Encouraging to see that first-generation Nigerians are trying to learn more about their roots. It's a great business opportunity - culture/language/cooking classes for expats en route to Nigeria, first generation Nigerians trying to discover their roots, and general public interested in learning more about the country. Hopefully, other enterprising Nigerians like Ms. Nwosu, will find more innovative ways of showcasing our culture to the outside world. Love the quote, "If you want to marry an Igbo man, you've got to know how to cook egusi soup"...really?!
***************
UK Expats Learn Nigerian Culture - Ellen Otzen, BBC News
A tiny restaurant on a north London high street is not where you would expect to go to learn about traditional Nigerian culture.
Sandwiched between coffee shops and bowling alleys, the Nigerian Kitchen is easily missed.
But on Saturday mornings it is turned into a training school in the customs of one of Nigeria's largest ethnic groups - the Igbo.
In one corner of the room, a bespectacled teacher, Alex Tetenta, talks lengthily about Igbo political customs.
Mr Tetenta is a radio presenter and politics graduate currently writing a book on Nigerian democracy.
He is surrounded by a handful of attentive young men, all Igbo, who have grown up in London.
Michael's family hails from Abia state in south-eastern Nigeria.
He is here, he says "because learning about my own culture gives me a sense of pride, something to hold on to, instead of just the Western stuff".
At the other end of the room, the school's founder Ebere Nwosu instructs a group of women in cooking egusi soup.
Dried chicken bones sizzle in a pan of palm oil. Red pepper, bitterleaf, and ground crayfish are laid out on a large steel table.
Lack of pride
Ms Nwosu, dressed in a striking yellow traditional dress, is a legal practitioner.
She grew up in north London and says she set up the school to resolve a lack of pride in African culture.
"I think a lot of us who have migrated from Africa to the UK or the United States tend to neglect our culture and adopt that of where we are, which is wrong."
Does she think the neglect happened as newly arrived immigrants tried to assimilate?
"My father is a solicitor and my mother a social worker. Not an ounce of Igbo was spoken to us as we were growing up. They spoke it between themselves, but never spoke it to us children. We were the victims of a 'pro-education' drive," she says.
Igbo culture and what sets it apart from the surrounding Nigerian culture is stressed again and again on the course.
"Egusi soup is a very common soup amongst Nigerians. There's a way in which the Igbos prepare it in comparison to the Yoruba - we don't put as much oil in our food, and we use more vegetables," Ms Nwosu explains to her students.
Each course lasts six weeks and comprises Igbo custom, history, arts and crafts and, of course, cuisine.
"If you want to marry an Igbo man, you've got to know how to cook egusi soup. If you can't cook anything else, at least have that under your belt and you're through the door," laughs Ms Nwosu.
Roots
Igbo culture has given rise to many great names.
Olaudah Equiano, one of the most prominent Africans involved in the British movement for the abolition of the slave trade, was believed to be an Igbo.
Other famous Igbos include Nigerian writers Chinua Achebe and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, as well as British athlete Christine Ohuruogu.
Kate Njoku has been following the course for six weeks.
"I wanted to learn more about my roots and my culture. I grew up in London and I've only been to the village in Nigeria where my family comes from once, when I was very young. It's a full course that teaches the language, the arts and the history - so I thought it would be perfect for me."
But not everyone here is Nigerian. Students come from the Caribbean and southern Africa as well.
Diana is from Zimbabwe but is going out with an Igbo man.
"It's time I learned how to cook Igbo food. That's the food my boyfriend eats. We've been coming to this restaurant for two years, buying take-aways. It's best I cook from home," she says.
Showing posts with label Afropolitan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Afropolitan. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
GOing GOing, back back
"SO what is Nigeria like?", I was asked by a colleague last night. IMMIGRANT'S DILEMMA (to borrow from ofilispeaks ;))! I want to uncloak the veil of ignorance of this Oxford graduate so he can be quick to tell his family/friends/ acquaintances that Nigeria isn't just this oil-exporting country that can't ever seem to get it right (guerillas in the niger delta, 419-stereotypes, corruption, etc). I want him to know that it is this eclectic melange of cultures, beliefs, attitudes, work ethics, and BLAH. The people are resilient and vibrant (some would say aggressive/loud, others would say life of the party), and the current mood is "hopeful limbo". But i know he wants performance ratings, economic growth/development stats - a clean-cut success/failure story (he was afterall making polite conversation). So instead, I talk about the slow/ unsure exodus of "patriotic" (some would say "jaded with the west") generation X, the safety concerns and the LAGOS HUSTLE. I tell him that Nigeria has its issues/problems like many a country out there (though we take the cake when it comes to the SCALE of these problems), but that with "a little bit of luck and a lot of work", we will one day get it right... How's that for 2 cents!
Reverse brain drain as ambitious Nigerians come home - By Nick Tattersall (REUTERS article)
LAGOS (Reuters) - From cocktails with hip-hop stars to sushi with smooth-suited bankers, it's no wonder Nigerians moving back after decades in New York or London feel right at home among the high-rolling elite of Lagos.
This urban sprawl of 14 million people, the chaotic hub of Africa's most populous nation, may epitomise what many foreigners fear most about megacities in the developing world: violent crime, corrupt police and crumbling infrastructure.
Yet legions of young Nigerians, educated at English public schools and U.S. Ivy League universities, are leaving highly paid careers with Wall Street banks and City of London consultancies to return to the Lagos hustle.
The draw?
Not just a pay package that approaches or matches what is on offer in the United States or Europe, but a dash of patriotism -- a chance to help fulfil an ambition of building world-class Nigerian businesses as an example to the rest of Africa.
"In the States, it's an established economy. You can't create another Apple, you can't create another Microsoft, you can't really create another Disney," said Michael Akindele, who left U.S. consultancy firm Accenture to set up his own business investing in Nigerian media and entertainment.
"I'm stepping away from that salary, that comfortable, stable environment where you have power all the time, you have water all the time. But here I can create the lifestyle I want."
Nigeria is the world's eighth biggest oil exporter but its economy has been hobbled by decades of endemic corruption and unemployment is high. A power sector crisis, which means much of the country can go without electricity for weeks or months, has closed hundreds of factories and cut thousands of jobs in sub-Saharan Africa's largest economy after South Africa.
Many wealthy Nigerians of Akindele's generation were sent to boarding schools in England or the United States in the late 1980s and 1990s, when Nigeria was a military dictatorship with little foreign investment and a disintegrating education system.
They watched with cautious optimism as it began to return to democracy in 1999 with the election of Olusegun Obasanjo after three decades of military rule, and welcomed the reforms he started to push through after winning a second term in 2003.
When Nigeria used $12 billion (6.1 billion pounds) of oil savings to pay back debts owed to the Paris Club of rich creditor nations in 2005, and won the write-off of a further $18 billion in return, foreign investors and diaspora Nigerians sat up and took note.
"I was following all this from London and started to believe now was the time to start planning to come back," said Kayode Akindele, 28, no relation to Michael, who returned to work for United Bank for Africa's (UBA) investment banking arm, UBA Global Markets.
ENTREPRENEURIAL SPIRIT
Kayode Akindele, an Oxford graduate who lived in Britain for more than 16 years, was working on structured derivatives for Lloyds TSB in London when he was introduced to Tony Elumelu, chief executive of UBA, two years ago. Elumelu was looking to build a world-class investment bank in Nigeria and Akindele's skills were exactly what he needed.
"There was a sense of patriotism. I have always regarded myself as Nigerian and planned to return to Nigeria eventually," said Akindele, now a vice president at UBA Global Markets.
Financial sector reforms in 2005 forced Nigeria's banks to consolidate, creating multibillion-dollar institutions with the capacity to branch out into sophisticated new markets and pay salaries on a par with some of their Western peers.
Banks have also seen explosive growth on the back of record oil prices and a growing middle class among Nigeria's 140 million people, and have been aggressively raising capital and increasing their capacity to lend. Diaspora Nigerians -- with experience in banking but also the cultural knowledge to navigate the complexities of doing business in Nigeria -- have been in high demand ever since.
"I think there's a window that will be there for maybe another 18 months to two years," said Chuka Mordi, head of business development at First City Monument Bank.
"That's the view at the moment, that people moving back understand exotic products ... but it will percolate to the local sector and people will learn these things and there won't be any need to drag investment bankers from New York or London."
Nigeria's $95 billion stock market was one of the best performing emerging markets in the world last year, attracting private equity and hedge fund investors from Europe, Asia and the United States.
THE LAGOS HUSTLE
The world of vanilla interest rate swaps may seem a million miles from the realities of life on the streets of Lagos, where hawkers selling everything from phone charge cards to electric irons ply their trade among belching minibuses and moped taxis.
But bankers hope that building strong financial institutions will help open credit lines to millions of would-be entrepreneurs, allowing them to develop small businesses and lift themselves out of the informal sector, which accounts for a major part of the active workforce.
"When you see the hustle on the streets of Lagos, all those traders selling all those products, you know the street works," said Obi Asika, an Eton-educated entrepreneur whose own record label sells albums through market traders and street sellers.
"You formalise distribution in Nigeria today, it's a billion dollar business. Because everybody needs distribution. Everybody's got products," he said.
The idea of making money as a businessman in Nigeria -- long spurned by some of the elite as inferior to a high-powered job in the public sector -- is catching the popular imagination, demonstrating to an ambitious young generation that you don't have to be in the pay of government to get rich.
It is a point hammered home by "The Apprentice Africa", a reality TV show co-produced by Michael Akindele's Executive Group and Asika's Storm Media based on the hit U.S. series, in which aspiring entrepreneurs compete for a job with a top businessman.
"You get up in the morning and you see all of Lagos on the move, young boys trying to make ends meet. It's an eye-opener," said Isaac Dankyi-Koranteng, winner of the first series, aired on free-to-view TV in Ghana, Kenya, Uganda and Nigeria. The government is still the largest official single employer in Nigeria, and the vast majority of people still live on less than $2 a day, but the new private sector elite hope that if they avoid the mistakes of their kleptocratic predecessors, Nigeria may haul itself out of poverty and corruption.
"There are issues. It's not Valhalla. We're not in Milton's Paradise yet," said Asika. "But I believe in Nigeria, I'm positive about this country."
Reverse brain drain as ambitious Nigerians come home - By Nick Tattersall (REUTERS article)
LAGOS (Reuters) - From cocktails with hip-hop stars to sushi with smooth-suited bankers, it's no wonder Nigerians moving back after decades in New York or London feel right at home among the high-rolling elite of Lagos.
This urban sprawl of 14 million people, the chaotic hub of Africa's most populous nation, may epitomise what many foreigners fear most about megacities in the developing world: violent crime, corrupt police and crumbling infrastructure.
Yet legions of young Nigerians, educated at English public schools and U.S. Ivy League universities, are leaving highly paid careers with Wall Street banks and City of London consultancies to return to the Lagos hustle.
The draw?
Not just a pay package that approaches or matches what is on offer in the United States or Europe, but a dash of patriotism -- a chance to help fulfil an ambition of building world-class Nigerian businesses as an example to the rest of Africa.
"In the States, it's an established economy. You can't create another Apple, you can't create another Microsoft, you can't really create another Disney," said Michael Akindele, who left U.S. consultancy firm Accenture to set up his own business investing in Nigerian media and entertainment.
"I'm stepping away from that salary, that comfortable, stable environment where you have power all the time, you have water all the time. But here I can create the lifestyle I want."
Nigeria is the world's eighth biggest oil exporter but its economy has been hobbled by decades of endemic corruption and unemployment is high. A power sector crisis, which means much of the country can go without electricity for weeks or months, has closed hundreds of factories and cut thousands of jobs in sub-Saharan Africa's largest economy after South Africa.
Many wealthy Nigerians of Akindele's generation were sent to boarding schools in England or the United States in the late 1980s and 1990s, when Nigeria was a military dictatorship with little foreign investment and a disintegrating education system.
They watched with cautious optimism as it began to return to democracy in 1999 with the election of Olusegun Obasanjo after three decades of military rule, and welcomed the reforms he started to push through after winning a second term in 2003.
When Nigeria used $12 billion (6.1 billion pounds) of oil savings to pay back debts owed to the Paris Club of rich creditor nations in 2005, and won the write-off of a further $18 billion in return, foreign investors and diaspora Nigerians sat up and took note.
"I was following all this from London and started to believe now was the time to start planning to come back," said Kayode Akindele, 28, no relation to Michael, who returned to work for United Bank for Africa's (UBA) investment banking arm, UBA Global Markets.
ENTREPRENEURIAL SPIRIT
Kayode Akindele, an Oxford graduate who lived in Britain for more than 16 years, was working on structured derivatives for Lloyds TSB in London when he was introduced to Tony Elumelu, chief executive of UBA, two years ago. Elumelu was looking to build a world-class investment bank in Nigeria and Akindele's skills were exactly what he needed.
"There was a sense of patriotism. I have always regarded myself as Nigerian and planned to return to Nigeria eventually," said Akindele, now a vice president at UBA Global Markets.
Financial sector reforms in 2005 forced Nigeria's banks to consolidate, creating multibillion-dollar institutions with the capacity to branch out into sophisticated new markets and pay salaries on a par with some of their Western peers.
Banks have also seen explosive growth on the back of record oil prices and a growing middle class among Nigeria's 140 million people, and have been aggressively raising capital and increasing their capacity to lend. Diaspora Nigerians -- with experience in banking but also the cultural knowledge to navigate the complexities of doing business in Nigeria -- have been in high demand ever since.
"I think there's a window that will be there for maybe another 18 months to two years," said Chuka Mordi, head of business development at First City Monument Bank.
"That's the view at the moment, that people moving back understand exotic products ... but it will percolate to the local sector and people will learn these things and there won't be any need to drag investment bankers from New York or London."
Nigeria's $95 billion stock market was one of the best performing emerging markets in the world last year, attracting private equity and hedge fund investors from Europe, Asia and the United States.
THE LAGOS HUSTLE
The world of vanilla interest rate swaps may seem a million miles from the realities of life on the streets of Lagos, where hawkers selling everything from phone charge cards to electric irons ply their trade among belching minibuses and moped taxis.
But bankers hope that building strong financial institutions will help open credit lines to millions of would-be entrepreneurs, allowing them to develop small businesses and lift themselves out of the informal sector, which accounts for a major part of the active workforce.
"When you see the hustle on the streets of Lagos, all those traders selling all those products, you know the street works," said Obi Asika, an Eton-educated entrepreneur whose own record label sells albums through market traders and street sellers.
"You formalise distribution in Nigeria today, it's a billion dollar business. Because everybody needs distribution. Everybody's got products," he said.
The idea of making money as a businessman in Nigeria -- long spurned by some of the elite as inferior to a high-powered job in the public sector -- is catching the popular imagination, demonstrating to an ambitious young generation that you don't have to be in the pay of government to get rich.
It is a point hammered home by "The Apprentice Africa", a reality TV show co-produced by Michael Akindele's Executive Group and Asika's Storm Media based on the hit U.S. series, in which aspiring entrepreneurs compete for a job with a top businessman.
"You get up in the morning and you see all of Lagos on the move, young boys trying to make ends meet. It's an eye-opener," said Isaac Dankyi-Koranteng, winner of the first series, aired on free-to-view TV in Ghana, Kenya, Uganda and Nigeria. The government is still the largest official single employer in Nigeria, and the vast majority of people still live on less than $2 a day, but the new private sector elite hope that if they avoid the mistakes of their kleptocratic predecessors, Nigeria may haul itself out of poverty and corruption.
"There are issues. It's not Valhalla. We're not in Milton's Paradise yet," said Asika. "But I believe in Nigeria, I'm positive about this country."
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Memoirs of an Immigrant: Please Spare the Rod
Another thought-provoking article from Okechukwu Ofili. I'm sure many of us have experienced the scene he describes below, and thought: I'm going to raise my kids the "African" way - with discipline, and none of this "talk anyhow" business. Having passed through a primary school where flogging/caning was condoned, I agree that some teachers/parents take the act too far too often. One can only wonder how many dyslexic or ADHD kids passed through our school systems battered/ bruised and stripped of any self-confidence in their unique abilities. (I remember a kid who was caned often because of his unsightly handwriting, when the fact that the teacher forced him to write with his right hand instead of his natural left, was the main cause of the terrible handwriting in the first place!) Having never raised any kids of my own, anything i say is easier said than done...but nonetheless, we would love to hear your reasons (views) for(on) sparing the rod versus not.
----------------------------
Memoirs Of An Immigrant: Please Spare The Rod
On a hot 1995 summer morning my family gathered for breakfast in the reception of a hotel. It was the same sweet breakfast routine, tea, bread and a little family talk, the moment was beautiful. However in the space of less than 30 seconds what seemed like a beautiful breakfast gathering became a bitter family experience. From the corner of the room came the words “I hate you Mum,” “Your Stupid Mum,” and other words not fit for the public. It was a kid barely 10 years old raining words of insult on his mum, the whole room froze as the kid went on for what must have been a whole minute of diatribe against his Mum. Something about this picture was wrong, I knew it was wrong because I saw the look on my fathers face and the movement of my Mothers hand, they were thinking the same thing “why hasn’t someone knocked this kid out?” Then I remembered we were in America…
Growing up in Nigeria my parents favorite bible passage was “spare the rod and spoil the child,” a phrase they turned into action on numerous occasions. To make matters worse my Mum was an elementary school teacher in the most conservative “beat your kids” country of Nigeria. Armed with backing from the Nigerian government and a skill set developed from years of flogging her elementary school students she could be described as a well versed mercenary of flogging. For instance if the hotel scene had played out in Nigeria, the poor kid would have been rushed to the Igbobi General hospital before he could say “Mum.” And he would have been put there because of slipper projectile flung from my mum from 50 feet across his room. But he was in America and all my parents could do was stare in disgust. In their minds they probably blamed the lack of respect on the Liberal American Society, a society that deemed it atrocious for a parent to flog a child. Nigeria was the complete opposite, where children could not talk to their parents without first gaining permission to speak. Flogging was ubiquitous, everyone flogged, and it could be your aunty, your uncle, even your Mums best enemy. If you stepped out of line and your mum was not around someone was there to put you back in line, with a little belt help. This freedom of flogging instilled a degree of respect in the Nigerian community that is all but rare in the American community. Too many times I observe kids in the American community talking back to their parents or questioning their actions; on the flip side the immigrant kids especially from Africa are silent. A silence that is most likely a direct result of flogging.
But sometimes the flogging loses its focus and becomes abuse. I faced that sort of aimless abuse in elementary school during a morning Yoruba class. The topic of the day was numbers, for the first time we did not just stop at 10, but went all the way to 20. The teaching on that day was done in a strictly oratorical style, the teacher made the class repeat the numbers first in English and then in Yoruba “One-Okan” “Two-Meji” “Three-Meta” “Four-Merin” over and over again till we were almost sore in the lungs. After what seemed like an eternity of numerical recitation, our teacher wiped the chalk board clean and instructed the entire class to write down the Yoruba numbers from 1 to 20 in our notebooks. As was customary our teacher went around the class monitoring and assisting the students with the assignment. She finally made it around to my table, were I was apparently struggling with the assignment. I swear I could recite the whole thing when she stood in front of the class, but once I had to do it on my own, my mind went blank. She stood over me asking me to write down something but I couldn’t, I couldn’t remember a thing and then it began. She hit me on the back with a 30 cm wooden yellow ruler as if to knock out the words stuck in my mind, but that didn’t seem to work, a fact reinforced when pieces of her ruler came shattering down on the cold concrete floor. An action that prompted her to utilize a high yield strength cane to get the words out, a cane which she intermittently landed on my back over and over again. I remember sitting down waiting for the ordeal to end, I had no idea what to do except sit and absorb the pain. I tried to write but my words didn’t make sense. I felt like a failure, why me out of a class of 50 people, why me? The image of incoherent words scribbled on a notebook drenched with tears from my own eyes and torn with confusion from my own pen, was permanently etched in my mind.
It would take years for me to recover from that incident, years of low self confidence in my academic ability. But when I finally overcame it, it was because of something other than the rod I was used to. It was my second year high school class report that unraveled a potential that had been beat down for years. That year I brought my worst report home, I had performed miserably. I expected the worst from my Mum, she was definitely going to be angry or upset and I knew I was going to get flogged, it was inevitable. I gathered myself and presented my report to my Mum. I never could tell if she was extremely busy or simply worried at that moment, regardless of the circumstances, she did not say a word. She just kept silent, a silence so loud that it shook the very foundations of intelligence that had been beat down for years. Something about the silence stung me, more than any cane or belt had stung me. At that moment, I made a decision that the next time I brought my report home it would not be met with silence but with loud sounds of praise. That moment was the day I discovered myself, and made a turn around in academic and leadership performance that has bolstered me through life till this moment. Unfortunately lots of children might never have the chance to discover themselves. They are trapped in a society monopolized by flogging as the only path towards respect and intelligence. A society that flogs first and asks questions never. I recall many instances where I saw kids beat over and over again for being too slow or hyperactive, but when I look back at the words of Bill Cosby in his book “Common People” and contrast my life experience in the States, I can’t help but think that some of those kids never deserved to be beat. In his book Bill Cosby talks about kids that are motivated more with words as opposed to the rod. A strong argument he reinforces via a simple juxtaposition of the African American and Asian American community when it comes to child discipline. In the African American community an astonishing 94% of parents believe in flogging as sharp contrast to the Asian community where only 34% of parents approve of such acts. With such lopsidedness, you would expect the Asian community to be less respectful of their elders, but it’s the reverse. Asians for years have shown a level of respect for their elders that exceeds that of the African Immigrant community. Their children are involved in less crimes and are known for their academic accomplishments, all this in a system that frowns down against flogging children. But worse are those kids that grow up with medical problems, deemed too stupid for society, instead of visiting doctors they endure sessions of flogging. They grow up physically abused and mentally confused, the same confusion I faced staring at my tear drenched notebook as my back was beat over and over again.
Am not advocating one extreme or the other, because we know this issue like many others is not about right or wrong, but rather flexibility in determining when right is right and wrong is wrong. The African community and American community can learn a bit from themselves, a fusion of ideologies measured in the right amount would create atmosphere of love and respect that would catalyze the growth of well rounded children. In raising our children or younger siblings; it is our responsibility to ensure our attempts to use the rod is diluted with an attempt to give words of love, encouragement and support. Only then can we raise children with the best ideologies from both worlds.
Okechukwu Ofili
Copyright © 2008 Ofili Speaks, Inc. All rights reserved
----------------------------
Memoirs Of An Immigrant: Please Spare The Rod
On a hot 1995 summer morning my family gathered for breakfast in the reception of a hotel. It was the same sweet breakfast routine, tea, bread and a little family talk, the moment was beautiful. However in the space of less than 30 seconds what seemed like a beautiful breakfast gathering became a bitter family experience. From the corner of the room came the words “I hate you Mum,” “Your Stupid Mum,” and other words not fit for the public. It was a kid barely 10 years old raining words of insult on his mum, the whole room froze as the kid went on for what must have been a whole minute of diatribe against his Mum. Something about this picture was wrong, I knew it was wrong because I saw the look on my fathers face and the movement of my Mothers hand, they were thinking the same thing “why hasn’t someone knocked this kid out?” Then I remembered we were in America…
Growing up in Nigeria my parents favorite bible passage was “spare the rod and spoil the child,” a phrase they turned into action on numerous occasions. To make matters worse my Mum was an elementary school teacher in the most conservative “beat your kids” country of Nigeria. Armed with backing from the Nigerian government and a skill set developed from years of flogging her elementary school students she could be described as a well versed mercenary of flogging. For instance if the hotel scene had played out in Nigeria, the poor kid would have been rushed to the Igbobi General hospital before he could say “Mum.” And he would have been put there because of slipper projectile flung from my mum from 50 feet across his room. But he was in America and all my parents could do was stare in disgust. In their minds they probably blamed the lack of respect on the Liberal American Society, a society that deemed it atrocious for a parent to flog a child. Nigeria was the complete opposite, where children could not talk to their parents without first gaining permission to speak. Flogging was ubiquitous, everyone flogged, and it could be your aunty, your uncle, even your Mums best enemy. If you stepped out of line and your mum was not around someone was there to put you back in line, with a little belt help. This freedom of flogging instilled a degree of respect in the Nigerian community that is all but rare in the American community. Too many times I observe kids in the American community talking back to their parents or questioning their actions; on the flip side the immigrant kids especially from Africa are silent. A silence that is most likely a direct result of flogging.
But sometimes the flogging loses its focus and becomes abuse. I faced that sort of aimless abuse in elementary school during a morning Yoruba class. The topic of the day was numbers, for the first time we did not just stop at 10, but went all the way to 20. The teaching on that day was done in a strictly oratorical style, the teacher made the class repeat the numbers first in English and then in Yoruba “One-Okan” “Two-Meji” “Three-Meta” “Four-Merin” over and over again till we were almost sore in the lungs. After what seemed like an eternity of numerical recitation, our teacher wiped the chalk board clean and instructed the entire class to write down the Yoruba numbers from 1 to 20 in our notebooks. As was customary our teacher went around the class monitoring and assisting the students with the assignment. She finally made it around to my table, were I was apparently struggling with the assignment. I swear I could recite the whole thing when she stood in front of the class, but once I had to do it on my own, my mind went blank. She stood over me asking me to write down something but I couldn’t, I couldn’t remember a thing and then it began. She hit me on the back with a 30 cm wooden yellow ruler as if to knock out the words stuck in my mind, but that didn’t seem to work, a fact reinforced when pieces of her ruler came shattering down on the cold concrete floor. An action that prompted her to utilize a high yield strength cane to get the words out, a cane which she intermittently landed on my back over and over again. I remember sitting down waiting for the ordeal to end, I had no idea what to do except sit and absorb the pain. I tried to write but my words didn’t make sense. I felt like a failure, why me out of a class of 50 people, why me? The image of incoherent words scribbled on a notebook drenched with tears from my own eyes and torn with confusion from my own pen, was permanently etched in my mind.
It would take years for me to recover from that incident, years of low self confidence in my academic ability. But when I finally overcame it, it was because of something other than the rod I was used to. It was my second year high school class report that unraveled a potential that had been beat down for years. That year I brought my worst report home, I had performed miserably. I expected the worst from my Mum, she was definitely going to be angry or upset and I knew I was going to get flogged, it was inevitable. I gathered myself and presented my report to my Mum. I never could tell if she was extremely busy or simply worried at that moment, regardless of the circumstances, she did not say a word. She just kept silent, a silence so loud that it shook the very foundations of intelligence that had been beat down for years. Something about the silence stung me, more than any cane or belt had stung me. At that moment, I made a decision that the next time I brought my report home it would not be met with silence but with loud sounds of praise. That moment was the day I discovered myself, and made a turn around in academic and leadership performance that has bolstered me through life till this moment. Unfortunately lots of children might never have the chance to discover themselves. They are trapped in a society monopolized by flogging as the only path towards respect and intelligence. A society that flogs first and asks questions never. I recall many instances where I saw kids beat over and over again for being too slow or hyperactive, but when I look back at the words of Bill Cosby in his book “Common People” and contrast my life experience in the States, I can’t help but think that some of those kids never deserved to be beat. In his book Bill Cosby talks about kids that are motivated more with words as opposed to the rod. A strong argument he reinforces via a simple juxtaposition of the African American and Asian American community when it comes to child discipline. In the African American community an astonishing 94% of parents believe in flogging as sharp contrast to the Asian community where only 34% of parents approve of such acts. With such lopsidedness, you would expect the Asian community to be less respectful of their elders, but it’s the reverse. Asians for years have shown a level of respect for their elders that exceeds that of the African Immigrant community. Their children are involved in less crimes and are known for their academic accomplishments, all this in a system that frowns down against flogging children. But worse are those kids that grow up with medical problems, deemed too stupid for society, instead of visiting doctors they endure sessions of flogging. They grow up physically abused and mentally confused, the same confusion I faced staring at my tear drenched notebook as my back was beat over and over again.
Am not advocating one extreme or the other, because we know this issue like many others is not about right or wrong, but rather flexibility in determining when right is right and wrong is wrong. The African community and American community can learn a bit from themselves, a fusion of ideologies measured in the right amount would create atmosphere of love and respect that would catalyze the growth of well rounded children. In raising our children or younger siblings; it is our responsibility to ensure our attempts to use the rod is diluted with an attempt to give words of love, encouragement and support. Only then can we raise children with the best ideologies from both worlds.
Okechukwu Ofili
Copyright © 2008 Ofili Speaks, Inc. All rights reserved
Saturday, July 5, 2008
MEMOIRS OF AN IMMIGRANT: THE STOP SIGN
Another guest post by a pretty amazing indivdual, who is, in my favorite words, "being the change he wants to see". Check out ofilispeaks.com to learn more about how he's doing that. This article brought to mind the discussion over tobacco companies currently going on on NigerianCuriosity. Who's responsible for stopping cigarettes from falling into the hands of children? Profit-hungry tobacco companies or governments elected to serve their people? And what systems are in place to ensure the former is kept in check when they try to cross the lines in their marketing tactics in developing countries? Okey's article recounts an experience that highlights the ubiquitous and permeating significance of a system, down to something as mundane as a stop sign...
MEMOIRS OF AN IMMIGRANT: THE STOP SIGN - Okechukwu Ofili
It was dark when we arrived, but the light from the full-moon did little to conceal the faces of nervousness that stood in line that morning. In the cold December morning we all stood together in a line that must have wrapped around the entire building. We waited for what seemed like an eternity, and finally the doors opened, we all shuffled in and were instantly handed out individual numbers. Numbers that would be used to control and direct the crowd of people already forming in the building. I waited for what seemed another eternity till my number was called out, all my documents were intact and I could start the test…I cranked the ignition of the car and it rattled gently, enough proof that it was time. I pulled the car to the back side of the building into a tunnel with a score of other cars and their equally nervous drivers. In the distance I could spot two poles, the “parallels of disaster” disguised subtly by their resplendent yet cautionary yellow color. The poles were the true test of any driver, I was ready, the engine was revving, everything was steady. But I never drove; instead I froze, stopped in my tracks by a system…
I was frustrated and annoyed. I had woken up as early as 5 am in the morning to make it to the DPS office in time for my driving test. But I was prevented from driving, because my car lacked the necessary documents needed to take the driving test. A simple paper that showed auto insurance coverage on my car was what stood before me and my driver’s license. I went home understandably frustrated; I had been counting down the days towards my driver’s license and did not anticipate this roadblock. I was tired of using the public transportation system, but more tired of having to call friends for a ride into town. I had to find a friend with a car that had proper documents. After more than 4 hours of calling and pleading I found a car, a silver Mazda. It was perfect, it had all the insurance papers and the handling was pristine…
It was time again, another round of “get up,” “line up,” “drive up” and like that I was where I was just 2 days ago. But this time I had all the necessary documents even my Exxon Mobil gas receipt, I passed the document check test, I was ready to hit the road. But there was one more test, the car check test. A test to ensure that my car was fully equipped for a drivers test. Everything was checked, the wipers, the trafficator, the steering and finally the horn. I pressed the horn hard but it didn’t make a sound, it was silent. Silence that was only pierced by the stern words of the Test Officer informing me that my car did not pass the “car check test.”
If I was in Nigeria this would have made sense, I could not go anywhere in Lagos without a horn. But this was America and I could not recall the last time I actually used a horn while driving. But that was the rule and thus it was another wasted morning. My new mission was to find a fully functional car with proper documentation and horn. I called around and was able to get my hands on pristine Luxury Toyota Camry equipped with sunroof and fully leather enclosed working horn, perfect…Everything checked out, the documents, the horn and even the luxury sunroof. Finally I was cleared to drive. My first task was to move my car into a space, aptly distinguished by two yellow poles, the dreaded “parallels of disaster.” I started slowly as I had practiced, edged the car a few feet ahead of the primary pole, flicked the traficator light, checked my mirrors and slowly started my motion between the poles…I don’t know if it was the excitement, or the sunroof, but I heard the sound of metal grazing concrete. The passenger side of the car jacked up a few extra inches in the air as if powered by hydraulics straight out of a hip-hop video. I had committed the divine car-test sin “I climbed the curb.” The look of shock and awe on the Testing Officer’s face was enough to confirm my biggest fears…
The fourth time around I made it past the “parallels of disaster” and onto the streets, everything went well. I honked when necessary and inspected my rear view mirror even when it was not necessary. This was too easy, the smile on the Testing Officer’s face was enough to boost my confidence to the next level, unfortunately the next level was not very accommodating...it was the last turn and I could have sworn the road was free. However, the screeching brake from the Ford Focus skidding past us was enough evidence to argue otherwise. The result was all but predictable and was reinforced by the words printed my test document dangerous driving…
After more than 100 miles of test driving, I finally received my American driver’s license. As I slipped the card into my wallet I came to the realization that I had not just received a permit to drive, but rather a validation from the state government that affirmed my understanding of the American driving system. A system that told me that without proper documents or a fully functional albeit inconsequential horn, I could not legitimately drive in the US. This was a sharp contrast to my Nigerian driver’s license experience. Unlike America I did not have to wake up at 5 am in the morning to line up, I simply walked into the Nigerian licensing office sometime around noon. When I arrived I was greeted by a host of people crammed into a small tiny room, a number of people were fully asleep on the floor of the office. I was shocked and confused. In less than 10 minutes, I walked out of the office with a promise to have a Nigerian license delivered to my front door in less than a week. No tests, no verification of driving ability just a mysterious fee to the only guy wide awake. I could have been a wanted criminal for all I knew and still I would have qualified for a license.
My license finally arrived 6 months after I had departed from Nigeria. As I slipped the card into my wallet I came to the realization of what was inherently wrong with the Nigerian system. Simply put we had no system; we simply operated on a system where the loudest and most powerful at any given moment in time defined the system. My uncle a longtime resident of both countries realized this salient fact all too
well. He made this known to me on my first day in the America. On that day he did not talk about the large malls, or the fancy cars, or the permanent electric supply, rather he talked about the STOP sign. A simple hexagonal sheet of metal with the words STOP was the object of his fascination. A simple metallic inanimate object controlled million of cars at road-junctions across America, but it was never really about the sign, but rather about the system. Because in reality the system is what gave power to the sign, power that caused cars from all corners to stop and give the right of way to the cars that arrived before them. In Nigeria inanimate objects are powerless because systems are extinct. This system extinction is the catalyst behind the numerous traffic jams in Nigeria, where devoid of a human figure traffic almost always comes to a stand still, turning a seemingly simple street congestion into a massive statewide traffic jam.
But our problem is bigger than the traffic congestions that plague our streets; it lies instead in the congestion that blocks our nation’s advancement. A congestion that occurs at junctions where our nation’s talents and resources should advance, but they collide and freeze. Fortunately this situation can be avoided and the solution like every other is simple, “create a transparent and practical system.” But who creates the system? The government. And who selects the government? The people. We can redefine the Nigerian system.
Okechukwu Ofili
Copyright © 2008 Ofili Speaks, Inc. All rights reserved
MEMOIRS OF AN IMMIGRANT: THE STOP SIGN - Okechukwu Ofili
It was dark when we arrived, but the light from the full-moon did little to conceal the faces of nervousness that stood in line that morning. In the cold December morning we all stood together in a line that must have wrapped around the entire building. We waited for what seemed like an eternity, and finally the doors opened, we all shuffled in and were instantly handed out individual numbers. Numbers that would be used to control and direct the crowd of people already forming in the building. I waited for what seemed another eternity till my number was called out, all my documents were intact and I could start the test…I cranked the ignition of the car and it rattled gently, enough proof that it was time. I pulled the car to the back side of the building into a tunnel with a score of other cars and their equally nervous drivers. In the distance I could spot two poles, the “parallels of disaster” disguised subtly by their resplendent yet cautionary yellow color. The poles were the true test of any driver, I was ready, the engine was revving, everything was steady. But I never drove; instead I froze, stopped in my tracks by a system…
I was frustrated and annoyed. I had woken up as early as 5 am in the morning to make it to the DPS office in time for my driving test. But I was prevented from driving, because my car lacked the necessary documents needed to take the driving test. A simple paper that showed auto insurance coverage on my car was what stood before me and my driver’s license. I went home understandably frustrated; I had been counting down the days towards my driver’s license and did not anticipate this roadblock. I was tired of using the public transportation system, but more tired of having to call friends for a ride into town. I had to find a friend with a car that had proper documents. After more than 4 hours of calling and pleading I found a car, a silver Mazda. It was perfect, it had all the insurance papers and the handling was pristine…
It was time again, another round of “get up,” “line up,” “drive up” and like that I was where I was just 2 days ago. But this time I had all the necessary documents even my Exxon Mobil gas receipt, I passed the document check test, I was ready to hit the road. But there was one more test, the car check test. A test to ensure that my car was fully equipped for a drivers test. Everything was checked, the wipers, the trafficator, the steering and finally the horn. I pressed the horn hard but it didn’t make a sound, it was silent. Silence that was only pierced by the stern words of the Test Officer informing me that my car did not pass the “car check test.”
If I was in Nigeria this would have made sense, I could not go anywhere in Lagos without a horn. But this was America and I could not recall the last time I actually used a horn while driving. But that was the rule and thus it was another wasted morning. My new mission was to find a fully functional car with proper documentation and horn. I called around and was able to get my hands on pristine Luxury Toyota Camry equipped with sunroof and fully leather enclosed working horn, perfect…Everything checked out, the documents, the horn and even the luxury sunroof. Finally I was cleared to drive. My first task was to move my car into a space, aptly distinguished by two yellow poles, the dreaded “parallels of disaster.” I started slowly as I had practiced, edged the car a few feet ahead of the primary pole, flicked the traficator light, checked my mirrors and slowly started my motion between the poles…I don’t know if it was the excitement, or the sunroof, but I heard the sound of metal grazing concrete. The passenger side of the car jacked up a few extra inches in the air as if powered by hydraulics straight out of a hip-hop video. I had committed the divine car-test sin “I climbed the curb.” The look of shock and awe on the Testing Officer’s face was enough to confirm my biggest fears…
The fourth time around I made it past the “parallels of disaster” and onto the streets, everything went well. I honked when necessary and inspected my rear view mirror even when it was not necessary. This was too easy, the smile on the Testing Officer’s face was enough to boost my confidence to the next level, unfortunately the next level was not very accommodating...it was the last turn and I could have sworn the road was free. However, the screeching brake from the Ford Focus skidding past us was enough evidence to argue otherwise. The result was all but predictable and was reinforced by the words printed my test document dangerous driving…
After more than 100 miles of test driving, I finally received my American driver’s license. As I slipped the card into my wallet I came to the realization that I had not just received a permit to drive, but rather a validation from the state government that affirmed my understanding of the American driving system. A system that told me that without proper documents or a fully functional albeit inconsequential horn, I could not legitimately drive in the US. This was a sharp contrast to my Nigerian driver’s license experience. Unlike America I did not have to wake up at 5 am in the morning to line up, I simply walked into the Nigerian licensing office sometime around noon. When I arrived I was greeted by a host of people crammed into a small tiny room, a number of people were fully asleep on the floor of the office. I was shocked and confused. In less than 10 minutes, I walked out of the office with a promise to have a Nigerian license delivered to my front door in less than a week. No tests, no verification of driving ability just a mysterious fee to the only guy wide awake. I could have been a wanted criminal for all I knew and still I would have qualified for a license.
My license finally arrived 6 months after I had departed from Nigeria. As I slipped the card into my wallet I came to the realization of what was inherently wrong with the Nigerian system. Simply put we had no system; we simply operated on a system where the loudest and most powerful at any given moment in time defined the system. My uncle a longtime resident of both countries realized this salient fact all too
well. He made this known to me on my first day in the America. On that day he did not talk about the large malls, or the fancy cars, or the permanent electric supply, rather he talked about the STOP sign. A simple hexagonal sheet of metal with the words STOP was the object of his fascination. A simple metallic inanimate object controlled million of cars at road-junctions across America, but it was never really about the sign, but rather about the system. Because in reality the system is what gave power to the sign, power that caused cars from all corners to stop and give the right of way to the cars that arrived before them. In Nigeria inanimate objects are powerless because systems are extinct. This system extinction is the catalyst behind the numerous traffic jams in Nigeria, where devoid of a human figure traffic almost always comes to a stand still, turning a seemingly simple street congestion into a massive statewide traffic jam.
But our problem is bigger than the traffic congestions that plague our streets; it lies instead in the congestion that blocks our nation’s advancement. A congestion that occurs at junctions where our nation’s talents and resources should advance, but they collide and freeze. Fortunately this situation can be avoided and the solution like every other is simple, “create a transparent and practical system.” But who creates the system? The government. And who selects the government? The people. We can redefine the Nigerian system.
Okechukwu Ofili
Copyright © 2008 Ofili Speaks, Inc. All rights reserved
Monday, March 5, 2007
"What is an Afropolitan?" by Taiye Tuakli-Wosornu
The writer charts the rise of the "Afropolitan" - internationally mobile, young people of African descent, making their mark on the world. In her mind, we are not citizens, but rather "Africans of the world". Having just returned from a spectacular international conference in the Middle East where I met people from countries I barely knew existed, I am refreshingly aware of how crossed and blurred boundaries between geographies and cultures have become today. Where does the young African fit in all this? What is our new Legacy? Are we too busy "defining our identify" that we forget the motherland (i know tonnes of pp hate this term but i think it's appropriate in this context) and the problems that need solving?
An excellent read on what it means to be a new-generation transnational/ transatlantic African, which I'm sure most of us can relate to....ENJOY!!
-------------
It’s moments to midnight on Thursday night at Medicine Bar in London. Zak, boy-genius DJ, is spinning a Fela Kuti remix. The little downstairs dancefloor swells with smiling, sweating men and women fusing hip-hop dance moves with a funky sort of djembe. The women show off enormous afros, tiny t-shirts, gaps in teeth; the men those incredible torsos unique to and common on African coastlines. The whole scene speaks of the Cultural Hybrid: kente cloth worn over low-waisted jeans; ‘African Lady’ over Ludacris bass lines; London meets Lagos meets Durban meets Dakar. Even the DJ is an ethnic fusion: Nigerian and Romanian; fair, fearless leader; bobbing his head as the crowd reacts to a sample of ‘Sweet Mother’.
Were you to ask any of these beautiful, brown-skinned people that basic question – ‘where are you from?’ – you’d get no single answer from a single smiling dancer. This one lives in London but was raised in Toronto and born in Accra; that one works in Lagos but grew up in Houston, Texas. ‘Home’ for this lot is many things: where their parents are from; where they go for vacation; where they went to school; where they see old friends; where they live (or live this year). Like so many African young people working and living in cities around the globe, they belong to no single geography, but feel at home in many.
They (read: we) are Afropolitans – the newest generation of African emigrants, coming soon or collected already at a law firm/chem lab/jazz lounge near you. You’ll know us by our funny blend of London fashion, New York jargon, African ethics, and academic successes. Some of us are ethnic mixes, e.g. Ghanaian and Canadian, Nigerian and Swiss; others merely cultural mutts: American accent, European affect, African ethos. Most of us are multilingual: in addition to English and a Romantic or two, we understand some indigenous tongue and speak a few urban vernaculars. There is at least one place on The African Continent to which we tie our sense of self: be it a nation-state (Ethiopia), a city (Ibadan), or an auntie’s kitchen. Then there’s the G8 city or two (or three) that we know like the backs of our hands, and the various institutions that know us for our famed focus. We are Afropolitans: not citizens, but Africans of the world.
It isn’t hard to trace our genealogy. Starting in the 60’s, the young, gifted and broke left Africa in pursuit of higher education and happiness abroad. A study conducted in 1999 estimated that between 1960 and 1975 around 27,000 highly skilled Africans left the Continent for the West. Between 1975 and 1984, the number shot to 40,000 and then doubled again by 1987, representing about 30% of Africa’s highly skilled manpower. Unsurprisingly, the most popular destinations for these emigrants included Canada, Britain, and the United States; but Cold War politics produced unlikely scholarship opportunities in Eastern Bloc countries like Poland, as well.
Some three decades later this scattered tribe of pharmacists, physicists, physicians (and the odd polygamist) has set up camp around the globe. The caricatures are familiar. The Nigerian physics professor with faux-Coogi sweater; the Kenyan marathonist with long legs and rolled r’s; the heavyset Gambian braiding hair in a house that smells of burnt Kanekalon.
Even those unacquainted with synthetic extensions can conjure an image of the African immigrant with only the slightest of pop culture promptings: Eddie Murphy’s ‘Hello, Barbar.’ But somewhere between the 1988 release of Coming to America and the 2001 crowning of a Nigerian Miss World, the general image of young Africans in the West transmorphed from goofy to gorgeous. Leaving off the painful question of cultural condescenscion in that beloved film, one wonders what happened in the years between Prince Akeem and Queen Agbani?
One answer is: adolescence. The Africans that left Africa between 1960 and 1975 had children, and most overseas. Some of us were bred on African shores then shipped to the West for higher education; others born in much colder climates and sent home for cultural re-indoctrination. Either way, we spent the 80’s chasing after accolades, eating fufu at family parties, and listening to adults argue politics. By the turn of the century (the recent one), we were matching our parents in number of degrees, and/or achieving things our ‘people’ in the grand sense only dreamed of. This new demographic – dispersed across Brixton, Bethesda, Boston, Berlin – has come of age in the 21st century, redefining what it means to be African. Where our parents sought safety in traditional professions like doctoring, lawyering, banking, engineering, we are branching into fields like media, politics, music, venture capital, design. Nor are we shy about expressing our African influences (such as they are) in our work. Artists such as Keziah Jones, novelist Chimamanda Achidie – all exemplify what Trace editor, Claude Gruzintsky, calls the ‘21st century African.’
What distinguishes this lot and its like (in the West and at home) is a willingness to complicate Africa – namely, to engage with, critique, and celebrate the parts of Africa that mean most to them. Perhaps what most typifies the Afropolitan consciousness is the refusal to oversimplify; the effort to understand what is ailing in Africa alongside the desire to honor what is wonderful, unique. Rather than essentialising the geographical entity, we seek to comprehend the cultural complexity; to honor the intellectual and spiritual legacy; and to sustain our parents’ cultures.
For us, being African must mean something. The media’s portrayals (war, hunger) won’t do. Neither will the New World trope of bumbling, blue-black doctor. Most of us grew up aware of ‘being from’ a blighted place, of having last names from countries which are linked to lack, corruption. Few of us escaped those nasty ‘booty-scratcher’ epithets, and fewer still that sense of shame when visting paternal villages. Whether we were ashamed of ourselves for not knowing more about our parents’ culture, or ashamed of that culture for not being more ‘advanced’ can be unclear. What is manifest is the extent to which the modern adolescent African is tasked to forge a sense of self from wildly disparate sources. You’d never know it looking at those dapper lawyers in global firms, but most were once supremely self-conscious of being so ‘in between’. Brown-skinned without a bedrock sense of ‘blackness,’ on the one hand; and often teased by African family members for ‘acting white’ on the other – the baby-Afropolitan can get what I call ‘lost in transnation’.
Ultimately, the Afropolitan must form an identity along at least three dimensions: national, racial, cultural – with subtle tensions in between. While our parents can claim one country as home, we must define our relationship to the places we live; how British or American we are (or act) is in part a matter of affect. Often unconsciously, and over time, we choose which bits of a national identity (from passport to pronunciation) we internalize as central to our personalities. So, too, the way we see our race – whether black or biracial or none of the above – is a question of politics, rather than pigment; not all of us claim to be black. Often this relates to the way we were raised, whether proximate to other brown people (e.g. black Americans) or removed.
Then there is that deep abyss of Culture, ill-defined at best. One must decide what comprises ‘African culture’ beyond pepper soup and filial piety. The project can be utterly baffling – whether one lives in an African country or not. But the process is enriching, in that it expands one’s basic perspective on nation and selfhood. If nothing else, the Afropolitan knows that nothing is neatly black or white; that to ‘be’ anything is a matter of being sure of who you are uniquely. To ‘be’ Nigerian is to belong to a passionate nation; to be Yoruba, to be heir to a spiritual depth; to be American, to ascribe to a cultural breadth; to be British, to pass customs quickly. That is, this is what it means for me – and that is the Afropolitan privilege. The acceptance of complexity common to most African cultures is not lost on her prodigals. Without that intrinsically multi-dimensional thinking, we could not make sense of ourselves.
And if it all sounds a little self-congratulatory, a little ‘aren’t-we-the-coolest-damn-people-on-earth?’ – I say: yes it is, necessarily. It is high time the African stood up. There is nothing perfect in this formulation; for all our Adjayes and Achidies, there is a brain drain back home. Most Afropolitans could serve Africa better in Africa than at Medicine Bar on Thursdays. To be fair, a fair number of African professionals are returning; and there is consciousness among the ones who remain, an acute awareness among this brood of too-cool-for-schools that there’s work to be done. There are those among us who wonder to the point of weeping: where next, Africa? When will the scattered tribes return? When will the talent repatriate? What lifestyles await young professionals at home? How to invest in Africa’s future? The prospects can seem grim at times. The answers aren’t forthcoming. But if there was ever a group who could figure it out, it is this one, unafraid of the questions.
---------
Taiye Tuakli-Wosornu is a Nigerian-Ghanaian writer based in New York City. This article was written in 2005 for The LIP magazine.
The full article can be found at The LIP website.
An excellent read on what it means to be a new-generation transnational/ transatlantic African, which I'm sure most of us can relate to....ENJOY!!
-------------
It’s moments to midnight on Thursday night at Medicine Bar in London. Zak, boy-genius DJ, is spinning a Fela Kuti remix. The little downstairs dancefloor swells with smiling, sweating men and women fusing hip-hop dance moves with a funky sort of djembe. The women show off enormous afros, tiny t-shirts, gaps in teeth; the men those incredible torsos unique to and common on African coastlines. The whole scene speaks of the Cultural Hybrid: kente cloth worn over low-waisted jeans; ‘African Lady’ over Ludacris bass lines; London meets Lagos meets Durban meets Dakar. Even the DJ is an ethnic fusion: Nigerian and Romanian; fair, fearless leader; bobbing his head as the crowd reacts to a sample of ‘Sweet Mother’.
Were you to ask any of these beautiful, brown-skinned people that basic question – ‘where are you from?’ – you’d get no single answer from a single smiling dancer. This one lives in London but was raised in Toronto and born in Accra; that one works in Lagos but grew up in Houston, Texas. ‘Home’ for this lot is many things: where their parents are from; where they go for vacation; where they went to school; where they see old friends; where they live (or live this year). Like so many African young people working and living in cities around the globe, they belong to no single geography, but feel at home in many.
They (read: we) are Afropolitans – the newest generation of African emigrants, coming soon or collected already at a law firm/chem lab/jazz lounge near you. You’ll know us by our funny blend of London fashion, New York jargon, African ethics, and academic successes. Some of us are ethnic mixes, e.g. Ghanaian and Canadian, Nigerian and Swiss; others merely cultural mutts: American accent, European affect, African ethos. Most of us are multilingual: in addition to English and a Romantic or two, we understand some indigenous tongue and speak a few urban vernaculars. There is at least one place on The African Continent to which we tie our sense of self: be it a nation-state (Ethiopia), a city (Ibadan), or an auntie’s kitchen. Then there’s the G8 city or two (or three) that we know like the backs of our hands, and the various institutions that know us for our famed focus. We are Afropolitans: not citizens, but Africans of the world.
It isn’t hard to trace our genealogy. Starting in the 60’s, the young, gifted and broke left Africa in pursuit of higher education and happiness abroad. A study conducted in 1999 estimated that between 1960 and 1975 around 27,000 highly skilled Africans left the Continent for the West. Between 1975 and 1984, the number shot to 40,000 and then doubled again by 1987, representing about 30% of Africa’s highly skilled manpower. Unsurprisingly, the most popular destinations for these emigrants included Canada, Britain, and the United States; but Cold War politics produced unlikely scholarship opportunities in Eastern Bloc countries like Poland, as well.
Some three decades later this scattered tribe of pharmacists, physicists, physicians (and the odd polygamist) has set up camp around the globe. The caricatures are familiar. The Nigerian physics professor with faux-Coogi sweater; the Kenyan marathonist with long legs and rolled r’s; the heavyset Gambian braiding hair in a house that smells of burnt Kanekalon.
Even those unacquainted with synthetic extensions can conjure an image of the African immigrant with only the slightest of pop culture promptings: Eddie Murphy’s ‘Hello, Barbar.’ But somewhere between the 1988 release of Coming to America and the 2001 crowning of a Nigerian Miss World, the general image of young Africans in the West transmorphed from goofy to gorgeous. Leaving off the painful question of cultural condescenscion in that beloved film, one wonders what happened in the years between Prince Akeem and Queen Agbani?One answer is: adolescence. The Africans that left Africa between 1960 and 1975 had children, and most overseas. Some of us were bred on African shores then shipped to the West for higher education; others born in much colder climates and sent home for cultural re-indoctrination. Either way, we spent the 80’s chasing after accolades, eating fufu at family parties, and listening to adults argue politics. By the turn of the century (the recent one), we were matching our parents in number of degrees, and/or achieving things our ‘people’ in the grand sense only dreamed of. This new demographic – dispersed across Brixton, Bethesda, Boston, Berlin – has come of age in the 21st century, redefining what it means to be African. Where our parents sought safety in traditional professions like doctoring, lawyering, banking, engineering, we are branching into fields like media, politics, music, venture capital, design. Nor are we shy about expressing our African influences (such as they are) in our work. Artists such as Keziah Jones, novelist Chimamanda Achidie – all exemplify what Trace editor, Claude Gruzintsky, calls the ‘21st century African.’
What distinguishes this lot and its like (in the West and at home) is a willingness to complicate Africa – namely, to engage with, critique, and celebrate the parts of Africa that mean most to them. Perhaps what most typifies the Afropolitan consciousness is the refusal to oversimplify; the effort to understand what is ailing in Africa alongside the desire to honor what is wonderful, unique. Rather than essentialising the geographical entity, we seek to comprehend the cultural complexity; to honor the intellectual and spiritual legacy; and to sustain our parents’ cultures.
For us, being African must mean something. The media’s portrayals (war, hunger) won’t do. Neither will the New World trope of bumbling, blue-black doctor. Most of us grew up aware of ‘being from’ a blighted place, of having last names from countries which are linked to lack, corruption. Few of us escaped those nasty ‘booty-scratcher’ epithets, and fewer still that sense of shame when visting paternal villages. Whether we were ashamed of ourselves for not knowing more about our parents’ culture, or ashamed of that culture for not being more ‘advanced’ can be unclear. What is manifest is the extent to which the modern adolescent African is tasked to forge a sense of self from wildly disparate sources. You’d never know it looking at those dapper lawyers in global firms, but most were once supremely self-conscious of being so ‘in between’. Brown-skinned without a bedrock sense of ‘blackness,’ on the one hand; and often teased by African family members for ‘acting white’ on the other – the baby-Afropolitan can get what I call ‘lost in transnation’.
Ultimately, the Afropolitan must form an identity along at least three dimensions: national, racial, cultural – with subtle tensions in between. While our parents can claim one country as home, we must define our relationship to the places we live; how British or American we are (or act) is in part a matter of affect. Often unconsciously, and over time, we choose which bits of a national identity (from passport to pronunciation) we internalize as central to our personalities. So, too, the way we see our race – whether black or biracial or none of the above – is a question of politics, rather than pigment; not all of us claim to be black. Often this relates to the way we were raised, whether proximate to other brown people (e.g. black Americans) or removed.
Then there is that deep abyss of Culture, ill-defined at best. One must decide what comprises ‘African culture’ beyond pepper soup and filial piety. The project can be utterly baffling – whether one lives in an African country or not. But the process is enriching, in that it expands one’s basic perspective on nation and selfhood. If nothing else, the Afropolitan knows that nothing is neatly black or white; that to ‘be’ anything is a matter of being sure of who you are uniquely. To ‘be’ Nigerian is to belong to a passionate nation; to be Yoruba, to be heir to a spiritual depth; to be American, to ascribe to a cultural breadth; to be British, to pass customs quickly. That is, this is what it means for me – and that is the Afropolitan privilege. The acceptance of complexity common to most African cultures is not lost on her prodigals. Without that intrinsically multi-dimensional thinking, we could not make sense of ourselves.
And if it all sounds a little self-congratulatory, a little ‘aren’t-we-the-coolest-damn-people-on-earth?’ – I say: yes it is, necessarily. It is high time the African stood up. There is nothing perfect in this formulation; for all our Adjayes and Achidies, there is a brain drain back home. Most Afropolitans could serve Africa better in Africa than at Medicine Bar on Thursdays. To be fair, a fair number of African professionals are returning; and there is consciousness among the ones who remain, an acute awareness among this brood of too-cool-for-schools that there’s work to be done. There are those among us who wonder to the point of weeping: where next, Africa? When will the scattered tribes return? When will the talent repatriate? What lifestyles await young professionals at home? How to invest in Africa’s future? The prospects can seem grim at times. The answers aren’t forthcoming. But if there was ever a group who could figure it out, it is this one, unafraid of the questions.
This is Dr Alban by the way, remember "It's my Life!"
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Taiye Tuakli-Wosornu is a Nigerian-Ghanaian writer based in New York City. This article was written in 2005 for The LIP magazine.
The full article can be found at The LIP website.
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