Mini-Reflection
Posted by: theyounganddisenchanted on: 9 February, 2010
As a college senior so much of my time is supposed to be focused on my future. Everyone keeps asking me, “What are your plans for after graduation?” “Are you moving back home?” “What about grad school?” And it’s funny, because when I think about how best to answer these questions and, course, the ultimate, “Who are you?” I feel the need to seek recourse in my past and in my home. As much as I have loved my college experience and living in New York City, sometimes I worry about the fact that there’s a disconnect between the person people see on my campus today and the person I see looking in my mirror when I’m home in Lagos. A friend once told me that we all unconsciously (or perhaps consciously) project a certain image that aligns with how we would like to be perceived, but that doesn’t necessarily tell the whole story of who we are. Yesterday, I had a moment like that when I started speaking pidgin English to someone and they remarked that it seemed like my whole demeanour had changed. To me, I hadn’t “changed” – it was more like the “me” that exists outside of the context of American college society broke out in the middle of the library.
But I’m leaving that context in a few short months. My self-projected image may change again depending on where (or if) I move, what job I get and the people around me. But where I’m coming from remains constant, and that dominates more than any other factor the way that I see the world. Yes, I studied literature here but that seed was sowed when I was a 3 year old living in Lagos – not in the USA. My understanding of culture and tradition is rooted in Africa. This kind of refers back to my post on identity, but I do find it interesting that because the people who know me best would probably describe me in a totally different way to acquaintances. Yes, I am loud and prone to making violent threats but I can also be quiet and still when carrying one of my nieces. This “misunderstanding” of where I’m coming from isn’t anyone’s fault but my own, but when your mother tells you that the world is set against you succeeding, you choose to go out swinging because failure isn’t an option. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I have to articulate myself differently in the context of the USA because it’s an environment that’s still relatively new to me, as opposed to when I’m in Nigeria.
This isn’t really a full post, but rather what’s been going across my mind lately. Part of this is remembering stuff about my childhood and my life in Nigeria and England, stuff that I haven’t really shared with that many people but which, I think, show a slightly different side to me than what people normally see. Stuff like how I loved Enid Blyton books as a child (ultimate form of escapism – reading about the green English countryside while sitting in the dusty heat of Lagos), or how my father the first person to introduce me to hip hop, but it was my older sisters who nurtured my love for the music when we moved to England, or how I unconsciously became an athlete when I went to secondary school, playing on a school team for a solid 7 years. Small things I need to work on sharing…maybe because in order to figure out where I’m going, I need to come to terms with where I’m coming from. Or some other such clichéd phrase.
Anyways, I overslept and need to read Othello, but I’ll be back soon with some more ramblifications on Nigeria/retarded men/food.
“Maybe we can talk about Sura 31:18” – Nigeria and religion
Posted by: theyounganddisenchanted on: 26 January, 2010
- In: Culture| Nigeria| Politiking| Reflection| Religion
- 1 Comment
This entry has actually been a year or so in the making… Recently I’ve been thinking a lot more about my relationship with religion. I was raised Catholic and although I believe in the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, I’m not so sure about little-boy-rapists, thieves and hypocrites. I’m not saying that any religion is perfect, but rather that one should strive for matter over content – that is, to seek spirituality rather than to constantly apply rules and labels to what some call “faith.” With that said, allow me to ruminate.
A year ago I went to a discussion on my campus about Islamophobia. While listening to the other people present (all of whom had grown up in the West), it became clear to me that the word Islamophobia can have very different connotations depending on the geographical and cultural perspective of the person talking. Most people think of the words “jihad” and “terrorist” in this post-9/11 world when the topic of Islam comes up, which makes perfect sense sitting in a brownstone on New York’s Upper West Side. However, as the conversation went on and the participants were asked to give specific examples of Islamophobia that they had witnessed, I realised that as a Nigerian my experience of this phenomenon was considerably unlike that of those who weren’t from my part of the world.
I was living in England at the time the September 11th attacks took place. I was there when the London bombings of 2005 happened. I had seen the television reports and heard the hostile comments that painted a picture of the average Muslim as a rabid fanatic hell-bent on destroying the values of democracy that make “Western civilisation” the best of all human societies. Although I could go further into the problems of this level of stereotyping, I think I may save that for another entry. The discussion actually made me think for the first time about the ways in which Islamophobia works where I come from. Because Nigeria wasn’t directly affected by 9/11, the whole “terrorist” discussion didn’t initially come up with regards to Islam (again, thanks, panty-bomber). What does seem to be a problematic issue back home is the relationship between Muslims and Christians. Nigeria is split roughly 50/50 in terms of religion between these two groups. The Muslims live predominantly in the northern part of the country, whilst Christians occupy the south. My city, Lagos, is probably the most diverse in the country because of its status as the commercial centre, and for the most part Muslims and Christians happily coexist side by side there. In other parts of the country, however, this isn’t necessarily the case.
The news has been filled recently with stories of “deadly religious clashes” in Plateau state, which is in the “Middle Belt” of Nigeria (the dividing line between the “Muslim North” and “Christian South.” The violence was horrific – burnt babies, men mutilated by machetes, women wounded in indescribable ways. Although this violence is labelled as religiously-motivated, other factors such as scarce resources, a lack of education and the consistent failure of the Nigerian government to build a cohesive national identity over the past 50 years are probably more central to the issue. Many people on both sides of the religion line see each other as so fundamentally alien, despite the fact that we are all citizens of the same country and the many intersections in our history, cultures and languages. I’ve heard Christians I’m close to call Muslims “uneducated,” “polygamous” and “close-minded” like these are terms exclusive to Islam. My cousin has told me stories of being called an “infidel” by her Muslim classmates as a child, classmates who just a day earlier had sat next to her and called her a friend. And when you’re struggling to scrape by as a farmer and water gets scarce, it’s probably easier to take your frustrations out on the person from a different tribe and village than on the gun-protected officials who don’t perform the tasks they were “elected” to do.
I was just reading an article by David Goodhart for a political science class in which he argues that the more diverse a society, the harder it is for it to be cohesive. This may be true, but I find it impossible to accept that Nigerians are so dissimilar from one another that they cannot possibly find a common ground. Islam and Christianity are no more radically different from one another than a Yoruba is from an Itsekiri. A friend invited me to Friday prayers on campus last week and listening to the lecture, I heard nothing that I hadn’t heard in a homily at a Sunday mass. I can’t speak for other places but in the context of my country, I think that these supposed “differences” between us – whether distinctions of religion, ethnicity or class – are being exploited and exaggerated by leaders seeking support for their kleptomaniac ways and bullshit “ideologies.” Of course, this is only politics as usual but seeing a man sob after his wife was buried in a mass grave with his children nowhere to be found, one may have to start rethinking some things. Nothing will ever change in the country if its people don’t have a sense of community with one another, regardless of whatever superficial differences we perceive among ourselves.
P.S. This Jill jawn right here is beautiful… even though it really doesn’t have much to do with this post, that line always stands out for me. Sura 31:18, by the way, reads: “And swell not thy cheek/(For pride) at men/Nor walk in insolence/Through the earth/For Allah loveth not/Any arrogant boaster.” Good advice to live by.
“This world done changed since I’ve been conscious” – Thoughts on Nigeria and academia
Posted by: theyounganddisenchanted on: 23 January, 2010
I have made my season of migration back to the heart of darkness. NYC is as cold as I left it – a sharp arse contrast to the balmy Harmattan heat of Lagos and Dakar. It hasn’t all been gloom and doom though – I’ve hung out with friends, touched Mos Def (yes I saw him – and it was amazing) and had that deliciously decadent molten chocolate brownie with ice cream from the diner across the street from me. However, it’s my last semester as a college student aka Knuckle Down Time. I have a thesis to write, a job to find and classes to ace so I can graduate with a decent GPA. This means that I will be spending the majority of my days locked down in the library – kind of depressing, but as I love pretty much everything I’m reading and writing, I’m actually very content about the whole life situation.
Except for this job business. Part of the issue is that I enjoy making life complicated for myself. When I first got to college, I thought I could be an econ major, enjoy the perks of investment banking upon graduation (aka wild money) and retire filthy rich at the age of 32 to pursue a life as a nomad photographer. Alas, I discovered that my brain was suited better to analysing literature than manipulating formulae, so I traded my calculator for a stack of novels (at last count, close to 200 of them) and chose to study English and Political Science. This made the past 2 years in particular incredibly fulfilling, but now the honeymoon period has worn off and reality has hit. I have to find a job – a good job – and generally try to figure out what the hell I want to do with my life. For a while now I’ve been fantasising about becoming an English professor… I could absolutely dedicate my life to the study of post-colonial African literature, get tenure someplace fabulous and school the yung’uns on Achebe and Senghor. Yes, it will take a long time to get there (and I will be pitifully destitute while getting there), but deep down I know that an intellectual/academic/creative path is for me. I need to be surrounded by mountains of books and papers, to have arguments over the smallest nuances of a sentence and most importantly, to continue to learn. This all sounds so incredibly perfect, and yet I am full of doubts.
You see, this little break for freedom I want to make hasn’t exactly come with precedent as far as my upbringing goes. My parents are both professionals, as are my older two sisters (although one is also trying to be a professor). While growing up I was given free rein to indulge my intellectual curiosity (something my father probably deeply regrets now), but it seems that as far as Nigerians go, I’m an exception in terms of the things that interest me. Most of us are taught to focus on what will provide the money to take care of your family: be a lawyer, be an engineer, work for an oil company. The glory days of Soyinka and Azikiwe are long gone – the leading Nigerian intellectuals are predominantly elderly men and in a country where civil society and intellectual debate have been decimated and restricted for so many years, it doesn’t surprise me. Being a professor at a Nigerian university doesn’t pay (literally) – working for a bank does. Why then, would anyone want to study African literature over Accounting? Ah – because they were unlucky enough to stumble across a comparative literature class their sophomore year, read A Season of Migration to the North and were unable to resist the germ of a deadly disease that assailed them a thousand years ago. I’m trying to make a life out of what most Nigerians would call a hobby. This means that if I really do want to go down this path, I may have to do so outside my home country.
However, this isn’t so simple. Although I love learning about other cultures, the problems that haunt Nigeria are tugging at me, forcing me to look closer at this place I call home and decipher just how much I know about it… which is actually pathetically little. I need to learn more about the complexities of Muslim-Christian relationships in the Middle Belt, where horrifically violent riots have been taking place, about the variations in rural and urban life in the North and South, about which societal structures survived colonialism and which ones are a product of it. But Nigeria hasn’t become a sexy topic for academia yet – as far as African countries go, Sudan is probably what’s hottest in the corridors of intellect, or countries like Senegal that have a rich legacy of scholarship. I’m not saying that there aren’t brilliant Nigerian scholars, but it saddens me that the vibrant academic communities that thrived at Nsukka and Ibadan (my parents’ alma maters) 40 years ago have falling victim to the systematic rot that plagues everything else in Nigeria.
But somewhere in the hot mess that is Nigeria, I sense opportunity. I see potential teachers and students on every street corner in Surulere. It’s not that we don’t have the resources to do better – to expand our horizons not only in terms of development, but also to rebuild our public forums, improve education and encourage political debate at the grassroots. It’s just that we don’t have leaders who have the inclination, bravery and balls to step up and actually improve the country. And that must change. We’re sometimes called the “sleeping giant” – maybe it’s time for us to wake the fuck up. And maybe, just maybe, with other people who feel the same, I could be the alarm clock… as long as I can get some decent moolah out of it (just keeping it 100). I think that would make for a pretty awesome life.
Now back to Mamdani and this chocolate muffin.
P.S. Not that it has a lot to do with this post, but I love this Erykah Badu jawn.
“I be African man, original” – On Identity
Posted by: theyounganddisenchanted on: 13 January, 2010
Le sigh – and another stay at home comes to an end. In 3 days time I’ll be sitting in the Atlanta airport after a vigorous patting-down and grilling by airport authorities (thanks, underwear bomber) waiting for my flight back to NYC and my last semester of college. Although I’m excited for this final stretch and to see all my people back on campus, I’m really going to miss home. The thought of trading jollof rice and the heat of the equator for greasy pizza and North-Eastern snow is wild depressing, especially because this trip home has been particularly enjoyable. My father, feeling adventurous, decided that we should make a trip to Senegal. Yesterday we returned home after spending 6 days in Dakar, which is officially one of my new favourite places in the world. It’s where the French Riviera and the West African savannah had a love child raised by a North African nanny. It’s considerably less chaotic than Lagos, and much more of a walking city. I loved the fact that the buildings were so close to the roadside that you could reach up and touch one of the brightly coloured shutters. It was fun practising my (rusty) French with market traders. And poulet yassa with un peu de pili pili? Heavenly.
Of course, it being a city, the hustlers were out in full effect. Every time we walked out of our hotel, we would be approached by an Abdul/Amadou/Yuyu who would smile and hail us with a “Bonjour!” hoping that we hapless tourists would be persuaded to take him on as our guide (for a few thousand CFA, bien sûr). If only they’d known that we were Nigerians: mon cher, you can’t scam the original scammers. But that was the interesting thing – they didn’t seem to know that we were Nigerians. I got asked if I was everything from Senegalese to Ethiopian, but never my home country. Given recent events, I’m sure most would tell me to be grateful that people don’t think I’m Nigerian. It’s been an interesting pattern since I’ve lived abroad, people thinking that I’m not from West Africa. I’ve been asked if I was from the USA, Kenya, Botswana and even Fiji (yeah, that right there got the side eye). I don’t think there’s anything about the way I look that suggests that I’m not a Nigerian. And as I grew up here, it’s even more baffling to me. Maybe motherfuckers just aren’t that perceptive. Or maybe I have a “non-African” air about me that throws people off – perhaps I don’t come across as your average African.
This is something that has plagued me increasingly throughout my life. What is it about me that makes people think I’m from Brooklyn rather than Ofagbe? Why don’t I come across as “authentic”? I guess the ideal place to begin answering that question would be to figure out what the “typical” African is like. Let’s begin with appearances: according to an African-American security guard at my college, African people are black. As in, we’re all on that chocolate/ebony/midnight type skin tone. I guess my brown skin fails the first test – thanks, Scottish great-grandfather. Second of all, African women don’t wear their hair the way I do. In Lagos, I stand out when my hair is fro’ed – most women here have their hair relaxed, in braids or in weaves. If they do wear it natural, it’s cut short like a man’s. Second fail. What about the way I dress? West African women are supposed to wear ankara (traditional cloth often sewn into dresses or a skirt and blouse), and love them some gold jewellery. I guess my skinny jeans and wooden bracelets fail this authenticity test. Other ways in which I don’t measure up: I don’t speak any African languages. My accent has lingering traces of South-East England and New York City. I didn’t go to secondary school in Nigeria. I’m not poor. I like Russian literature… the list continues. Everywhere I go, from the streets of Dakar to the sidewalks of NYC, people seem to enjoy reminding me how I’m not really African. Yes, I have a Nigerian passport, but because my appearance and experiences are not typical, I’ve somehow lost my African-ness (if, indeed, I ever had it) and fallen into a no-man’s-land (after all, with a name like mine I can’t possibly pass for a real Westerner or as being from any other part of the world but West Africa). As a friend once told me, my “bourgeoisie” background which enabled me to fly home 3 times in as many months for my sisters’ weddings undermines my claim to being a “real” African. Mon Dieu! – I am, vraiment, in the position of being a member of the colonised elite that Fanon and so many others have written about. Caught between the world of the colonial power, which my education has given me some level of access to, but to which my skin tone denies me full entry, and the world of the colonised subject which my socio-economic status has moved me out of reach, what am I to do?
Following along this reason, I guess Leopold Senghor, Chinua Achebe and other intellectuals like them are also not legitimate Africans. Neither are any of the Africans that attend my university. Although some of them pass more “tests” than I do, surely their failure of others means that they too are condemned to flounder in the frustration of being an undefined hybrid, of not being fully able to “belong” to their respect homes.
Just in case you haven’t noticed, I think all of this right here is bullshit. To all the people who have questioned the authenticity of my West African-ness: are you fucking serious? The fact that you define “true African-ness” just highlights the extent to which your mindset is dominated by colonialism. In case you forgot, when the British, French and Portuguese came it was them who drew a line between the “native” and the “citizen.” Your denial of my African-ness is you repeating the exact same ideology. Here’s the wonderful thing about identity: it’s fluid. This means that it doesn’t follow a set of rules or fall under a single list, especially in the context of Africa. I have the freedom to shape my own African identity, to accept what I was given, change what I don’t like and embrace the new. Just because it doesn’t match up to your personal definition doesn’t make it less valid. If you tell someone that their Western education makes them un-African, you are suggesting that Africans can only learn within the context of Africa. If you tell someone that their clothing makes them an outsider, you are saying that Africans can only dress in an African way. If you tell someone that speaking English instead of Wolof highlights a colonial mentality, you are claiming that Africans are only truly African when speaking “native” languages, and underscoring your own colonial mentality. In other words, you are making a monolith out of the people of this incredibly diverse continent and reinforcing the very stereotypes that are keeping this continent down.
I think it’s important to make it clear that I am in no way, shape or form privileging my own experiences as an African to those of others: my American education doesn’t make me “better” than someone who went to the University of Lagos. Although I’m not going to engage in the “Western” vs. “non-Western” debate here, I’m definitely not okay with the privileging of Western ideals and standards over the many African ones. What I do what to emphasise is that difference – even when that difference comes from outside of the African context – is what makes Africa so vibrant and beautiful. Part of what I love about being African is the fact that you can see so many different cultural influences at play within our societies – for example, the way Dakar is a totally different kind of African city to Accra because of their histories.
In summary, I don’t believe judging people according to how “African” you think they are in order to make yourself feel better is doing anyone any favours. We’re ALL African, period. And especially to those who tell me these things as we both sit in an American university classroom – c’mon son. Fuckouttaherewiththatshitson. Africans, “emancipate yourselves from mental slavery” and fucking do better.
And with that said, let me go find some rice and beans to eat. I’m starved.
P.S. Title is from Fela’s “Gentleman.”
“Gasping for air makes the righteous path harder to chose” – Africa, Part III
Posted by: theyounganddisenchanted on: 29 December, 2009
I’m finally home. And it’s fabulous. I’ve been back on the continent for 5 days now and I’ve been soaking up all the heat and family love and good food that I can. Obviously, this is Africa and it’s not perfect – as I’m writing this the generator that was providing our electricity has cut out and because there’s no mains supply at the moment, it’s dark as hell and hot in the house. The road leading to said house is paved only directly in front of us – otherwise it’s a sandy, pot-holed filled “adventure” ride to and from the rest of the city. And, of course, a fellow countryman just attempted to blow up a US aircraft meaning that the Nigerian global public image is going to be even more shat on than it is already (not only are we scammers and militants, now we’re terrorists on top? Walai talai!)With all that said and done though, I’m still so incredibly glad to be back, away from the cold and gloom and exams of NYC and enveloped in the dusty warmth of Lagos, watching the sun set through an open balcony door with a cool drink in hand and Fela on the speakers.
But yet, I am not completely content. Off that same balcony I can see families squatting in the compound next door, living in impromptu shacks while I am surrounded by cement and metal and granite. My parents tell me about the stresses of African city living: road building projects left unfinished for months, spawning 4 hours of go-slow for already overstressed workers; power problems that have made businesses fold up and which burn up the petrol that is my country’s economic lifeline in generator engines; the continuous poverty most people grapple with day-to-day that is only further exaggerated by the excesses of wealth shown in glossy magazines, shaded by tinted car windows and cushioned by the finest imported jacquard and Swiss lace. In summary: this shit is problematic. A couple days ago, I was in the car with my mother and my sisters listening to Original Sufferhead, a Fela album, as we drove to visit a family friend. My mother frustratedly remarked how the problems Fela sang about over 30 years ago – lack of water, food, house – are still present today. The same names Fela mentioned in the 1970s – Obasanjo, Buhari, Yar’Adua – are still enjoying the wealth of the nation today. The same colonial mentality that Fela warned against is still in control of the minds of so many Nigerians today. Despite all the “progress” that has been made, all the malls that have been built and all the oil that has been sold it’s still the same old shit. I guess it’s like Homer said: the homecoming is inevitably bittersweet.
I was incredibly fortunate to have been born into the position that I was. I have benefited from good nutrition, a supportive family and a quality education that means that I have the chance to go far in this life, to fulfil the name that was given to me at birth. I have far more than most of my fellow 1 billion Africans were given. But all of this protective padding isn’t enough to shield me from the reality of life for so many in my home city. Just because I live in a bubble of sorts doesn’t mean that its walls are too opaque for me to see out of and to observe how much injustice there is on this continent – injustice that could be so easily rectified if only enough people cared and were willing to do something tangible. I’ve been concerned about these issues for a long time, but the classes I took this semester at college (my “black fist” classes, as I like to refer to them) and reading Gandhi (not a fan, but still), Fanon, Achebe, Senghor, Lamming and Tully have me more fired up and critical than I’ve ever been. Things have fallen apart – they need to be put back together again, but better than before. This time there has to be real change.
Unfortunately, I feel limited by what I can achieve. After all, I’m only a college senior. As one individual I don’t have the resources or strength to challenge the forces of neo-imperialism in a meaningful way. I alone can’t solve world poverty. More importantly, I’m not even sure if I’m the person to do that: for two reasons.
One, I have other obligations. I owe certain things to my family, to my social position: getting a good job, marrying a good man, giving birth to good children. These are the things that all the support I have been given for so long are meant to culminate in. And these are things that I want for myself too. I do want to go into publishing, and maybe go back to grad school after a few years of working life and get that PhD in literature (as long as I’m surrounded by books, I’ll be happy). I do want to find someone to spend the rest of my life with. And I do want kids – especially after spending the past few days with my adorable and beautiful nieces. But I wonder if that will be enough for me – if I won’t find myself wishing that I could have done more, been more, seen more by choosing another path.
Another part of me wants to say, “Fuck it – you only get one life to live” and pack my bags and travel somewhere and do. Forget Jeffrey Sachs-style pontificating from the comforts of the Upper West Side, I want to fight and build and save and live among the wretched of the earth, rising to reclaim it for their own. But then that second nagging thought creeps into my mind: “Who the hell are you to do that?” It seems so incredibly egotistical to think myself capable of being a campaigner, a warrior woman sans frontières, the kind of person who could change history. No seriously – I’m sitting here saying to myself, “Really though? You really think you could do all of that? C’mon son. Fuckouttaherewiththatshit.” Not only do I have no semblance of a game plan, my cushy bougie life hasn’t exactly prepared me for the realities of the “real world,” especially not the African real world. My inner revolutionary was cultivated in classrooms and libraries, not on plantation fields and mountainous jungles. Who am I to speak for the masses?
But even though I’m not certain that abandoning everything that I’ve lived thus far wouldn’t smack of insincerity, deep down I feel like if I don’t try to make a difference, I’ll live regretting it from the comfort of my air-conditioned safety net.
Realistically speaking, I know that this dichotomy isn’t the only option: I can create a middle path for myself that balances out what I owe to the home and the world. I’m just one of those people who believes in going hard or going home, which is why I’ve presented it as so black and white… I don’t know. Like my sister said, I have more than enough time to figure this all out. So I’m going to take my time with it, enjoy the rest of my holiday and prepare for the challenges of the new decade.
P.S. The title is kind of random, but I remember loving this N.E.R.D. album so much way back when…
Mini-post: Toni Morrison articulating better than I ever could the way that I see myself as a black African woman
Posted by: theyounganddisenchanted on: 21 December, 2009
I’m in the middle of writing a paper for my Jazz and American culture – the last of the 5 papers that have defined my finals period (no exams, hamd’llah). I was flicking through Morrison’s novel “Jazz” for a quote to use to describe some concept I’m trying to articulate (I won’t bore you with details) but this quote stood out for me. Ponder, and enjoy. I’ll be writing more on the other side of the Atlantic:
“Black women were armed; black women were dangerous and the less money they had the deadlier the weapon they chose. Who were the unarmed ones? Those who found protection in church and the judging, angry God whose wrath in their behalf was too terrible to bear contemplation… Who else were the unarmed ones? The ones who thought they did not need folded blades, packets of lye, shards of glass taped to their hands. Those who bought houses and hoarded money as protection and the means to purchase it. Those attached to armed men. Those who did not carry pistols because they were pistols; did not carry switchblades because they were switchblades cutting through gatherings, shooting down statutes and pointing out the blood and abused flesh. Those who swelled their little unarmed strength into the reckoning one of leagues, clubs, societies, sisterhoods designed to hold or withhold, move or stay put, make a way, solicit, comfort and ease. Bail out, dress the dead, pay the rent, find new rooms, start a school, storm an office, take up collections, rout the block and keep their eyes on all the children.”
“How about some chicken wings/Do you want some some fish and grits/I’ll hurry and go get it” – African Womanhood, Part II
Posted by: theyounganddisenchanted on: 18 December, 2009
- In: Africa| Culture| Reflection| Women
- 7 Comments
At some point during my sophomore year of college, I stumbled across the book Colonize This!, a collection of essays written by women-of-colour feminists. Each essay is written from a different perspective – Indian American, Chicana, Muslim – but many share a recurring theme: how to reconcile their cultural identity with their feminist views. One essay that struck me in particular was written by a Nigerian woman. She discussed how, as a child, the role of cook/cleaner/wife-in-training defined her position as the only girl in her family, and how she rebelled against this imposed identity as a result of her exposure to feminist literature while studying in the USA. Now, I 100% sympathise with home-girl on this tip. If I had brothers and I had to watch their lazy asses play Nintendo 64 (holla!) while I washed all the motherfucking dishes, I would have become an only child by virtue of the cutlass there would have been some problems. But even without brothers, it was definitely emphasised when I was growing up (slash still today) that I would have to ensure that my domestic skills were up to par in order for me to “make a good wife.” I used to resent this pressure and told anyone who would listen (all three of them) that I would make my husband cook when I was married. Now that I am older and wiser I see that the words of my youth were unduly rash. Why? Well, for one thing, I’ve learned how to cook. And I LOVE it. Seriously: cooking is one of the most fabulous, sexy, empowering activities that I engage in on a regular basis. I think Nigella Lawson was the catalyst for the unleashing of my inner domestic goddess: I once analysed her cookbook for an English class and fell in love somewhere between Coca-Cola Ham and Deep Fried Mars Bars (which, despite sounding absolutely revolting, hold a strange power of fascination over me). Plus, she’s a total hottie. Besides the point: I have now embraced the wonders of domestication – something I thought would be accepted with open arms and empty stomachs by all. But apparently not.
A recent offer to make a sick male friend some soothing ginger cola was met with the reply that he did not want to “domesticate an educated woman” by subjecting me to the indignities of the kitchen. Now, I know that this came from a place of kindness. However, my outer inner proud African woman felt somewhat affronted (inner dialogue: “What, you don’t think I can make it?? My ginger cola-making skills aren’t good enough for you??? What in the hell do you mean by this????” – P.S. I never said my inner proud African woman, despite her wonderfulness, was altogether rational). On the one hand, it was lovely to have a man not want to take advantage of my cooking skills (ahem, African men I attend college with). On the other, I’d never thought that doing something domestic would be somehow be seen as compromising my status as an educated woman. My mother, who holds two degrees, doesn’t play with her skills in the kitchen (and especially her cake – mmmmm, I hope she’s making cakes for Christmas this year so that I can grow fat and merry 
). Both her domestic nature and her intellect work together to make her the wonderful woman that she is – one doesn’t necessarily contradict the other. First of all, cooking isn’t easy – there are plenty of women who can hold their own in a philosophical debate who cannot cook for shit. Anyone who can wield a knife, whisk and chicken breast without causing grievous bodily harm to themselves or others is a real OG. Chuuuuuuch. Secondly, I’m not certain that domestication is such a bad thing. I mean, if a motherfucker can’t cook, how are you going to eat? What if you’re chilling in a warzone in East Africa with your mercenary army, AK-47 in hand, no Chinese takeout spot in sight and just some goats at hand? (I’ve thought this out a little too well…) I mean, don’t get it twisted – this applies to women and men. Even though I will cook for my future husband, he had damn well take some classes at the Culinary Institute and be prepared to get busy with the Magic Mixer. Motherfucker, what if I come home late from work?? What are you gonna do, stare at the cooker in hope? Pause. I’m not with it.
I’m also not sure how I feel about the idea of domestication being an imposable concept. I think that there is plenty of power in being able to cook and clean: just imagine if your mother decided to not cook any more. My mother did something like this once. It was not a good look. Being a position of serving others does not necessarily equate to being subservient, I’m slowly realising. Not only is it an expression of love, like my girl Bimala says, it’s also a way of showing strength. Take it from someone who is making a regular gig of cooking dinner for 10 people just because – that shit takes MIGHT.
All I’m saying is: I don’t believe that my strong African womanhood is depleted by my puff-puff making skills (shout out to the Burundi meatballs) – rather, I believe they enhance it in all of its intellectual, political and slightly crazy glory.
Let me know how you feel in the comments.
P.S. Went back to my girl Jilly from Philly for the title – LOVES this song.
“When you smiled and I turned and I said to you/Yo, yo you’re pure and true” – Dating in College, Part IV
Posted by: theyounganddisenchanted on: 11 December, 2009
I’m 100% certain that my boy Rational Chaos is going to call me out for my “softness” in writing about this, but I’ve been thinking a lot about love lately. Ugh. I feel disgusted with myself just typing that out. I kid – love is a beautiful thing. It’s also a complicated, messy painful affair that can leave you hurt, angry and disillusioned. Seeing love fail is a big part of why I considered myself to be disenchanted when I started this blog. That’s what a few years of college will do to you – I’ve seen so many relationships blossom with hope only to fall apart, like a cheap shoe after too many miles of New York pavement. I’ve written before about how the “dating” system I’ve observed in college is completely nonsensical to me – this whole “hooking up” and “talking” business before going on an actual date is a bizarre inversion of how the rest of the world sees relationships. And more than that, the way that men and women talk about and relate to one another leaves me even more bemused. I’ve heard guys refer to women in terms of their bodies, their faces and how many positions they want to take them in, but rarely have I heard a man on my campus talk about how much they enjoy talking to a girl about politics, or how cute she looks when they say something dumb and she looks embarrassed for them or even something as simple as how beautiful she looks dressed up for an event. I don’t know if it’s the cynical atmosphere of the city or the age, how they interacted with women growing up or just plain old sexism – what I do know is that it’s fucking problematic.
Of course, not all men are this way. And there are, of course, plenty of women who discuss men (and themselves!) in similarly objectifying terms. And not male/female relations are about sex – there are many people on my campus who are in happy, well-rounded relationships. I think what bothers me is that sex always seems to be so up-in-your-face whenever people think about relationships. It’s like my girl said to me: “When it gets cold, people start looking for alternate ways to keep warm.” But apparently, not much else. The only real criterion for hopping into bed with someone seems to be a basic sexual attraction. Don’t get me wrong – sex is great. People should get it in as much as possible – in fact, I personally believe that if all of the disgruntled people in this world just got a quality session in the bed, we could solve global warming, the Iraq war and establish a global socialist utopia (just make it consensual, k?). But when that’s all I’m supposed to think about when I’m attracted to a guy – if he’s just supposed to see me as ass, boobs and vagina – I have to pause and start rethinking some things.
A lot of people think that this sexual “looseness” and general fuckery can be traced back to the feminist movements of the 1960s: female sexual liberation supposedly made women believe that they could not only act like men, they could fuck like them too – which snowballed into men taking advantage of the exponential increase in available ass, thereby reducing its value and cheapening the relationships between men and women. Now obviously this is a gross oversimplification, as well as a romanticisation of the past, but there may be an element of truth in this. Do not get me wrong: me + women’s lib = love. That particular element of civil rights movements is the reason why I’m sitting in this godforsaken library at my university studiously ignoring my essays, instead of preparing dinner for my three kids and husband after spending the day cleaning the house and buying groceries (again, I kid). But damn, why does EVERYTHING have to be about sex?? And this bullshit about us being “equals” – an excuse for multiple sexual partners and “free love”? I AM NOT WITH IT.
Breathe.
I guess, when it boils down to it, I’m an old fashioned girl. I like dates. I like that tension of not being kissed when you expect it to happen. I love realising that I like someone despite the fact that the most intimate we’ve been is sitting next to each other at a meeting. And I hate that being at college means that the odds of finding a guy who feels the same way are slim-to-none.
But I’m an optimist. For one of my classes this semester, I read a novel called “The Home and the World” which was written by Rabindranath Tagore, an Indian intellectual and literary figure of the late 19th/early 20th centuries. It’s about a love triangle, Indian nationalism and colonial rule, amongst other things (I won’t spoil it for y’all). I was in the middle of re-reading it to write a paper when I was stopped by this line right at the beginning – it’s from the main female character, Bimila: “My husband used to say, that man and wife are equal in love because of their equal claim on each other. I never argued the point with him, but my heart said that devotion never stands in the way of true equality; it only raises the level of the ground of meeting.” Now, this may not seem to have a lot to do with what I was just writing about, but let me explain. Bimila is living in Bengal, India in the early 20th century – not a spot where the women’s liberation movement had quite taken off. She lives in purdah (seclusion), meaning that she spends her days within the confines of her home. 21st century American college life is probably the polar opposite of her existence. But putting this aside, I was most struck by the way she sees herself as a woman in relation to her husband. She isn’t “submissive” in the traditional sense, nor is she sexualised or objectified by her husband who is determined that she emerge from purdah and enjoy the “real” world and all it has to offer. She loves him – not only because of his qualities and because of the way that he treats her as an equal, but also because she can express her love to him through being a woman, in a non-sexual manner. And he reciprocates the feeling from a similar standpoint. In the context I’m living in, that notion is a breath of fresh air. Love should be a well-rounded thing. Sex is important, but so is being able to talk to someone about big and small matters, doing little things for them like making them a meal, being able to sit quietly with each other and not need to say a word, or be concerned about what they’re thinking because in the end, nothing really matters at all. And on the side of men – never underestimate the power of complimenting a girl, meaning it, and expecting nothing (especially nothing sexual) in return. Or of not texting her only after midnight. Or of surprising her with dessert, just because.
I haven’t figured out all of this relationship stuff yet. I am, however, realising more what I understand to be love and what I don’t. This is just a small articulation of the beauty I consider that thing to be – a mint-filled garden in the middle of a city of concrete: seemingly out of place, but all the more lovely for it.
P.S. In musical terms, this Erykah Badu song best articulates the way I feel about love and shit.
“May date another race or colour/That don’t mean I don’t like my strong black brothers” – The Swirl, from a woman’s perspective
Posted by: theyounganddisenchanted on: 8 December, 2009
- In: Africa| College Life| Love| Men| Relationships/Dating| Women
- 7 Comments
To my strong, beautiful black brothers:
A few months ago, I met up with a few of my ignorant favourite African male friends for dinner, and our conversation wound its way from Kelis’ “golddigging” ways and Kenyan music to an ever-contentious subject: interracial dating. All except for one of them expressed the following sentiment: “I don’t see anything wrong with an African man dating a non-African woman, but I don’t like it when I see an African woman walking with a man who isn’t black.” Now I have heard countless claims about the saltiness of the average black woman and her feelings about seeing one of “OUR men” holding hands with a Becky, but the black man who takes a black woman dating a Dale personally is a new phenomenon for me. Puzzled, I asked to clarify: “So, you guys see nothing wrong with a black man dating outside of his race, but you do see a problem with a black woman doing so?” Their response? “Yes.”
Now, my dear black brothers: you know that I love you more than anything else in this world except chocolate. Y’all raised me, taught me, love me and challenge me to do better all day, every day. But PAUSE: really though? You somehow think you’re justified in restricting my dating choices because you feel threatened? You know you’re fucked up for that. And that will lead to you someone getting cut.
I asked a fellow Nigerian this question straight up and he simply shrugged and said, “I know it’s wrong, but life isn’t fair.” To him, it is a serious affront to black male pride to see a black woman walking with a man of a different race. But black female pride? Psssh. Irrelevant. I got the same sense of a lack of regard for black women’s feelings on the part of black men again when talking to a couple (again, Nigerian) male friends of mine. One of them was explaining that he broke up with his last girlfriend because he was tired of being in a long-distance relationship. Upon hearing this, the other one remarked, “Oh yeah I feel you – you know men have needs.” Again, PAUSE. Because women don’t??? What in the hell is going on, my African men?
Now, I understand that our life experiences may be very different. Many of you were raised in homes where your father’s word was bond, as the man of the house. Many of you grew up with women who allowed men to get away with some trifling ass behaviour because if society condoned it, who were they to argue back? And many of you are now enjoying life in the first world as students and workers with all of these golden opportunities open to you, including the option of dating outside of your race. And you know what? I’m totally cool with that being the context in which you came up and your embracing of that developed world freedom. Actually, just the last part. The first part is hella fucked up, did not fly when I was growing up and will NOT fly in my house when I’m married. But besides the point: I too, have had the opportunity to move abroad and be educated at an American university and meet people from all different backgrounds. And maybe back home you can feel like society gives you one up on me. But this is the land of the motherfucking free: I too, can date whomever, whenever and however I please. You have no kind of right or obligation to dictate to me who can take me out to dinner. You cannot get annoyed when you see me walking with Ahmed, Ravi or Lee Kwok. And you absolutely cannot expect me to treat you one way, yet treat me in a completely different manner.
Regarding my actual stance towards the phenomenon known as “the swirl”: the only real qualification I have regarding the men I date is that they feel me on that minority/third world/AK-47 toting militant tip. It’s not that I don’t find “Western” men attractive – it’s just when you start zoning out as I talk about pidgin English/oil money/my mother’s propensity to randomly cuss people out which I have definitely inherited, it’s pretty unlikely that it’s going to work out between us. Plus what if he makes some awkward comment about my “exotic” name or going on safari? This is why I love y’all, my African men – I know you feel me on that fresh banga soup with starch on the side, on my Wafi craze and my third-world politics. So how are you gonna get mad at me for wanting to be with someone I can relate to on that cous cous/Indian nationalism/tropical heat joint? As much as I love you guys, you’re not always checking for me. There’ve been too many times you’ve told me, “Oh, you’re so beautiful” yet left me hanging waiting for the “Do you want to have dinner sometime?” There’ve been too many times you’ve just wanted me for my body and none of the other wonders I have to offer. There’ve been too many times when you’ve straight up broken my heart and left me crushed. That doesn’t mean I’ve given up on you – but it does mean I want to diversify my bonds and shit, same as you. I’m not holding you back from dating whichever Hannah, Arusha or Ming Su you want to be with, so why won’t you let me be?
Signed,
A loving but heated confused African woman
P.S. Title is from the flyest girl group of all time, En Vogue. 15 years later and they’re still fabulous. Free your minds fellas, free your minds.
“Na Nigerian government e-yo/Na dem talk be dat” – Politics, African style
Posted by: theyounganddisenchanted on: 7 December, 2009
- In: Africa| Politiking| Reflection
- 1 Comment
Nigeria, my Nigeria…
Anyone who knows me is probably sick and tired of the amount of times I’ve said “I cannot WAIT to go home” in the past month alone. But I can’t help it – it’s been almost ten months since I was last in Nigeria. Ten long months since that red earth/hot sun/blue sky/sea breeze/palm trees/roast corn/go-slow/fast talk that signifies home for me. If you haven’t been to Lagos, start saving your money for a plane ticket right now. Seriously. There is nowhere else on this planet that is the same combination of cool/crazy/dangerous/beautiful/intense as my home city. Not only that, but going home means that I’ll be reunited with my family again. I haven’t seen my mother since April, nor have I met my adorable new niece, Amina, who was born in August. We’ve also moved into a new house in a different part of the city and have acquired a new dog (who’s butt ugly, but still). In just over two weeks I’ll be eating beans and plantain, watching MNET and indulging in the feel of the scorching sun on my back, a welcome break from the miserable cold of New York City in December.
But as much as I am looking forward to going home, I am also very sceptical about returning. Reading 234Next, a Lagos-based newspaper, has made me very concerned about the current state of political affairs in Nigeria – and by “concerned” I mean furious. For those who aren’t up on Nigerian Politics 101, let me explain: my country’s current president is Umaru Yar’Adua, a former chemistry professor who is a member of the ruling People’s Democratic Party (PDP). The PDP has been in charge of Nigeria for the past ten years of “democracy” following the death of the military dictator General Sani Abacha. President Yar’Adua has been ill for most of his presidency. He has been making regular trips out of the country for “medical check-ups,” is rarely seen in public and has been neglecting some of his presidential duties. When he ran for the presidency in 2007, there were persistent rumours that he was suffering from a kidney ailment, and his doctors have recently revealed that he has a “heart condition.” Many Nigerians are worried that he’s going to die before his term is over in 2011, and as a result there have been calls for his resignation. In any other country, this would seem perfectly logical, right? Not my people. This weekend, six of the politicians who had led calls for his resignation were threatened by members of the PDP who showed up at their homes with thugs, ready to assault them. And it will only get worse. You see, the PDP is not so much a political party as a crew of old army friends who have ruled Nigeria in some form – whether democratically or in authoritarian fashion – since the 1970s and who have no intention of letting go of power. They are drunk on the country’s oil and the money that it keeps flowing into official coffers, and which they believe they have free rein to siphon off for their multi-million dollar mansions in London and fleets of cars. And President Yar’Adua is their personal puppet – despite his probably good intentions, the power of the PDP is so deeply entrenched that efforts to prosecute the corrupt have been severely hindered by political wrangling. One example is the treatment of Nuhu Ribadu, the head of the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission, who was dismissed from his position by the Inspector-General of Police for actually doing his job rather than stealing. The president was powerless to do anything to stop this move, a sign of his political weakness that his physical ailments are doing little to help.
So why doesn’t it make sense for him to step down and the vice-president to take over? Again, my dear people: politics. The current vice-president, Jonathan Goodluck, is from the oil-rich South-South region of Nigeria (the part of the country from which I also hail). The PDP, which is dominated by Northerners, instituted a “rotational policy” of sorts regarding the presidency: they unilaterally divided the country up into six zones between the north and south, which the president is to be elected from in turn. However, the ethnic group that dominates the North (the Hausa-Fulani) benefit from this arrangement the most: in 24 years they would hold the presidency for 12 years in total (their exclusion of smaller ethnic groups in the same geographic region make it unlikely that they would allow someone from a minority tribe to be nominated for president), while the other two large ethnic groups (the Yoruba and Igbo) and the mix of Itsekiri, Ijaw and others in the South-South would only rule for 4 years each. Not only is this a problematic power fixation, but it also does nothing to dismantle the artificial ethnic divides put in place by the British during colonial rule which split Nigeria between North and South.
A further complication is the current constitution and how it defines the role of the Vice-President. Goodluck’s powers, now that Yar’Adua is technically incapacitated, are fairly limited: he can only act as president if Yar’Adua writes a letter informing the Senate and House of Representatives that says he can – which Yar’Adua has not done. This isn’t surprising – I highly doubt that the people that actually run Nigeria would let Yar’Adua cede his “power” to someone who may, quite possibly, want to do the job of president properly and prevent them from taking advantage of the political system for their own benefit. What frustrates me is the way that the game of politics in Nigeria is played out within the confines of such a small circle. There is zero political transparency and no true representation in government – our supposed leaders make no effort in hiding the fact that they seek power for their own benefit, not for the benefit of their constituents. No popular movement or revolution can take place if people aren’t aware of the political process and the ways that they are being excluded from it.
Or are they? The Western media has increasingly picked up on one particular anti-government group in Nigeria: the Movement for the Emancipation of the Niger Delta (MEND). This is a group of “militants” (for lack of a better word) who are seeking greater resources for the people of the South-South, one of the most woefully under-developed areas of Nigeria. Their main tactics have involved kidnapping and disrupting the oil production process – not the most savoury methods, but nonetheless highly effective at putting the divide between the people of Nigeria and their government on the national stage. The government couldn’t just ignore or shut down the militants when the oil money was being threatened – they had to negotiate with the fighters and are now finally channelling money into the region (and bypassing the corrupt state governors in that area by giving it directly to local governments). There are still tensions in the region and the self-interest of many of the militants who feel hard done by the recent ceasefire (read: they didn’t get the money they were expecting) could lead to more violence at the expense of the ordinary people in the area. There is, of course, far more to the current political situation than my knowledge allows for, but from my perspective these are among the most crucial because of their potential to destabilise the country.
I remember reading the Odyssey my freshman year of college and discussing with my professor the inevitably bittersweet nature of returning home. Sitting in this miserable library with a ton of homework awaiting me, the thought of warm, sunny Lagos, good food and the love of my family seem so incredibly perfect. But then I read the news that leaves me increasingly fearful that my country could potentially plunge back into civil war and wonder about the place that I want to go back to so much. Despite the problems hanging over Nigeria, I know that being home will be good for me on some level, at least as I am right now. What exactly the future holds for me and my country… I suppose I’ll have to wait and see. Right now, everything seems as devoid of answers as the paper I have due tomorrow is of words =/
P.S. Had to bring back the main man Fela for the title.
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