Longing for home
You were only Nigerian
When you came for your cousin's wedding last summer
-- your cousin, the one who used to spend holidays at your house when you lived in Palm Groove and was so loose even the driver, Uncle Usman, boasted of having touched her; Bimpe had such a bad mouth, she had made Aunty Rose, the house maid, cry several times
-- that cousin.
You had all worn yellow lace aso ebi with pink geles, there was a chocolate fountain and Don Jazzy, with a small entourage of clean-shaven men, had shown up
You were Nigerian that summer.
When you came for your cousin's wedding last summer
-- your cousin, the one who used to spend holidays at your house when you lived in Palm Groove and was so loose even the driver, Uncle Usman, boasted of having touched her; Bimpe had such a bad mouth, she had made Aunty Rose, the house maid, cry several times
-- that cousin.
You had all worn yellow lace aso ebi with pink geles, there was a chocolate fountain and Don Jazzy, with a small entourage of clean-shaven men, had shown up
You were Nigerian that summer.
You are only Nigerian
When you remember going to Elegushi Beach in December 2011 with Stella and Tade, their boyfriends and friends
-- that guy nobody had invited but tagged along anyway and drank too much; that girl with the wooly weave who kept flirting with Uche; Uche, who wouldn't stop staring at you, smiling, and had come over to sit next to you but wouldn't say a word (turns out he had been seriously dating a third-year medical student schooling in Budapest)
-- but the smoked fish from that day, the dipping sun and the sound of Flavour's voice blaring from speakers bring back a tide of nostalgia that carry you afloat and remind you that you are Nigerian.
When you remember going to Elegushi Beach in December 2011 with Stella and Tade, their boyfriends and friends
-- that guy nobody had invited but tagged along anyway and drank too much; that girl with the wooly weave who kept flirting with Uche; Uche, who wouldn't stop staring at you, smiling, and had come over to sit next to you but wouldn't say a word (turns out he had been seriously dating a third-year medical student schooling in Budapest)
-- but the smoked fish from that day, the dipping sun and the sound of Flavour's voice blaring from speakers bring back a tide of nostalgia that carry you afloat and remind you that you are Nigerian.
You are Nigerian
During raves thrown by the African-Caribbean Society at uni, where you dress in green and white and dance to Yahoozee and Gongo Aso.
During raves thrown by the African-Caribbean Society at uni, where you dress in green and white and dance to Yahoozee and Gongo Aso.
When your professor -- the one with the thinning hair and flaky skin -- says that West Africa is Africa's major drug trafficking hub, you bow your head, say nothing; you are not Nigerian today.
When someone in your Human Rights and Justice seminar says something about the kidnapped Chibok schoolgirls, you bow your head, say nothing; you are not Nigerian today.
You have the privilege of choosing which side of your identity to fall under. You are not obligated to defend that filth of a country; that place of heat, traffic, smells from the gutter and hammathan dust.
Today, you are British; you catch your train, read the Metro and try to ignore the dull throbbing in your chest -- your longing for home.
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