What it means to be an African Immigrant in England
In the seventeen years of my existence, never had I been more conscious of both my blackness and my Africanness than when I arrived in England for University.
I remember the cold air that sunk into my skin as I walked through the airport doors. It made me feel happy, scared and anxious, all at the same time. It had no smell. I remember the face of the woman who inspected my papers meticulously, and smiled when I told her that I was there to “study”. My mother had spent most of the waiting time, pre and post landing, cementing phrases that would give me smooth and easy entry, in my zestful brain.
“Be bold and just tell them everything as we discussed.” she said for the hundredth time.
Fast forward to two years later, and those words still resonate deeply within me, with renewed urgency and depth. They remind me that I have to be persistent and impenetrable but not in any way passive. They remind me that I have to constantly assert my self-identity and worth, not out of a want or need for ‘belonging’, but due to the simple fact of being.
The first time I became very aware of my ‘difference’ was as much an enlightening experience as it was a frightening and nerve-wracking one.
I can hardly remember what the sky outside looked like or how the decent-sized room felt to me but I just know that I wanted to disappear. It was an introductory meeting with our personal tutor, for which our attendance wasn’t obligatory but everything seemed like that in first year. I had been dreading and mentally preparing myself for that meeting, partly because of my social anxiety and partly because I felt I would be the only one with an “accent”. It turned out that that wasn’t the case but for some reason, that didn’t put me completely at ease.
That was why I said, very coarsely and plainly, that my name was “E.J.” — my name is Ejiro. It was as though I was unconvinced and uncertain about the identity that I wanted to present. I feel like everyone in the room absorbed it. Even my personal tutor Ian, with his very patronizing smile and interesting hair.
I sometimes ponder on how different the experience would have been if I had simply and confidently said my name, and if I hadn’t pulled that ridiculous ‘NY’ hat so close to my eyebrows because I thought there was something very African about my haircut. No doubt, someone would have asked me to “say that again sorry”, with a tinge of amusement very far from keenness as is always the case. In retrospect, things wouldn’t have been much different, but I would’ve gone home with the satisfaction of knowing that I did not succumb to the inferiority complex which was borne out of having an identity that (in many ways) stands out.
Two years ago, I would’ve had no problem agreeing with someone who said that black people (especially those with African roots) can’t be just British. Basically, that their African roots were too imposing that it somehow dominated their Britishness. This is because I had such restrictive and singular view of identity, which made me shrink and mentally torture myself in certain spaces.
This is exactly what my ex flatmate was inferring when she proudly recounted how she asked some guy on Tinder where he was “really from” because she did not believe that one could be something and another. Worse still, she could not accept that he was something other than what she regarded as indisputable and “facts”, mainly because like her, he was black and “obviously African”. Apparently, she asked that question to every guy she spoke to who was not white.
Of course it would be naive to simply call my ex flatmate shallow-minded or crude (because she saw identity as formulaic and one-dimensional), considering the dominance of this same narrative in society’s treatment of ethnic minorities.
Also, the many ways that one aspect of our identities i.e. being indigenously African/Nigerian is constantly presented and re-presented to us. Hence, being an African in diaspora also means having to endure the many oversimplified and often condescending narratives about you. This feeds into and reinforces the ‘us vs. them’ mentality, which is similar to the white vs. black dichotomy, but is undeniably more nuanced. For instance, there are certain moments when you might feel like you belong but majority of the time, you don’t.
I was having a conversation with someone a couple weeks ago about how whenever I’m in the midst of black Brits, I always strongly feel our differences. Part of this stems from subconscious reminders which again stem from various interactions, commentaries and feelings.
I remember the time when someone distributed these little questionnaires about “the Black British dream” at an event for Nigerian students. I remember scribbling a couple sentences but ditching it halfway because while I knew I was black, I wasn’t British. Hence, I did not know anything about “the Black British dream” and didn’t think I would ever.
I also can’t express how often people (mostly black and British) have expressed surprise or dare I say disappointment after I told them I could not dance, or because I wasn’t as ‘manly’ or assertive as a “typical Nigerian”. I used to derive a certain pride from this but not until I realized the underlying implications. That such cultural and behavioral assumptions have become so ingrained in mainstream conversations and even our understanding of ourselves is definitely something that should be discussed.
For instance, I think the whole “Nigerians are everywhere” rhetoric, which has now become a mantra for anyone with the slightest opinion of Nigerians in the diaspora and even us Nigerians, is quite offensive. Despite the fact that it might be true and is usually said without an air of maliciousness, there is an inherent assumption of a power dynamic which can have negative consequences for us. An example is the recent xenophobic attacks of Nigerians by South Africans.
In the course of writing this essay, I have pondered over the ‘us vs. them’ narrative in relation to several internet commentaries and trends, some of which I can only vaguely remember.
For example, the particular incident involving one British-Nigerian social media influencer responding to thoughtful criticism with insanely classist and derogatory “clapbacks”. Most of the comments which she responded to were made by Nigerians, who despite having as much right as her in elucidating their concerns on a public platform, were sadly ridiculed because unlike her, they were born and raised in Nigeria. Interestingly, I remember listening to a podcast in which she basically gushed about how “Nigerian men are the best”, which was followed by Tweets like “Nigerians are too lit”.
Twitter.com/Oloni
It is this tendency to proclaim love for and blatantly ridicule an identity, culture and people that has always baffled me.
Granted, my friends and I often (sometimes amusingly) comment on the deplorable corruption, hypocrisy and living conditions that plague Nigeria, from the comfort of our dorm rooms. However, I’m always drawn into anxious thinking, existential dilemma and unanswerable questions about the future, consequences of having and inevitably claiming an identity that doesn’t hold the brightest prospects for you. The difference here, I think, is that our ‘critiques’ come from a place of genuine understanding and appreciation of our flaws and strengths. This of course is influenced by our privilege.
Undeniably, there is also a certain privilege that comes with being able to pick and choose when and how to be African/Nigerian that reinforces this difference or feeling of inferiority. Being ‘purely’ African in a country still dominated by white supremacist values means that in most interactions, your Africanness takes centre stage. I am not in any way inferring that this is a repulsive thing in itself for it is bound to happen and the African identity is very dynamic and beautiful in ways that I can’t give due justice to. It only becomes worrying when your entire existence is flattened, judged and scrutinized by one narrow and divisive conception.
The same person I was having the earlier conversation with also introduced me to the concept of “white comfort” and how he, as a British-Somali, usually benefits from and is also equally ‘ostracized’ because of it. This is a term I never knew existed. Importantly, that one’s perception of self can be influenced greatly by an envisioned treatment as an ‘other’ because of his curly hair and defined features shows how powerful and damaging ostracism (imagined or real) can be, especially when you’re not part of a dominant group.
So when next someone makes a “factual” or condescending comment relating to me being African/Nigerian, repeatedly asks me to repeat myself because I speak too fast and my tongue is “heavy”, chuckles at my accent, compares me to every Nigerian guy that they’ve met, and assumes that I should dance, cook and love jollof, I hear my mother’s voice, telling me to “be bold” once again.
