When it comes to introductions, be it in the classroom or in social gatherings, there is always one question that brings me more angst than the others: “So where are you from?”
The truth is, depending on the environment and the ethnicity of the interrogator, my answer varies.
“I'm half Nigerian, half English.”
“I’m from London.”
“I’m from Abia State.”
None of which are said with much conviction. I was born in Enfield, North London, but my parents have Nigerian heritage: Nigerian passports, Nigerian accents, Nigerian traditions and Nigerian blood. The community I grew up around had English names, English habits and the renowned English manner of speaking. I have an amalgamation of them all.
The conflict of these two worlds became apparent when I had my first day at secondary school. Our class teacher, Miss Wilson, began to skim through the register to check attendance. “Ben, Raph, Amber, Danielle, Andrew, Gabi, Matthew…” Each name rolled after the other with almost a rhythm attached to it, but suddenly there had come a pause accompanied with a hard glare at the paper:
“Ey… Eyno… Eynewfom…”
There it was, the customary botching of the only African name on the register and my cue to politely correct it and offer a shorter, easier alternative.
“You can call me Eno if it’s easier, Miss,” I said.
My fellow classmates had glared at me in shock to hear such a traditional name introduced with such a natural London accent.
“That’s a beautiful name,” she replied, as she continued her register: “…Annelise, Dan, Austin, Jimmy, Zara…”
I disagreed. To me, western names like Annelise, Dan, and Austin held more beauty. At the very least, they matched the environment they were in. As we went through each one of our introductory classes that morning, this same process of events repeated itself, and I couldn’t help but feel like the ugly duckling.
After much anticipation, the lunch bell rang and I thought I was going to catch a break. I didn’t. I timidly maneuvered my way to the canteen, with my head down, eager to avoid any more occurrences of awkward eye contact. Like the outcast in an American teenage sitcom, I found my place in a secluded corner of the canteen and I dumped my bag on the table, accompanied with a sigh of relief.
The presence of my own company made me more aware of chatters elsewhere and the beginnings of friendships. The sound of unzipped bags and offers to trade snacks announced the commencement of lunch time. I looked up and around in interest at this peculiar form of social interaction, when I began to notice a homogenous pattern in the snacks being traded: Walkers crisps, digestive biscuits, Winders sweets.
I awkwardly formed barriers with my arms to guard my own lunchbox, concealing the embarrassment and silently venting my frustration at my mother’s concept of a packed lunch.
Is it really that hard to butter bread and slip a slice of cheese? Could you not have at least given me a packet of Hula Hoops to establish some ground of connection with my new classmates?
The noticeable aroma of my lunch drew unwanted attention in my direction with looks of uncomfortable curiosity rather than any offers for trade. In my possession was a small container of plantain and fried egg, with a side of chin-chin accompanied with malt in a small, used water bottle. As great a cook as my mother is, lunch didn’t satisfy my taste buds that day.
Much of the cultural disconnect between myself and my classmates in my secondary school days was the result of the habitual stubborn pride of Nigerian parents, a strong insistence on sticking to their traditional ways.
One day, about a month after the lunch incident, just as I was starting to feel like I was taking steps towards being settled socially at school, my parents, equipped with their Nigerian customs, decided to fight back. The school day had come to a close, and I was headed over to the car park amongst the rest of my grade ready to be picked up by my parents.
“Max, did you see the ending to that last Tracy Beaker episode?”
“The one where Rio gets called into the Head’s office?”
“Can’t believe he got caught, I hope he doesn’t get kicked out.”
“That would be a shame, because he’s one of my favorite characters. Don’t spoil it if you see the next episode before me!”
Me and Max from science were maybe one or two more after-school chats away from upgrading from classmates to friends, so I made sure each conversation revolved around the football scores from the weekend, or thoughts on the latest CBBC show. And that’s when I heard it:
“ENOMFON AZUMA NTO!”
Led by Max’s swift turn of focus to my direction, the rest of the year group had unified their gazes in my direction with the knowledge that only one student had such an unfamiliar full name. I reverted to my natural reflex that I had developed in response to such sudden unwanted attention during my time at high school: the conscious avoidance of eye contact, the sheepish lowering of my chin, and the itching of the area just below my right ear.
There was my mother, earlier than usual to pick me up, sitting in our 2007 Toyota Camry. I felt my black skin on me, and was grateful for it only in that I knew it was hiding the red blush of embarrassment in my face. As a hush fell over the crowd, I began to hear what would be the source of my further embarrassment: African Gospel music, blaring from the car, soon to be accompanied by the passionate singing of Mrs. Nto herself. In my brief assessment of my surroundings, I saw a flurry of puzzled expressions, some attempts to conceal laughter and the initial chatters turn to whispers. Such a sound was foreign to them. Apparently, my mum had yet to read the room, and didn’t realize she was en route to sabotaging the rest of my secondary school career. With no real close to our conversation, I left Max and maneuvered my way through the crowd with my eyes tunnel-visioned on the car.
“Are you serious, mum?”
“How was school, sweetie?”
There was no point even attempting to explain the severity of her actions. I looked out the window at the other parents who picked their children up in a quieter manner.
The failure to feel like I fit in the English culture made me naturally gravitate to the idea that Nigeria is where I would feel at home. I longed to be at a place where five-syllable first names were a regularity, where dinner was expected to be eaten with your hands, where mispronounced speech and inaccurate grammar weren’t met with belittling chuckles. Such a place I did experience as I traveled back to the motherland for the first time when I was twelve years old.
***
Obinto, Ihechiowa. A village deep in the southern region of Nigeria, where my dad, grandad, and great-grandfather grew up. It would be sensible to think that this culture would be passed through the bloodline. It was 110 degrees Fahrenheit when my foot touched rural Nigerian soil but it was a breeze of cold gazes that greeted me. The branded sportswear, the closed footwear, the rolling suitcases, the overly moisturized face: these were all sights that served as anomalies to the locals who had more important tasks to tend to than to rock the latest Nike or indulge in an overly complex skincare routine. I had the same dark complexion, the same characteristically Nigerian small ears, the same God-dedicated first names, the same love for jollof rice, but it seemed like there was still a jigsaw piece missing in the puzzle.
I had no time to dwell on this sense of faint alienation as the customary introductions to the elders in the community were to follow, a sign of respect and humility that even those who were lucky enough to find a life abroad recognized, and thereby made an effort to display their connection to their origins.
“Nke a ma igbo?”
“Pardon?”
“Imaghi asusu gi.”
“Sir, I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
This would be the pattern in my introductions with the local elders, and I was continuously met with looks of disappointment and disapproval. Like clockwork, my dad would step in, responding to each elder in Igbo dialect with what I imagine was an apology for his son’s incompetence; meanwhile, I would slowly back off, washed away by the tide of embarrassment.
What does my grandfather think of me? How does this look to my father? I’ve failed the ultimate test of approval in my “home country.” How shameful is it that I can’t converse in my mother tongue? The boy with the Nigerian name can’t even speak his own language.
My inability to speak the Igbo dialect became blindingly obvious to the inhabitants of Obinto. Each time I failed to respond with ease, my conversation partners would have to adjust to my incompetence: from full Igbo, to informal slang Igbo, to a mix of Igbo and English, and, finally, to Pidgin English. My shame built each time I struggled to match the dialect, and eventually I submitted to exposing my British accent, which warranted instant disapproval from the locals. I didn’t blame them. I imagined them thinking: He thinks he’s too good for us. Is he flaunting his privileged upbringing towards us? Does he lack the humility to speak to us in our native tongue? He is ashamed of his roots. Does he not understand we haven’t all left the country?
At school, I always felt proud about my level of fluency in English; now, in a different environment, I wished nothing more than to exchange my English for at least a few Igbo greetings and a respectable proficiency in Pidgin English. I grew frustrated that I couldn’t experience the full beauty of my beloved Nigeria.
***
Once I returned back home to England, I began my Africanization phase in an attempt to avoid such a feeling of detachment in my motherland. With practice around my younger brother, I molded my accent to possess that harsh African tone. In response to any demands from my parents, I slowly incorporated a Pidgin English dialect that more closely resembled the manner of speech in Nigeria. Amongst my friends, my music selection on the aux cable gravitated stronger towards Afro beats than it did towards the latest trending pop song. At parties I became more invested in showcasing my self-taught Shaku dance, opting for that over my once renowned breakdance moves. Furthermore, I gathered enough basic Igbo phrases to keep me in good stead for a conversation with an Obinto elder, should that opportunity arise again in the future. As I grew older, my surroundings at school became more diverse, and I discovered many others in the same multicultural predicament as me, each with their own tactics to balance the two. They helped me realize that not having one sole heritage is what makes my identity.
Being a cross-cultural kid means having ownership over the elements of your heritage that you want to be part of your life. I wish, for the sake of narrative resolution, that I could say that I’m currently at the point where the two cultures don’t collide; but, in reality, I’m going to have to continually navigate between them for the entirety of my life. Each day I take intentional steps to embrace the beauties of each culture I am attached to. I’m starting to realize that it is not a matter of being 50% Nigerian or 50% British. It’s a matter of being 100% Eno.
Gidi gidi bụ ugwu eze.
Discussion Questions
- This essay is at the intersection of multiple cultures—centrally, Nto's Nigerian and English background, but also, in its composition, the American culture for whom he in part writes as a student at Notre Dame. How do you see Nto navigating those layers of culture? Where does he seek to translate specific cultural knowledge? Where does he not?
- In some ways, we might interpret Nto's ending as offering a kind of cathartic resolution. But are there ways the narrative pushes against that sense of catharsis? What does he ultimately seem to be suggesting about the experience of being cross-cultured? Why end with an Igbo phrase? Why not translate it?
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