A Nigerian’s Perspective on being Black in America
Nigeria taught me nothing about black history.
I spent my formative years in Lagos the infamously dubbed “Centre of Excellence” navigating the hustle and bustle of life as a Nigerian before moving to the U.S. for college. I have always maintained that I did not understand the realities and the enormous gravity of what it meant to be black until I moved to America. Upon moving, I like many other Africans found myself in situations where it was unclear to me why my very presence in certain environments evoked negative reactions from people. No one ever explained why we were immediately siloed into the “other” category, why we had to deal with assumptions before getting a chance to make an impression, why it appeared that we needed to work twice as hard to get any form of recognition. These questions and a host of others plague me until this day — hate is always an unreasonable answer if you ask me. It might be too much to ask but I want oppressors' to explain the foundation of that hate to me, where it comes from, and what gives them the audacity to keep nurturing that hate.
Do you know why the human mind likes puzzles? I am inclined to believe that it is because it thrives on pulling little pieces together that at first glance have no relation but when it’s all put together, a full picture is revealed. This was me recently connecting the dots of incidents that had happened to me over the years reeling at the full picture.
There are certain experiences in life that are so shocking to the human spirit that the mind actively works to bury them in one’s subconscious to protect and preserve one’s sanity. Then comes along an idle Tuesday, when your mind is so preoccupied that it has to let some things slip and all of a sudden, the memories come flooding and there is no choice but to acknowledge those memories.
My sister and I love to walk. I think this is because in Lagos, we spent so many days walking back from school or walking to the market when there were no buses or traffic did not make sitting in a bus worth it. Last year, she came to visit me and we decided to take a stroll through a hip part of town. At this point, it is important to emphasize that this part of town is supposed to be a liberal and safe part of the city. As we walked past a few blocks, 4 college-aged white men in their red Chevy Malibu stopped at the red light and started catcalling at us. We did what we were taught as girls growing up in Lagos — where men felt like they could grab or touch you inappropriately as you walked through the streets — which was to ignore them and walk as fast as our legs could carry us. If there is one thing I remember from the numerous harassments I experienced and witnessed in the years I strolled through Oshodi market or Ìsàlẹ̀ Èkó, it is that entitled men have no way of discerning the line that separates their entitlement from anger fueled violence. My sister and I walked as fast as we could, and in a split second as the light went from red to green, one of them shouted the N word at us and they all laughed — they also thought it was important to further address my sister who had a head scarf on and so they shouted Sand N*****s to make sure they drove their point home. We walked home feeling flustered and defeated. It ruined our walk and turned what was meant to be an adventurous stroll in that part of town to a memory we wanted to quickly forget.
Some years ago, a day before my birthday — I remember my sisters being in town but arriving separately. I remember dropping one of them off to get her hair braided while I drove out to pick up my other sister from the airport. Nigeria being 6 hours ahead, it was already my birthday there so friends and family had started sending birthday wishes. Consequently, I remember being slightly distracted with all the messages of love I was receiving. When I approached a stop sign at a crossroad, there were two cars double parked at the left and right sides of the intersection. I must have missed that the car adjacent to me had stopped first and had the right of way so we both proceeded to move at the same time and stopped inches of running into each other. As expected we were all startled but in that moment, the older white man in the car who was the passenger yelled the N word at me then they both laughed and drove off. I was so stunned that I genuinely did not register any of it. All I saw at the time was them laughing and driving off — I also remember my mind immediately falling back to the lovely messages I had read moments ago from loved ones wishing me a happy birthday. This happened in 2014 but the first time I actually remembered and processed what happened that day was in 2019 — after the incident with the (4) college-aged white men in the red Chevy Malibu. I wonder if my mind suppressed the memory because in that moment, I somehow thought that I deserved the hate that was spewed at me for making a mistake.
In 2016, I travelled to Ohio for a friends graduation and as customary we went out for lunch after the ceremony ended. The waiter assigned to our table was a young white lady — she greeted us with a smile and passed the menu around. As expected of people who were from out of town and were not familiar with the restaurant, we all asked questions as our turns came to place an order. A few minutes into the graduates’ turn of asking questions about a meal, the waiter excused herself and said that she would be back shortly. Some minutes later, another waiter — a young white man — came to our table to take our orders. We were puzzled but nevertheless, we all ordered and kept it moving. After he took our orders, I asked what everyone thought happened to our original waiter and someone at the table said it was possible that she no longer wanted to wait on us. I laughed it off and thought it was a comment made in jest but lo and behold, she walked past us to wait on a newly seated table at the restaurant and many more during our time at that restaurant that day. This incident may seem like a coincidence or might be excused as one caused by a rearrangement of her schedule but it was too uncomfortable to ignore. I remember us feeling unsettled throughout the entire lunch, wondering what we could have possibly done that made her feel so uncomfortable to pass us on to another waiter. As far as I know, nobody said anything insulting or inappropriate to her that day so I guess such is Black in America.
In addition to the everyday overt and covert racism one experiences as a black person in America, there is an additional dismissal Africans experience especially in midwestern and southern states in America. People are quick to assume that you are not knowledgeable about what you speak of, that you lack critical thinking skills by subtly starting a sentence with “I am not sure if you’re familiar with…” or “Did you mean…”, and often insinuate that you should be grateful to be in America. For some reason, people hear an African accent and somehow lose all senses of their ability to understand one’s English. This problem transcends individuals because universities in America subtly impose their ignorant views too, for example they require that every African student take the TOEFL (Test of English as a Foreign Language) exam even though a dozen African countries have English as their official language. Additionally, professors and students butcher our names but have little to no issues pronouncing nonintuitive European names. E kú isé
While I am grateful to have had the privilege of moving abroad to get further educated and gain exposure especially in my understanding of what it means to be black, I find myself generally tired of living away from home, and blaming Nigeria for my racists encounters. I blame Nigeria and its leaders for failing its citizens and forcing us to migrate in search of betterment, forcing us to struggle with fitting in, integrating, assimilating without first preparing us with knowledge of our history. Perhaps if I had understood my history better like how Nigerians made up a significant portion of slaves transported across the Atlantic to North America, South America, Europe etc. along with how people of African descent around the world continuously fight for our civil rights, I might not have struggled as much as I did and still do with my black identity.
Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it, please check out some of my previously published stories.
