Sunday Edition — On Being Nigerian

EDITOR'S NOTE

Nwaka's essay is about the sacrifices that come before us, and the responsibility we inherit to carry them forward. Reading it, I found myself thinking about my own version of this story. I did not make the crossing Nwaka's parents made, and coming of age in American classrooms is not the same sacrifice. But I am starting a family in the United States too, and I will spend those years deciding which parts of home to keep alive in a household built an ocean away from where home technically is. Nwaka's parents left everything so their children could have a future. I suspect many of us in a similar position will spend our own parenting years making sure our children still know where theirs began. Nwaka, I hope your parents read this and feel the fullness of what their sacrifice became.

On Being Nigerian

 

Lately, I have been spending time reflecting on what being Nigerian means to me.

Specifically, as someone who was born there, spent the first seven years of my life there, emigrated from there, assimilated to a new culture, and is finding a way back to my roots.

Nigeria has been this foreign concept of "home." Though I am an American citizen, my blood and heart are from a foreign land; a land of spicy and seasoned food, a land of colorful people, characters, and languages. A land of pride and disappointment. A land of opportunity and heartbreak, wealth and corruption, faith and fear, and the list can go on and on. It is a land full of dualities.

I represent some of that duality, a father of Igboland and mother of Yorubaland, two worlds that share the same roots but could not be different in so many ways.

To me, being Nigerian also means being resilient. It represents the drive my parents had to start in a new country with only $250 and 6 mouths to feed. We started our story in a 1-bedroom apartment in Northeast Philadelphia. Dad had to restart his PhD while Mom ventured from all she ever knew in school administration into starting over in nursing school for financial security. My sisters and I took ESL classes and were instilled with the value of education very early on. We were also taught the why behind the sacrifices. We learned the why behind Dad leaving a prestigious faculty position, playing tennis at Staff Club, Mom's departure from the Lily of the Valley church community, and our grandparents, aunts, and uncles. It was all to give us the best chance for a future and to make something of ourselves. They, of course, had lonely nights, difficulties, and doubts about whether the sacrifice would be worth it. However, this was love in the form of resilience and hope. Our bond as a family was cemented in those early days.

Gradually, I learned that we were not the only ones unique to these circumstances, and I heard many similar stories of sacrifices and resilience over time. Last summer, I went home for the July 4th holiday and was invited to a high school graduation party. In this large group of mostly Nigerian church community members, I spent some time observing the parents and looking at their kids running around so freely. Though I am not a parent, I could see the pride they had towards their kids reflecting in their smiles and in their eyes.

I gather that from a parent's perspective, especially as immigrants who left everything behind, there are moments you privately shed a tear when that sacrifice graduates high school, college, medical school, pharmacy school, or law school. When you can trade the 1-bedroom apartment for a 4-bedroom home where everyone can have their own bathrooms. When you can send money back home to support your family. When you don't have to look over your shoulder for immigration or sweat about your green card finally coming through. When you can finally save enough to go on vacation without feeling guilty about it. Sometimes, it is when you miss home and the warmth of your mom's cooking; however, the diploma hanging on the wall and the Mercedes sitting in the garage compensate for those long nights.

Your children now, those beautiful sacrifices, are now walking the tightrope of their identity. Too American for the Nigerians and too Nigerian for the Americans, somewhere in between and paving their own way.

Some are courageous to go back, learn, and invest in their fatherland. Some are holding tight to their traditions and teaching their Gen Alpha babies Yoruba and Igbo before they can attend daycare. Some are happily comforted by the parameters of their new home and their new friends of various origins.

I was lucky enough that my Mom invested a lot of energy in getting us involved with the Redeemed Christian Church of God very early, so we would grow up in a Nigerian community, and that Dad would play Fela Kuti early on Saturday mornings to fill the house. At various times, we would pile in the minivan, geles tied tightly, and sojourn to many weddings, parties, and gatherings to spend time with the small community they built.

Mom was intentional in speaking Yoruba to us, and I would overhear Dad speaking Igbo to his family. His favorite word to me growing up was "nti," which meant listen. In time, our family expanded with more Yoruba speakers, weddings, mini humans, and milestone events. Being Nigerian became more integrated with being American.

What has inspired me the most as of late has been the in-betweeners like myself, those who grew up between both worlds, yet choosing to invest in their home. Those taking what they learned from advanced degrees to lend their brains towards infrastructure, non-profit, retail, commerce, and connection in Nigeria. For example, my brother-in-law starting a medical foundation, my aunt managing an orphanage, a friend starting a retail business, and another starting an investment fund. The pulse of creativity, entrepreneurship, pride, and hope palpably felt all around.

The home we left for a better future is now the home those sacred sacrifices are reinvesting in for the sake of their better future and reconnection to their roots.

It's left me thinking, beyond donating and maintaining my lofty, dreamy distance, what more can I be doing or should I be doing for the nation that birthed me?

The first step is recognizing what being Nigerian means to me. In my search, I have found that being a Nigerian means being resilient, persevering in ways that sacrifice present comfort for your family and the greater future, it means intentionally creating community, it means an identity deeper than what a passport can state, it means always remembering that no matter where you are, you never lose where you came from.

It represents family, connectedness, sacrifice, independence, and creativity. My father once told me, family is "ebi" or "ara-ile" in Yoruba and "ndibe" in Igbo.

To me, being Nigerian means being grounded, rooted in family, culture, and connectedness, especially as an in-betweener of two tribes and generations.

There is ample opportunity for what I could be doing to invest in the country through connectedness and community, and therefore, that's my north star.

So, in that vein, with what I have shared, what might being Nigerian mean to you?