You Don't Look Nigerian

“I didn’t know you were Nigerian…you don’t look Nigerian.”  I get it all of the time…at least a couple of times a week depending on how often I drop the N-bomb. I am certainly not surprised.  I am a first generation African-American in the truest sense. I was born and grew up in this country, but both my parents immigrated to the United States about 25 years ago, from Nigeria.  I eat fufu and okra or ogbono stew, gari, moy moy, acara balls, puff puff, plantain, suya, jeloff rice, and goat meat.  Egusi stew anyone? Mmmm. 

But my mannerisms are distinctly American.  I speak with no accent, I have no distinguishing tribal marks, and my features aren’t prototypically “African”.  Okay, let’s pause for the cause.  What does it mean to look “African” or West African in particular.  Its certainly not the dark skin or wide nose—all West Africans don’t look like Seal, who is half Nigerian half Brazilian, or Djimon Hounsou, who is from our neighboring country Benin (I love him, by the way).  Some look like the sultry songstress Sade (though she is of mixed Nigerian and British descent) or like actor Chiwetel Ejofor (he plays the black scientist who helps save the world in the recent film 2012). 

Most people imagine there are stark physical contrasts between Blacks in this country and the West Africans you might meet walking the streets of Lagos, Nigeria or Dakar, Senegal or Accra, Ghana.  However of the more than 10 million slaves transported to the Americas during the trans-Atlantic slave trade, over 54% came from the West African regions of Nigeria, Benin, Togo, Ghana, Ivory Coast, Equatorial Guinea, Senegal, and Cameroon.  In other words, people should stop being shocked to find Africans that don’t look “African” and vice versa—Black Americans that do look “African” (ahem Don Cheadle ahem Wesley Snipes ahem Whoopi in The Color Purple).  

We all do it—myself included—falling victim to our proclivity towards stereotypes and generalizations about other people. But how many exceptions to the rule must we encounter before we debunk this misinformed categorization?          

For my fellow first-generation Nigerian-Americans, who straddle the line of dual identities and have realized the beauty in reclaiming your heritage, this blog is for you!!  And for those of who are perhaps remiss and may have forgotten what’s so remarkably unique about Nigerian culture, allow me to take the next 2 minutes of your time to remind you.

We are a passionate people.  Where two or more are gathered, expect voices to be raised a decibel, and the conversation to be peppered by a healthy dose of exclamations such as “Chi-ne-ke!”, “Kai!”, “O-jo-we-o!” “Eh ya!”, and “Ah ah!”.  Nobody panic. Your cousin just got an A on her Biology test.

“Wait, there’s a parable for that!” Calling on the much cited Apple slogan for the I-phone, “There’s an app for that!” as my Grandma will attest—for any situation which you encounter, there will be a corresponding parable with varying relevance to your predicament. Did you hear the one about the young girl and the stew she was supposed to cook? What about the old man and the pot of gold. No? Me neither...

You must REBUKE the devil’s hand! When receiving anything from someone—food, money, a rolled up piece of paper just fished out of the trashcan covered in dust particles—take it with your right hand.  Reach out your left and risk immediate censure and any accompanying pain which will come from the slap you will undoubtedly be delivered. Bosam! You will learn young grasshopper…you will learn.

When we dance we make it rain! Start bumping that 2Face, P-Square, 9ice, D’banj, Femi, or Fela (for the old folks hehe), and you better get ready to either break-it-down, or grab some naira/dollars. 

You better believe after our last family gathering I pocketed those $20 in ones and went to Victoria Secret to buy some of that lotion on sale. That 5 for $20 sounded like an excellent Christmas gift package, but before I knew it I had purchased $70 worth of shimmer lip gloss, seduction lotion, vanilla body butter, and honey melon scrub.  Hey, atleast I got a ‘free’ pink Vicky Secret tote bag!!

Obviously Nigerian men don’t watch the Super-bowl, because it’s all about throwin’ back Guinness and Heineken! Budweiser who??  And as for me, Ill take a glass of muscato please thank you.  

Don’t forget the good, the bad, and the ugly! Apparently, Nigerian parents have never heard of child protective services because corporal punishment is always the preferred method of child rearing.  Who ever heard of a switch? Try the much more convenient mop stick or pounding yam spoon (well its more like a slab of wood than a spoon) or the cord of the iron…Don’t worry they aren’t picky with the instruments of discipline. Line up!  And if your parents are tired of exerting force on you—how about just raising both hands straight above your head (indefinitely).  Does it burn????? Well maybe you should have thought of that before you talked back!

All these quirks, traditions, and customs make up what is so incredible about Nigerian culture.  There is a steadfast pride, which will defend to the death outside criticisms of our great country, underlying a keen insight, wisdom, and consciousness of a brilliant people who independently and collectively philosophize about exactly “What’s wrong with Nigeria.” (Shameless plug for Andrew Young’s documentary.)   So Nigeria—for all the good, the bad, and the ugly, I still rep my hood hard-body (New York slang slipped in there).  I just got one question for you. Where you from? East-Side!! Imo State!! 

I’ll be in Nigeria to bring in the 2010 New Year, and I will be dancing hard so Naija better make it rain on me!  Palm wine anyone?  Look out for my next blog/rant when I get back from the motherland.  I really have to go though, my show is coming on Africa Magic in an hour, and I got to find out whether Chinyere and Arinze’s daughters are still running the streets of Abuja wild, drinking beer and gallivanting around or shackin’ up with Yoruba men!!

 

Lets hear it for New York, New York, New York!!

More than a theme for this Jay-Z/Alicia Keyes recent collabo hip hop anthem, which boasts that “The Big Apple” is one of the greatest places to live on the planet, NYC does indeed live up to its incredibly inflated egoic reputation. Take it from a native Atlantan, who has not grown up with the indoctrination of New York City, as the so-called center of the world. I am always inspired when I go to NYC and so I took the illustrious occasion of the anniversary of my 23rd year on this earth to travel back up to good ole’ New York City.

The vibrant city pumps life into its restless residents, much like two jumper cables can deliver a jolt of electricity powerful enough to start a lifeless vehicle. The constant flow and interchange of money, energy, enthusiasm, and dare I say even a modicum of craziness, is what keeps this city the number one destination for tourism in the world, as well as the prized possession of its overzealous native New Yorkers, residing in boroughs like Harlem, Brooklyn, Queens, Lower East Side, and Long Island. Break down the fictional melting pot of New York, and you are likely to find delineable enclaves of culturally rich Jamaicans and Trinidadians in Flatbush; the coquettish latin flavor of Dominicans in Washington Heights; trendy, artsy hipsters in Williamsburg and LES or “lower east side”; and, over-worked, over-paid, and over-valued banker-types in the Upper West Side of Manhattan. No-where else in the world do you get such a colorful array of identities—culture, fashion, personality, and style—co-existing in such a brilliant manner.

In lieu of lacing this blog with a potpourri of outsider observations, however, I might mention some specific experiences that I had on my trip to NYC just last weekend, to celebrate my birthday, which have solidified my affinity for the Empire State.

The saturation of clubs, restaurants, and lounges on every avenue and street never leaves one wanting for a cool place to chill, or a hot place to party like it’s the new millennium! LES, Alphabet City, count me in!

Friday:

Have you ever had a basil cocktail? It is a cool, refreshing, basil infused vodka beverage which I was uniquely served at Stanton Social bar http://thestantonsocial.com/ on the occasion of starting my birthday weekend off right! Props to the hot bartenders, with mad skills (witness my New York dialect emerging after just one weekend. Its contagious!).

Saturday:

Babel Hookah bar http://www.babelnyc.com/ Saturday night was a cozy space, and the air was singed with strawberry, raspberry, and other flavored tobaccos, which intermingled nicely with the Brazilian/hip hop music and eclectic crowd. From there, we meandered just one block up the street to Lava gina (ohhh yes they did)—another lounge which played an excellent mix of African music (shout out to my Naija brother on the turntables!) and hip hop. The night ended at 4:00am, when I gleefully skipped out of China 1 http://www.china1nyc.com/, on a birthday high, and subsequently enjoyed a lukewarm glazed Dunkin Donut and a juicy Falafel topped with onions, tomatoes and tahini sauce, before hopping on the F train off of Houston. Where else can you get a juicy tahini filled falafel at 4:00 in the morning??

Sunday:

Props to the Sunburnt Cow http://www.thesunburntcow.com/ which delivered brunch and round after round of delectable mimosas for a reasonable price of $18.00, enabling me to reach an optimal state of inebriation on Sunday afternoon at 2:00pm. Later that evening, after a walk in Tompkins Square Park and a round of shrimp tempura sushi rolls, I was slurping down a frozen sugary strawberry margarita and devouring shrimp tacos with salsa and guacamole at Benny's Burritos http://www.blockheads.com/, while having a debate on the subjugation of Asian women, societal conditioning of gender roles, and the implications of one of the largest and most influential entities in the world—the Rothschild banking family. I always meet interesting people and have wonderfully random and spontaneous intellectual conversations when I am in NYC, and this trip was no exception!

Monday:

And on my last evening, The Coffee Shop at Union Square (don’t be fooled by its generic name), was anything but a simple coffee shop, with its loungey (yes I made that word up) black leather chairs and hip, attractive servers--shout out to that olive skinned, dark-curly haired piece of Mediterranean goodness who was working on Monday night!

Speaking of hot Mediterranean men, not only does NYC have an over-abundance of nightlife outlets, the men are entirely too attractive and charming to resist! All my single ladies, make it a personal priority to take a trip to New York if you want to see how real men treat women. Ill leave it at that ;).

Truly truly, what made my NY experience, as always, was the connections that I made with both old friends, new friends, and even strangers. Ex: the random girl who bummed a cig from my friend and began to share her emotional trials and tribulations about her imminent divorce. She was stalling...avoiding going home to face her own desperate reality. Another incredible moment with a complete stranger came on my last night, when I was waiting for a friend for an hour at the McDonalds at Times Square, and an older man came up to me with eyes glossed over as if he was prepared to shed a tear at the thought of my pathetic situation. He asked "Are you okay?" And I began to reassure him that I was not on the verge of suicidal depression, and the reason I was dozing in and out of consciousness at the top floor of this particular McDonalds Restaurant was because of sheer boredom--certainly not so interesting or dramatic a reason as what he thought. His sympathy and compassion stayed with me.

Now the city certainly has a few drawbacks and faults:

• Piles of garbage bags line avenues, much like the chrysanthemums peppered throughout my Grandma’s garden.

• Big-ass bold rats dashing across the subway rails and around street corners are about as common as the squirrels that live in my attic.

• A one-person $1200/month apartment, might resemble Kimmora Lee’s walk-in closet, smell like moldy clothes that you forgot to take out of the washer, and have lovely vintage features such as layers of peeling paint, cracked tiles and creaking wooden floors glazed with thin layers of grit.

• And let us never forget the unrelenting reminder of the hardship of life in the city, with the dread-headed beggars who bang their cups, beseeching sympathy from apathetic riders on the subway trains, and the immensely talented and perpetually homeless musicians on the street corners and in the parks.

But even when I think of the juxtaposition of the gluttonous consumerism and sheer poverty, which co-exists in NYC, I am inspired—and even prompted to act. The New Yorker’s is a can-do spirit, and if nothing else, I will take that attitude and apply it to my life back at home. In fact, my trip and my extraordinarily ambitious friends (you know who you are) have inspired me to start a long-overdue blog. But it doesn’t stop there! Tune in for more on how I am bringing my New York state of mind, back to the dirty dirty ATL baby. And to be sure, I will be strutting across the broad avenues and streets of The Big Apple again, as soon as my bank account bounces back!