leonardo DiCaprio, who has never won despite being in many brilliant films in recent times. It happens. And remember when Lupita Nyong'o won a Best Supporting Actress award in 2014 for like, 10 minutes of screen time in 12 Years a Slave? Or when Jennifer Hudson won the same award in 2007 for singing in Dream Girls? Wouldn't you say the Academy was working hard to recognise Black talent that some say were undeserving? And also, a black woman has won Best Supporting Actress in 2007, 2010, 2011, 2012 and 2014.

Or how about when, in 2002 Denzel Washington won Best Actor for Training Day, the same year Halle Berry won Best Actress for Monster's Ball, yet some Black people were grumbling that despite the fact that in the majority of his roles he depicted fine, upstanding men of honour, Denzel was only recognised by the Academy after playing crooked detective in Training Day, and as for Halle, she got the gong after debasing herself by rumping with the white man who executed her Black husband in Monster's Ball. (I must admit, that sex scene she was in was really raw and she was fully naked when most actresses of her calibre are usually partially covered.)

Aren't they so beautiful? Oscars 2002, the best year for African Americans

Sure I also agree that Angela Bassett was robbed of a Best Actress gong playing Tina Turner in What's Love Gotta Do With It?, but Jamie Foxx was outstanding as Ray Charles in Ray, I mean so outstanding I forgot I was watching Foxx at all. He absolutely deserved the Best Actor trophy for that in 2005. So guys, it's not like the Academy never acknowledges black talent, it does, but it can't please everyone all of the time, especially not a belligerent minority who demand accolades every year.

I feel African Americans want to have their cake and eat it too: they continue the Blacks only BET, Soul Train and NAACP awards, stating that they need to celebrate themselves because the mainstream doesn't, yet no award can be all-white these days without backlash. They expect representation in mainstream award shows, but you can't segregate yourselves then come out to play when you want. Will Smith's former co-star on The Fresh Prince of Bel Air Janet Hubert stated it so hilariously on this video.

This Oscars Equality Fight would be commendable if it were occurring at a different time, but in today's Zeitgeist where everyone on the internet and on TV seems to be drinking from the same Kool-Aid of being anti-establishment, anti-tradition and anti-religion, and where political correctness polices everyone's words at pains of losing your job and reputation, I think it's all just more bullying by the Liberatti to get us all to accept freedom and inclusion without boundaries, rules or absolutes.

Beasts of No Nation

Apart from wanting to see Elba in a role many have praised, I also wanted to support the rarity of a Black Brit with West African parents doing so well in Hollywood. But at first BONN held no interest for me: I dislike war films set in Africa where all the ugliness of the continent is on gory display. Films like Hotel Rwanda, although brilliant, left me with a desolate feeling towards Africa and its many issues. I want to enjoy a film without feeling sad about what it says about my people.

Beasts of No Nation: Featuring breakout child star Abraham Attah

I've also met Elba at a movie event once, and he's as charming in person as he appears on screen. So I watched BONN, having previously heard of but not read the book which was written by Harvard-educated doctor Uzodinma Iweala, son of Ngozi Okonjo Iweala, Nigeria's former Minister of Finance. Despite her controversies as a politician, I did some research on Okonjo Iweala's family; turns out both herself and her husband, all four of her children and even her parents were Harvard graduates with PhDs aplenty. Talk about generational pedigree!

Harvard Alumni: Uzodinma Iweala (centre) Author of Beasts of No Nation with his mum Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala and dad Ikemba Iweala 

BONN was set in an 'unspecified West African country', and I immediately thought that it must be Nigeria. I assumed Iweala didn't want to specify because he didn't want the book to be unfairly pre-judged because of the country's negative image. So I was surprised the film was set in Ghana with mostly Ghanaian actors. I wondered if Ghana was an easier country to film in or Ghanaian actors better to work with.

The young boy who played Agu (a Nigerian name) was really good. He wasn't wooden or obviously 'acting' like the Nigerian kid actors I've seen, he was very real in his emotions and the part where he meets Elba's Commandant for the first time and tells him about his family's massacre was very touching. His fellow child soldier companion Striker was also a gem, that kid never spoke but he moved me immensely with his pained eyes.

Beasts of No Nation: Director Cary Joji Fukunaga, Abraham Atta and Idris Elba

Elba was good too, but not fantastic, and probably not Oscar-worthy. I like him best so far in Daddy's Little Girls, and I've just started watching Luther and he's great in that too. BONN's director, Attah and the story were commendable, but all were snubbed. I'll support the case for racism being behind its omission  in the Oscar contenders, if not for the fact that Netflix, the makers of the film, decided to stream it on their platform at the same time it came out in the theatres, which violated an industry rule. Maybe that was why the movie was snubbed. Either way it's a massive shame.

Half of a Yellow Sun

So after watching BONN, which is based on a book about war written by a Nigerian and starring a UK/US based African in a lead role, I compared it to Half of a Yellow Sun by Nigerian author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie set in the 60s during the Nigerian civil war. I'd read the book years ago and liked it. I mean, I love Adichie, as noted by my many posts praising her brilliance. But unlike BONN, HOAYS was a mess.

Half of a Yellow Sun

The controversy surrounding casting Thandie Newton as Olanna and Anika Noni Rose as Kainene, two Western women playing Nigerian characters was never a problem for me. Both are capable, recognisable actresses and when a major International movie studio is financing the film, you can't realistically cast Nigerian actors in lead roles. They don't have the bankability and they're not as good. Nigerian home-grown actors are, 99% of the time, terrible by international standards, and the handful who aren't were in HOAYS, namely Genevieve Nnaji and Onyeka Onwenu who did well in their supporting roles as Ms Adebayo and Odenigbo's mother respectively. Onwenu's particularly luminous performance was rightfully praised in all the reviews I read that mentioned her.

Chiwetel Ejiofor can do no wrong in my eyes. I've loved him and followed his work and wrote profiles about him for years, my favourite of his roles being the brooding, dignified immigrant doctor in Dirty Pretty Things. He was good but not great in HOAYS, as he mostly reacted to Newton, whose 'angry-Black-woman' shtick is becoming all too familiar in this and roles in The Pursuit of Happyness and Crash, although she was brilliant in the latter.

But alas, the problem with HOAYS wasn't really the actors, but the direction by UK-based Nigerian Biyi Bandele. He was the wrong guy to helm this movie and they really should have given it to a well-trained, tried and tested and capable director, preferably an American.

Biyi Bandele: Good at directing MTV Africa's soap Shuga, but not an international movie

Upon reading reviews of HOAYS, it struck me how often many stated that 'the book was better,' and agreed with me that those who have not read the book will have no way of understanding the film in its fullness. It lacked context and omitted many important qualities of the book. With BONN, I'd never read the book yet followed the film, there were no huge plot holes and no character felt underdeveloped. But in HOAYS, village boy turned author Ugwu, one of the three main characters in the book was rendered unimportant in the film despite the fact that his coming of age story, his turn as a soldier, his love for Odenigbo and his family and his carnal desires were highlights of the novel. Also Richard, the shy white Brit had far too few lines and was a bit of a pathetic observer in the film, when he was much more endearing in the book.

The physical differences and animosity between twin sisters Olanna and Kainene was not depicted. Kainene's dry wit, aloofness and envy/hate of her sister was fascinating to me, yet none of it was addressed, and the fall out from Olanna sleeping with Richard was mishandled. Many reviewers thought the film was like a soap/melodrama at points, and that the savagery of the Biafran war, which was most memorably represented by images of malnourished kids with kwashiokor was absent. I agree.

Anika Noni Rose as Kainene and Thandie Newton as Olanna in Half of a Yellow Sun

I watched the film and after 20 minutes, I was just waiting for it to be over. The love scenes between Newton and Ejiofor was too much, and Newton was a bit too shrill for me; Olanna in the book was more centred and well-rounded. Whereas BONN carried me along and although it was brutal in places, it felt like a 'real film by a real film maker' and not some honorary project. I wonder what Adichie thought of the film. In her latest book Americanah, she thanked Thandie Newton in the acknowledgements which I thought curious. But after watching HOAYS, I understand now that they must have hit it off during the film.

Now that Lupita Nyong'o has bought the film rights to Americanah and plans to play the lead role of Ifemelu herself, I'm a bit worried that this book too will be a disaster on the big screen. But the key to the success of Americanah the movie is simply a good director and a great screenplay that will capture the fire and fierceness of Ifemelu's thoughts on race, racism and America. Adichie's books have to be rendered well to do justice to her brilliant writing.

Nnamdi Asomugha, Concussion and Fela

I saw in the credits that one of the executive producers of BONN was Nnamdi Asomugha, the NFL player and husband of Scandal actress Kerry Washington. That was a nice surprise, as it turns out he's more than just Washington's husband because the second-generation Nigerian has also won awards for his philanthropy and charity work around America and Nigeria. Good for him.

Kerry Washington and Nnamdi Asomugha

His involvement in BONN reminds me of how one Nigerian, Ayo Shonaiya spoke up against the shade many Nigerians threw on Will Smith's Oscar Contender film Concussion, which is about a Nigerian-American doctor Bennet Omalu who uncovered the truth about brain damage in American football players. A positive Nigerian character in a sea of negativity, yet what irked many Nigerians was the fact that Smith's Nigerian accent was poor. Unlike Elba's Commandant in BONN, who did not only do the accent well but also the mannerisms and the 'ahs' and 'ehs' exclamations that punctuate the sentences of West Africans. He was a believable African (well, his parents are from Sierra Leone and Ghana) but Smith wasn't.

Will Smith with the real Dr Bennet Omalu

Shonaiya stated that Nigerians should ignore his accent and be pleased that a powerhouse like Smith put his resources behind this film, just as Smith along with his wife and Jay Z put their mettle behind the staging of Fela! on Broadway when the rich Nigerians that were asked to finance it refused.

I saw Fela! at the Sadler Wells theatre in London and it was a great show, although I was irked that the actor playing Fela wasn't Nigerian, but a Sierra Leonan-American Sahr Ngaujah whose pidgin English was poor. I too fell into the trap of focusing on the unimportant and ignoring the blessed magnitude of the respectful homage paid to one of Africa's biggest, best and most important musician by other Blacks. It's sad how during the major anniversaries of Fela's death, there are tributes in London museums, music venues and in newspapers and radio, yet nothing of note is done in Nigeria to celebrate the icon.

Broadway poster for Fela!

That powerful African Americans and British Blacks are in a position to finance and bring the stories of Africa and Africans to a larger audience is something to be proud of, who cares that they don't speak pidgin with the inflections of a Lagosian?



*I think an apology is in order to readers of this blog for my long delay between posts (seven months!) It had to do with many things, not least of which was my personal disillusionment with my Fulani heritage due to private experiences and the systematic, criminal and murderous actions of some Fulani herdsmen/young men in Nigeria. More on that soon, once I figure out how to address it all... 

The Little Fulani Cowgirl and other Abuja stories

So I'm still living and working in Abuja, and below I've documented four unique experiences with what some might call 'the lowly' amongst us. In so doing I hope not to make the same mistake US singer Brandy did, of only documenting street kids on dirt-roads from her visit last year to Lagos, and calling it 'Beautiful Africa.' 

Although I joined others in condemning her pictures - what about the fancy hotels, boutiques and plush cars she experienced? Why only show the (overused, clichéd) poverty of Africa? - I now understand her. Coming from her world, the naked poverty in Nigeria grabbed her attention and touched her more than the wealth in the country. She's familiar with luxury hotels and tarred roads, so the unfamiliar is what stood out for her.

So in these stories, which all occurred last year, I describe my encounters with people I'm not used to, often watch from afar and who I'm not able to know very well due to our different stations in life.

The Little Fulani Cowgirl

You could just make out the top of her shaggy head amidst the wide, white flanks of the cows gathered around her. Then she comes into view: a little Fulani girl barely seven years old, with dirt-brown curly hair plaited haphazardly, and the tiny stray strands that escaped forming a fuzzy halo around her little head.

Wearing a blue, oversized T-shirt that reached down past her knees, her thin legs ended in a pair of adult slippers encasing tiny feet caked in the brown dust of the earth that she had no doubt been traversing for hours already that afternoon.

She grasped in her little hand a thin but sturdy stick that was twice her height, which she used as an aid to edge her way past the slow-footed cows and around the side of the road. Now and then she also used the stick to whack a fidgety cow to stop it from heading towards the cars that were waiting for the herd to cross, a scene which occurs periodically on this residential road.

Unafraid, accomplished and proud, the little cowgirl wore a look of experienced calm and maintained an assurance that refused to be intimidated by the animals that were bigger than her or the motorists growing impatient around her.

She wasn’t perturbed by the heat of the sun, the dusty road or the long hilly hike ahead of her, and as I looked she shouted out to the herd with a shrill, tiny voice, and the animals immediately heeded their little mistress and trooped faster past the waiting cars.
 

She manoeuvred the animals with grace under fire; they trusted her and she understood them. And as she walked behind the last cow crossing, our eyes met and she looked at me for a fraction of a second with cool, haughty eyes betraying little of the innocence no doubt still within.

Here was a little girl in charge of her family’s wealth and pride, single-handedly dealing with the hostilities of the city and the terrain, armed with only a stick and her fierce resolve. She knows the roads, the routes, the hills and the valleys, she probably also knew each cow by name.

Soon she will give up herding and settle into the sedentary life of a wife and mother, but for now it was just her and her herd against the world, roaming wild and free and fearless.

As the proud little cowgirl walked off into the distance with her troop of 15 or so cows trudging obediently behind her, I marvelled at her control and confidence.

She was born to do this.

The Barefooted Prisoner

A barefooted, small-boned man with scraggly hair, a T-shirt full of holes and a hound-dog expression walked up to us one warm weekday evening as we stood in front of a Tapas Bar near the Gudu bypass.

He came to us hesitantly, as if he was a pigeon and we were holding out bread in our palms. We tried to ignore him at first, but the weight of sorrow in his eyes and his obvious vulnerability made us forego our concern that he was a scam-artist begging for money. Like the well-dressed, middle-aged man who alighted from a Jeep and asked us for N10, 000 to pay for his daughter’s medical bills. It was only after we gave him what we could and he drove off that it dawned on us that we’d been swindled.

But this small man was different. He kept scratching himself slowly all over as he told us, in a barely-audible voice, his story. Big tears dropped from his eyes, which he wiped with his shoulder in a move that was so pitiful it was innocent.

Back in Taraba State, he said, he and a group of friends were walking through a market when there was a commotion: someone had been stabbed in a fight. He helped eight others to carry the victim to the hospital, and whilst there the victim died and despite their protests, the police arrested them for murder. They were thrown into jail and later ferried to Kuje Prison in Abuja to complete their sentence. That was nine years ago. He was just released today and wanted to return to his wife and children in Taraba but didn’t know where to go or where to start.

We stared at him in silence. Was this for real? Was this poor man’s life just taken away from him for an instinctual act of kindness?

He stared at the floor whilst we consulted amongst ourselves, now and then shooting more questions at him to ascertain the veracity of his tale. He didn’t even ask for money, he just told his story and kept quiet, waiting for us to pronounce our judgment on him from on high, just like the judge and the police declared their life-changing judgement on him all those years ago.  

He mentioned that one of the friends had died in prison; they were regularly beaten up and hardly given any food. If ever there was an example of someone whose spirit had been broken, it was him.

We pitied him and gave him some of what we had, and pointed to the direction of cars going towards the park where he can get transportation to Taraba. He took the money with both hands, offered a lengthy thanks with more tears, and walked away slowly; a dejected, confused victim of poverty.

If the rage from the injustice he’s suffered caused him to kill tomorrow, I wouldn’t blame him. The depraved amongst us are made so by others, which is why we are told not to judge, for only God knows the full story. It is a wonder more men don’t turn to violence, when such violence is visited upon them daily.

How Much is an Egg Roll?

There’s an instant pleasure one derives from biting into a warm egg roll, especially when the dark brown pastry surrounding it is both savoury and sweet and crumbles in the mouth. With this yearning in mind, I walked out of the office at lunchtime in search of the eggroll sellers, who carry their cheap but sumptuous wares on their heads to many a labourers’ delight.

It was my lucky day: A teenage girl was passing by with a lidded, translucent plastic bucket on her head. I could just about make out the eggrolls inside. As she walked on, skilfully balancing her load on a head, she didn’t even need to use a hand to hold the bucket in place, such was her hawking experience.

One arm hung playfully by her side as the other held a small plastic carrier bag hooked to her wrist, no doubt containing her takings for the day’s sales so far. She walked with an air of confident abandon: “I don’t need to go to school,” she seemed to be saying. “The sun and the breeze and the open road are my education. I know these streets like the back of my hand.” 

I made short hissing sounds to get her attention, and when she heard, she turned around and walked towards me. As she reached me, she brought down her bucket and opened it. “Good afternoon madam” she said in a sing-song voice. I greeted her and looked inside her pail. There were eggrolls alright, bigger than average and the rough unevenness of the dark-brown dough glistening with grease testified to the fact that the dough will be sufficiently crunchy. But apart from the rounded eggrolls, there were elongated dough of the same colour, moulded into fat, short tubes. 

“What are those?” I asked, pointing at one.

“Fish roll” she replied, her inanimate eyes wondering away and resting on the woman walking by.

They look interesting, I thought. “Give me one eggroll and one fish roll” I said, looking forward to biting into one of the moist flour-casing and tasting bits of fish instead of a hard-boiled egg.

The girl took out one small black carrier bag from the bag hooked unto her wrist, spread it out on her cupped hand and used it to scoop up the delicacies, wrapping the bag up around them.

“How much?” I asked.

“N200”

I looked back at the snacks in the bag. “Remove the fish one” I said. Knowing that the price of eggrolls ranged from N50 to N80 depending on where you bought them, N200 for two – one of which was a flavour unknown to me – was too much. Plus I couldn’t guarantee that these eggrolls will taste good. Looks can be deceiving. And the freshness of the products, now that it was already 2:30pm and there were only a few left in the bucket was uncertain. Wouldn’t all the oil seep down to the last remaining rolls, making them soggy from the extra grease and the accumulated heat-turned-sweat from the sun?

The doubts raised by the extra N120 was immense. Did my clothes or the fatness of my purse fool this girl into thinking it was full or money? Or did the wholesale price of flour and eggs suddenly increase in Abuja so that it translated into an extra N20 charge for an eggroll? 

But I didn’t say anything. I paid with N500, and saw that I collected all her change: eight N50 notes. I wondered where the rest of her money was. But the abundance of N50s proved to me that indeed the rolls did retail at half the price. The young swindler was smart. “Thank you ma” she said, as she heaved the bucket back unto her head.

Those three words turned my displeasure into a shrug. Back at the office, I bit into the roll. It was still fresh and uncluttered by too much grease. My N100 was well spent.

My Maiguard is Getting Married

Our maiguard has one of those faces that is neither old nor young; he could be 18, he could be 38. Small in stature and speaking a dialect of Hausa that baffled us, Aminu is a good, if absent-minded guard.

I remember when he first arrived from Zaria straight to our house; he was hunched and hesitant, with overgrown hair and a furtive, haunted look in his eyes. He used to grunt to alert you to his presence, and he had a permanent scowl on his face. But after a few months with us, he became more self-assured, got regular hair-cuts, wore the clothes we gave him with pride and stood taller. He even replaced his grunts with words; it was like seeing the blossoming of a flower. Soon he started cooking for himself and made friends with the other guards in the estate, and he smiled and laughed more. Even his brand of Hausa became more familiar to us.

Yet he remained our lowly, trust-worthy Maiguard, until he told us his intentions to return to his native Zaria to get married. I was surprised. So Aminu, this young (or old, we still couldn’t ascertain his actual age-range) man who opens and closes our gate, weeds the yard, washes the cars and does other necessary work around the house for which we paid him an agreeable amount, wanted to get married?

He said that the girl had already been chosen for him by his family; she was the sister of a girl he had been dating previously, but that girl had been given out in marriage to another man when Aminu came to Abuja, so his family had accepted her sister for him.

I remember entering his messy Maiguard house to drop something for him, and on the floor was a picture of a light-skinned young woman wrapped in a red veil from head to toe. She was lying down on her side and stared blankly at the camera. So when Aminu said he’d never met his bride-to-be but had been sent her picture, my mind recalled the girl in red.

She was rather pretty, I thought. Will she be pleased with Aminu, a diminutive man/boy with a semi-permanent scowl? He told us her bride-price was N70, 000 and he’d been saving up for months for her. I wondered if N70, 000 was considered the price for a top-drawer maiden in rural Zaria.

Last week, Aminu left to get married, I could sense his excitement as he said farewell to us. But he’ll come back soon, as his family have advised him to return to Abuja after marriage because there are no jobs in their community. But he won’t be bringing his wife with him. So after a few days in Zaria, during which time he would not only meet his bride for the first time, but would have married her, he would bid farewell to his life-partner for a few months until he returned to Zaria again. Aminu will then return to us a married man.

I wondered if, nine months later, Mrs Aminu would have a baby. Would Aminu still stay on in Abuja? Will he take on more wives? Can he look after a family on his modest Maiguard wages?

All these questions cast my Maiguard in a whole new light.

The Olympics and The Bragging Games

So the biggest event to ever happen in my dear city of London is the Olympics, and I miss it completely. OK not completely, I got to watch the whole thing on TV.

I was impressed with the legends that Michael Phelps, Usain Bolt and Mo Farrah, welled up with emotion singing the British national anthem at the medal ceremonies, was disappointed with the weird and lackluster opening ceremony (the best bit was the Queen jumping out of the helicopter) kinda liked the closing ceremony, especially the Spice Girls and Oasis singing Wonderwall; and disappointed that the small African country of Gabon won a silver medal, and even Afghanistan won something yet Nigeria came home with nothing.

Anthony Obame from Gabon won a Silver medal in Taekwondo

My family were on holiday away from England during much of August so I decided to postpone my visit home until later in the year, but I still went through a mini depression wishing I was back in London to experience everything live. Many people I knew had tickets to the games or were volunteers and others told me about the electric atmosphere that was charged all around the city, and I was kicking myself that I wasn't there. 

Now I’m planning to be in Rio in four years for the 2016 Olympics. But seeing that seven years ago, when London first won the bid to host the games, I’d planned that by 2012 I’d be married with five kids, be the editor of my own lifestyle magazine, own a house in South London and watch all the track and field events live with my family, I now know that things don’t always happen as planned. I would never have imagined I’d be living and working in Abuja with new and wonderful friends and family in 2012. It’s amazing how plans and desires can change.

   

Speaking of new friends, I’ve been in Nigeria long enough now to note one major difference between how Nigerians interact compared with the British: Bragging. Whether insidious, implied or obvious, when a group of people come together in Nigeria they jostle for position; who has foreign education, who lives in or visited (or their mother/brother/uncle lives in or visited) the UK or US, who has the most expensive designer thing from abroad etc.

Now, my British friends and I would find such ‘showing off’ distasteful. The British way is to be modest and mention your achievements when necessary. I once worked in an office in London with PhD Doctors and reputable engineers, and I had no idea until I was privy to their employment records, and found out that at least five of my co-workers had many published books to their name and were somewhat celebrated in their fields. I mentioned this to them and one blushed, and I jokingly insisted on calling another one ‘Dr’ and he laughingly declined, telling me not to be so silly.

But in Nigeria, such men and women would insist on everyone addressing them as Dr so and so and would find every opportunity to ‘casually’ mention their doctorate or study abroad, and would believe they were better than their non-lettered colleagues.

I have models, editors, chattered accountants, film makers and well-traveled people amongst my group of friends, but we wouldn't dream of recounting our every accomplishment when we got together. But not so in Nigeria. Here people find reasons to continuously mention their foreign experiences, the purchase of their 'authenticly foreign' weave/iPad/washing machine/designer bag.

Not everyone does it, but too many do. I find it all unnecessary and uncouth. But I guess it’s different for me: where visiting London is considered something to shout about for them, I grew up there. Where buying a washing machine is impressive here, such appliances are standard installations in houses where I come from. And where buying a bag imported from Italy is noteworthy here, my friends and I go to Italy to buy such bags.

So I find myself retreating from such conversations. I don’t want ladies to compete with me in a game I have no intention of playing, and even if I were to play, would win anyway. And many times people lie to make their lives seem more fabulicious than it really is. It’s silly, exhausting and sad. And I find that when I casually mention something about my life in England, to them it’s like I've upped the ante and they feel challenged to offer their own fantastic story.

My friend in Ghana (we left England together at the same time) also reports of such ‘Bragging Games’ among Ghana’s high-flying young people, where some girls falsify their accents in comical ways to prove they’ve lived abroad; one girl always managed to work in stories about her time studying for her Masters in Atlanta into every conversation, and one guy spent 10 minutes displaying his various mobile phones and recounting how much each cost.  

It’s slightly worrying really. Here we are, my friend and I, trying to embrace our Africanness, recapture the culture we’d lost or forgotten and play down our ‘otherness’ in the motherland, whilst our African peers are busy trying to prove their Westernness by feverishly attaining the trappings of Western culture that we think little of in order to gain respect.

Sometimes, if you can’t beat them you join them. But not me. My inherent Fulani-shyness and adopted British reserve merge together to prevent me from all the braggadacious displays of Western-originated wealth or education, or revel in the celebrity this brings. I was never into all those status symbols and expensive fashions whilst in England anyway, and I’m not about to enter that world now.

Sure I speak of my experiences, but only when asked or when it’s genuinely relevant. To do otherwise would be vulgar.

My Life as the Only Northerner Amongst Southerners

Because I'm a Christian and Fulanis are Muslims, and because my family never lived amongst other Northerners in the UK, I have grown up surrounded by Yorubas and Igbos. So at the Nigerian event I go to I am the only Northerner present. I am sometimes the first Fulani person many people have ever met.

Being amongst your countrymen yet feeling out of place for being the only one of your ethnicity is an interesting predicament.

Feeling Like an Outsider
No one ever assumes I'm Nigerian, so I'm always self-conscious at a Nigerian gathering. People say I look Jamaican, West Indian, Sierra Leonean, Ethiopian, Cameroonian, Somalian...I've heard it all, except Nigerian. When people question your origin all the time and are surprised when you tell them where you're from, you start to view yourself differently.

Sometimes I feel like declaring my origin the minute I step into a Nigerian event to avoid confusion, or tattoo 'Yes, I am Nigerian too' on my forehead. I often feel like an impostor at these gatherings, and I imagine that some people are thinking "What's that Jamaican girl doing here?"

In a couple of churches I've been to (and I've been to a lot both as a worshipper and a Christian media journalist) the Pastor would tell a Yoruba joke or proverb at the pulpit that everyone laughs or nods at except me; or the choir would sing a popular Yoruba song everyone else would sing along to except me. I've even been to a Nigerian comedy show where comedians told their jokes in pidgin and Yoruba.


The 'Are You Nigerian?' Question
I've been asked the question 'Are you Nigerian?' at least once a week since forever, and at least three Nigerian acquaintances I've known were unaware that I was one of them for many years. They assumed that I was West Indian.

The funny thing is that when people want to decipher my origins by asking my name, hearing my English name doesn't help. They then ask for my surname (because most Nigerians despite an English first name usually have a 'native' surname) and my equally English surname doesn't help either.

Some people who asked me these questions leave it there and I thus retain my ethnic ambiguity in their eyes. The majority just ask outright "Are you Nigerian?"

People Treat Me Differently

In certain situations, people would speak Yoruba or pidgin to everyone else in the group I'm with, then turn to me to translate what they've just said or joke that I probably don't understand (I understand Pidgin and a bit of Yoruba).

Or people are more gentle or nicer to me than they would be to a fellow Nigerian. For instance when I go up to be served food at the buffet table at a wedding reception, some of the ladies serving would describe the details of the yam porridge (asaro) or beans (ewa agoyin) they're serving me, assuming I'm new to these foods (I'm not). Or a Nigerian Auntie we don't know would chastise my Nigerian friend for doing something, but won't chastise me for doing the same thing because she doesn't feel familiar enough with me.

When people don't think I'm 'one of them' they are nicer in a detached, polite way, but this just strengthens the invisible barrier between us. And some only become 'real' with me when they find out I'm Nigerian too.

Changing Accents

A few people will be verbally-jousting in pidgin, but when I join in the conversation they respond in a British accent. Or someone would talk to my friend in a relaxed Nigerian-accent, but talk to me in a forced British accent.

Or my conversation with someone would begin with them 'forming' the Queen's English to me, but after I tell them I'm Nigerian too thinking that this should get them to relax, they continue to form because they're not quite at home with me being Nigerian.

The Fulani Ambassador 

People often ask me to "say something in Hausa" or they say the Hausa words they know and ask for a translation or a response from me. Some ask me if various stereotypes they've heard about Fulanis are true, and when any Hausa-related issue occurs, they want my thoughts on it.

A couple of Southern Aunties who grew up in the North were delighted when they found out I spoke Hausa, and were happy to speak it again with me. It's always lovely when this happens, and the aunties then make sure to always speak to me in Hausa whenever we meet.

Much to my chagrin though, a few people who have a bit of exposure to Fulanis want to show they know a lot about my people and challenge me on some aspect of my culture. For example:

Them: Isn't the Fulani traditional dress a type of lacey material?

Me: No it's a white, cottony top and wrapper combo with pastel colours at the front.

Them: Are you sure? I swear it's a kind of lacey, covered top that kinda flares at the sleeves...

Me: Nope

Them: I don't think so. Are you really sure?

'Nigerian' means Yoruba

I go to events marked as Nigerian - like the Nigerian carnival in London or a Nollywood film premiere, but usually these events are attended by 85% Yoruba, 10% Igbo and 5% other Southerners. There's even a Yoruba festival in the UK. But I've never heard of an event that celebrates Fulani or Northern culture or ever been to a large Hausa or Fulani gathering that involved more than two families. In my UK experience, being Nigerian means being the only Northerner in a room full of Yorubas.

I enjoy being with my people. There's an easiness and familiarity I appreciate when I'm at such events, and a jovial humour and sense of fun and craziness you wouldn't get anywhere. There's also no wedding like a Nigerian wedding (see my Nigerian Wedding vs British Weddings post)

Yet sometimes I feel acutely aware of my difference: I often don't act, know, understand or feel like everyone else in these places, and for all our kinship I might as well be a white person due to their perception of me and my perception of myself.

Seeing Two Sides
For those that carry clues to their origins in their name, appearance or personality, people have already made up their mind about you before they meet you or the minute they meet you. But my apparent ambiguity means I'm able to note how people respond to me before and after they find out where I'm from.

The majority of White People are indifferent when they find out I'm Nigerian. In fact, many don't even ask unless they have a legitimate reason to. Some express mild surprise because they say I didn't act the way they expected Nigerians to act, and a few have 'the look' of negative pre-judgement quickly pass over their eyes but even then, they successfully continue to act normal.

Nigerians are generally guarded or civil with me to begin with, then when they find out, become friendlier and more comfortable around me. They are also very surprised and ask lost of questions; I've had to recount which State in Nigeria my parents come from, the number of years I've lived in the UK and whether I speak Hausa so many times! 

Northerners embrace me and tell me they suspected it when they find out, but on the whole they have no idea I'm Fulani too due to my non-Muslimness.

Other Africans are surprised because they expected me to be a certain way. Some Jamaicans are so sure I'm one of them that they speak Patois to me and feel very comfortable around me, and when they find out I'm Nigerian they are disappointed. 

Life as 'the only Fulani in the village' is interesting to say the least!