of racism and our red milk of human kindness.

“How is your knee today?” The elderly man [whom I will name baba] asked him “Better, it’s less painful.” Young replied cheerily “Oh, you remembered. Thank you for asking” I said to baba as the minus-1-degree icy cold shook my body mercilessly. “Yes, he was limping the other day and could barely walk” baba responded … Read more

Immigrant Parenthood: a man’s world

“You saw how clueless I was when my baby began crying. The women here had to step in and take over. If I was back in Nigeria I would never take a baby out of the house on my own.  said a frazzled ‘deji as he started contributing to the discussion”

The Nigerian in me sensed his panic earlier when his baby began fretting. He kept rocking the buggy to lull the crying child without any success. A British woman tentatively intervened. This caused other women to chip in. Much as I wanted to help, Chemo was being a bitch and getting to that meeting already had me wiped. My need to help my community also to getting out of the house was why I got here.

We were at another of those sessions where the topic was ‘Issues that new arrivals face’. He was one of the volunteers from various communities who had turned up for this meeting. Faces around the table included a range of ethnic minorities alongside the British organisers

“Back home, you would not even get involved in child care because of community. My mom, her mom, sisters, aunties, and even paid domestic help with child care. And I speak for most of our men” he continued while I and the other ethnic minorities nodded

“As doctors, both of us can afford a nanny and a Housekeeper for this baby. But, this is what we get for moving away from the comforts of our homeland. We did this in search of a better life for our children.” This was their first child and his wife had recently resumed after her 9-months’ maternity Leave.

“I understand and that is why I asked to I carry your baby. Although I am British, my husband is Vietnamese. We lived in Vietnam for years. So, I know the culture.” Sharon, the woman who first reached out, smiled. She paced the room while still rocking the quiet baby. That explained a lot for me.

“And it does not end only at childcare but also housework”. ‘deji continued. “These are things an average man, especially one with a good job, would not do back home. But here, you either help out and run the home or there would be trouble because your wife alone can’t cope”

“Of course, she is also struggling. Back home, some of our women, especially those making money, do not even get involved in daily house chores. They simply pay to get it done.” Again, another round of nods as some of the British people looked on in amazement.

“As I looked on at this great divide in the room, I was glad I dragged myself to this meeting. It was a beneficial one to both parties. Your job revolves around #DEI. How can you engage successfully with someone you know nothing about their way of life?

How about the immigrant who has been repeatedly cautioned to be wary of their hosts because of XYZ and ABC? Was it not after all the empowering knowledge of lived experiences? It made Sharon reach out to help a young black father struggling with his distressed baby. Others like her looked on because they did not know which lines to cross.

The aim of these sessions is simple; build a bridge so we draw close enough. Ditch your binoculars, step across across the divide and view the scenery with the other person’s lenses.

of travels and worldviews

I shuffled wearily into the hall and sat on the first sofa by the door. Camp was taking its toll on me.

The seat closest to the door was vacant and I made a beeline for it. A middle-aged female sat there. I plopped myself beside her. And as it happens, we eventually got talking.

She drove in to camp from the Netherlands with her mother.

“Netherlands?” That far? I thought #Newwineunited was only for people here in the UK”

“No. People come from all over”

“So where are you originally from?”

“Nigeria” I smiled wearily

” I hear it is beautiful” she observed

“Yes. I grimaced

“Are you alright?” she asked and I responded with a nod. “Just tired”

She told me her name. I cannot recall it.

“my name is amara” I replied

“Awww, what does it mean? and where is it from? “

“Grace” It is an Igbo name from the South-East of Nigeria.

“My daughter is Amana” she offered.

“Amana?” That is not English. Where is it from?”

“Hebrew. It means faithful”

“Interesting. It is also an Arabic and Hausa word” I mentioned

“Hausa is a language in northern Nigeria mostly populated by Muslims. So the etymology of their language is mainly Arabic same as Swahili.

“Really? what does it mean?” she was curious

“It means loyal, trust. It actually denotes something deeper like commitment. When you hand something over to someone and believe them accountable to keep that thing safe. Like Imani [faith]”

“Also used for betrayers as ka ci amana [you have eaten amana]. To hold someone accountable; na ba ka amana [I am giving you amana] and so on. As I described it; right then, it hit me that all my life I had associated the word figuratively like a tangible whereas it is also an intangible, I now realised.

“Wow, thank you amara. I had no idea the name was that widespread. I only knew it was a Hebrew name. So how come you know so much about languages?”

“I moved around a lot as a kid which equipped me”. I sighed in gratitude for my life’s trajectory which I always take for granted.