The matter of race is a strange one. On one hand, we are told there is no such thing as race, that it is a construction meant only to segregate. On the other hand, we are encouraged to be loud about our race and wear it with pride—usually reserved for the ‘minorities’.
On the one hand, we have forms ask about our race: Latino, Black, Caucasian. On the other, we have companies deny the existence of this line we cannot cross, this cloak we cannot shrug off when they claim they will not use our answers as deciding factors in hiring. Then on a third, precarious hand, we are headhunted for our colour because the diversity and inclusion quota must be filled or companies run the risk of being cancelled on social media.
And oh, I’ve read the few essays and comments on twitter about people only realising that they are black the first time they arrive at a Western country. I’ve always been aware of my blackness. Maybe not the obvious racism that comes with it, but definitely the fact of it all.
But then, am I even black? Maybe not.
Once, in a poem, and numerous times in public bios, I have referred to myself as a black woman. Happening too many times it has become expected, one or two acquaintances who have seen my skin would tell me I am not black. Tell me to stop appropriating blackness. Tell me I am fair, and hence, have no claim to blackness. Admittedly, majority of these people would be joking, no matter how tasteless the joke, but the remaining few would be serious and truly seek to deny me that identity.
What am I if I am not black? Don’t say human just yet.
You can say Nigerian. I’ll bite.
Nigeria with its 36 states and 371 ethnic groups. I know we all like to believe the idealistic quote ‘we are one’, but when you have these differences in cultures, languages and even geography, and the attending pride in every single one by people from these ‘groups’, there will be friction when you try to mesh everyone together under one happy umbrella. Anyway, Nigerian.
It depends on who is asking because Tina from Chicago knows Africa is not a country and has heard of Nigeria before. With her, I am purely Nigerian. But I can’t put a nice little bow on this with another Nigerian. No. No matter what happens, I’d have to divulge where I’m really from.
A vague ‘South’ or ‘North’ might do for some people—these people already generalise, and lump others based on location anyway. Or they just don’t care, which is sweet.
For others, however, even that is not enough, and I may have to give the juicy specifics. I’m not really complaining—it’s a way to know more about others (one fact about this stranger for the road) and can lead to fascinating conversations about been-theres, seen-thats, love-the-weather. And hey, you might just find that the person you are talking with is a sister. Don’t act like you don’t light up inside when you realise someone else is from the same place as you. It’s an innocent matter of similarity, shared identity, and belonging.
Where it poses a problem, save for the glaring risk of being immediately stereotyped because of your ethnic group, is when you have dual identities. I don’t particularly like the question ‘where are you from?’ from a Nigerian because I was born and raised in Adamawa state so I’m an indigene by birth. But I am a Delta person, because both my parents are Deltan and my indigene letter is from Delta.
So, when I’m asked where I’m from, it’s a situation on its own. If I say Delta, I might get a follow up question about Delta that I probably have no answer to, but if I say Adamawa, I’d have to still explain why I don’t originate from an LGA there.
It’s a mess I sidestep with ‘I was born and raised in Adamawa state but I’m from Delta state’. Easy, ties the knot pretty well, and the questions that come after this are well-informed and familiar.
This duality of origin was a problem in my teens when I realised I didn’t quite fit in. Sometimes, I still wonder about it, but I don’t dwell on the thought because these days I’m too busy wondering if I’m getting old since I can no longer tell the difference between proferred and proffered.
I digress.
I was not Northern enough, not Igbo enough. And don’t get me started on the dismissal I got whenever I started with ‘I am Igbo’ and answered their ‘from where’ question with ‘Delta’. Apparently, Deltans are not Igbo so I’m not even a ‘real’ igbo person.
Nice. I’m not fully black, I’m not Nigerian (because it’s a myth), I’m not Hausa or any of the tribes in Adamawa state, I’m not Igbo (because Deltans are ‘fake’ Igbos).
What am I, then?
I’d say human, but nobody looks at me and wonders if I’m human or not. I assume there’s no question. There are so many tags I could choose from, but it seems I’m half and half and half. Existing, but never fully belonging.
So, though I like to think I am black, and Nigerian, and Igbo, I just might be solely Deltan after all, forget the fact that I don’t know Delta and Delta doesn’t know me.
Talk about an identity crisis.
