I experienced a moment of clarity today. Since my arrival in Nigeria, my ability to decipher the local versions of English has increased daily. There’s a British version that they use in the office only when speaking to me, there’s an accent heavy colloquial version (very similar to ebonics), and then there’s the ethnic languages, primarily Igbo and Yoruba, that if you listen really closely have fragments of English peppered throughout.
While attempting to enter the bank, I asked the security guard if it was open. He looked a bit confused, and responded in a string of syllables that I couldn’t interpret. In turn, I must have looked a bit confused because his co-worker quickly opened the gate, responding that the bank was indeed open. Not taking the time to analyze this exchange, I entered the building where I was met by a teller who couldn’t understand why I was asking if the bank was international or why I was wasting her time during the Thursday evening rush–I didn’t even have an account. Obviously annoyed, she questioned rhetorically, “aren’t you Nigerian?”
The fact that I had been mistaken for an African citizen brought me so much pride until I left with a silly grin on my face. It was the ultimate gift for a disaspora African, a symbolic acknowledgement of our common ancestry. As I walked past security, I had a revelation. It wasn’t that I didn’t understand the Nigerian accent, but people, assuming I was Nigerian, had been speaking to me in Igbo or Yoruba! Even though my Igbo is non-existant, and my Yoruba is worse, I felt a kinship to my people like never before.
The second day of my internship I noticed something oddly familiar. A white girl was travelling the halls of my NGO. Immediately distrustful, I refused to engage in small talk or look her directly in the eye. Whatever her role, I knew her type. Peace-loving, tree-hugging, interest-serving, they believe their presence is necesssary to save Africans from themselves, but never admit that their presence is the root of the problem. Not deterred by my mean mugs (looks of disgust), she cornered me and self-indulgently relayed her experiences while in Africa. She complained that the people hadn’t been welcoming, never inviting her into their homes or offering to show her around. She felt like an outsider, and whined about it for ten minutes. Feigning interest, I looked at her blond hair and blue eyes, and was comforted by her misery. My people possess a strong sense of discernment, and even when serving a ”philanthropic” role she would never be truly welcomed. It felt good to know that her rejection had been instinctive, yet I had been embraced. I had been repeatedly mistaken for Nigerian. I had made friends who within five minutes offered to show me around. I had payed the same price for road-side fruit as the locals. Unlike her, I had been embraced by Nigeria.
