#immigrant

of culture, religion, faith, race and all things divisive

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They sat around the tables as the Imam led the Dua for Iftar. Quietly conversing, eating fruits and drinking inside the church when I entered.

I noticed my Ward Councillor and a few other Community leaders were already there. Paused briefly to say my greetings then moved in and sat beside the #BAME team.

“I can see you already broke your Fast” I jibed at Adam, a White British guy who was eating chunks of Watermelon. Layered across the tables were platters and bottles of Watermelon, Dates, Yoghourt, Sorrel, water and some more indigenous drinks

platters of watermelon, apples and grapes
 

 

“Oh yes, I have” He laughed good naturedly.

A cursory glance around and I took in nationalities – An elderly Far-Eastern couple who looked Japanese in my eyes, bunch of British men and women, a few blacks. Another look to the left of the hall and I felt myself freefalling back to Kaura Namoda.

Kaura Namoda is the quaint town I grew up in Zamfara state. An extremist Muslim state in Nigeria’s Far North. I was living in Kaura well before my teenage years arrived. And was there when they moved on. So you can tell that Kaura was the base of my formative years.

Kaura was the place where my mind stored up Ramadan as a time for feast. Feast of tables arrayed with Sweets, Savories and an assortment of foods. Tables of food were placed in forecourts and anyone could walk in to eat. It was a time of fellowship. Communion and Community.

Your Faith or lack of it did not matter during Ramadan. You had an open invitation to a feast and it does not matter in whose courtyard you stepped in. The only password you required was an “Assalam Aleikum” and you were made welcome.

Kaura was the place where I learnt to eat Dabino [dates]. Where I went to the house behind us and watched Alhaji Mai Shanu’s wives make Fura Da Nono [Millet-based Yoghourt and Goat’s milk]. It was where on my way to Junior School daily, I would stop by and watch Hussaina and her sisters milk the cows and goats, before they came to School.

It was Kaura that taught me tolerance. A love for humanity across the external separators of cultures, regions, languages and beliefs.

Therefore, when I agreed to come and join this Iftar session, it was the beautiful memories of my childhood which led me here. To come sit at the Table and break bread with my fellow Africans who are Muslims. And as anticipated, all the memories surged out of my repository, suffusing me with feel good hormones.

Meanwhile, head covered in hijab, I sipped my Bissap [a spiced-hibiscus drink], reading the room and wondering. This pheromones floating across this room – causing laughter, banter, men calling themselves brother, niqab-clad women sharing food with those in pants, burqa-covered teenagers speaking British English with their peers – why is it not strong enough to permeate our divisive walls?

 

 

Savories like puff-puff, buns
Meatballs
Coolers of food
A dish of rice with vegetables
A dish of jollof rice

Dream Count: A review of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Novel.

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As reviewed through the eyes of an unmarried, Igbo woman

You must have read quite a few reviews on this book. Which means you know the storyline is female-centred. So let me spare you. It is a book which kept me up for two consecutive nights, few books achieve that feat. 

Now come along, for this unconventional review through my lived experiences. I assure you, this is about the best review you would get so far.

I share a touchpoint with all four characters in this book. 

 

    • Kadiatou: West African who grew up in a Muslim-dominated North. Self-effacing. Single parent immigrant with a young child.

    • Unmarried Igbo woman with a well-paying career in her 40s like Chiamaka. Omelogor. Zikora. 

    • Zikora: A puritan single mother who can relate to the Kwame scenario.

    • Omelogor: a banking background including Treasury experience with access to the corridors of power. I saw how the money game is played in there. Her culture shock in America. Friendship in Abuja with Hauwa and the exclusive Northern world. + deep friendships 

    •  Chia: Travel writer. Idealistic romantic views and a naïve heart.

photo of blue neon signage

THE REVIEW:

 I will review it from the angle of topics the author covered.

Societal Pressure on Females: Chiamaka, Omelogor and Zikora are all well educated, travelled and successful females holding down their fortes. Although, through the lens of society and families, they fall short by being financially independent, unmarried Igbo females in their 40s.

That wife who sparks envy: Chia’s mom was an archetype of the privileged Anambra wife. Stunningly Beautiful. Moneyed & doting husband. Uppity. Stay home mom who simply ate her husband’s money. That woman who sparks envy from other women as due to no fault of hers, she is blessed with much. Yet people wanted humility from her to prove that no woman deserved so much. She was also that mother, who gradually descends from her exclusive list of the type of man you should marry, to encouraging you to settle for any available man.

Shifting Values: The family members who now encourage you to adopt, try IVF or have a child if marriage is not coming. Backtrack 10, 20 years ago and those same people would have blatantly rejected any such option. This shows that with time, our views evolve. Also, the things we think we stand for today, are mostly self-serving. 

Fragile Female Self-Esteem: You are lucky if you have not been in a relationship with a Darnell. The user who is intimidated by you yet he likes the idea of your status. And in retaliation he attempts to make himself feel better by diminishing you. Yet you stay, make excuses for him then try to protect him from your circles. We also see it play out in how Binta, Kadiatou’s sister, kept lying to protect her city boyfriend from Kadiatou’s prying questions. The burden of a societal expectation to downplay yourself for a man to shine.

Self-Sabotage: Darnell treats you like crap and you wish for better. Chuka treats you like a queen. Still, you dump Chuka for a myth. Who else can relate?

Intricacy of Female Friendships: the deep bonds, pettiness and insecurities of female friendships show up all through the book. 

Poverty & Widowhood: Kadiatou’s father’s death changed the trajectory of their lives for the worse. Her mother’s experience with in-laws and subsequently, Kadiatou herself when her husband died, are real experiences in African culture.

Culture Shock: Omelogor’s experience in America which led to depression. It depicts what happens, especially to the average middle-class Nigerian, used to certain comforts, who relocates to the West.

Polygamy: Zikora’s father taking a second wife because his wife could only birth Zikora, a daughter. In Igbo land, a man who dies without a son has no legacy.

The book touches sensitive topics like Female Genital Mutilation, Rape, Shades of Racism, Betrayal, Nepotism, Single Parenting, Genocides citing the Nigerian-Biafran war, Operation Parsley of the Haiti-Dominicans, the Kano riots, the Nazi SS refugees in Argentina.

Furthermore, the hypocrisy of the West was depicted in; the replay of the 2011 rape scandal involving the IMF chief, Dominique Strauss-Khan and Nafissatou Diallo, a hotel cleaner. In addition to Operation Persil — The 1960s French government covert operation in Guinea to arm twist Sekou Toure into submission. Also, in Amadou, the black immigrant jailed for selling drugs and thrown into a faraway jail in Virginia.

And yes, Kadiatou’s fonio — called Acha in Northern Nigeria — left my mouth watering.

Have you read it? Share what stuck with you.A photo of the book: Dream Count by Adichie.

of racism and our red milk of human kindness.

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“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

enslaved. abused. deported. a tale of the vulnerable migrant.

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“One more footstep and all these will be over” Hajara looked at the sea entreatingly “You are too young and still have your life ahead of you” her heart remarked “What life does she have? Is this a life?” her head jeered “This life. She is here. Things can turn around, you know” “Ever the … Read more

of worldviews, perspectives vs lived experiences

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“What is that?” I asked her while pointing to the carton of fruits

“Lychee” she said.

“How does it taste? I enquired further

“It is very sweet” she responded as she picked more into her paper bag.

Inside the Mediterranean shop, I quickly picked up a handful and tossed it into my shopping basket. If this teenage girl says it is sweet then I might as well explore. Besides if I lose out on the money, I would have gained an adventure.

Soon after I got home and tasted the impact on my smoothies, I chalked it up on my next shopping list.

Then few days ago, as I bit into the last lychee with a grin, my head sent me a reminder about the abandoned article I started months back on Frames of Reference.

What image jumps at you when you see the term ‘frame of reference?’

Maybe, a cartesian frame, if you are a scientist. 

While someone else more in tune with their feelings may relate better with Carl Rogers’ definition.

I pride myself on possessing an above-average exposure of life. An exposure derived from an early background of growing up in diverse locations across multicultural settings.  Settings which exposed me to the unfettering power of travels, reading, writing, languages and diverse human interactions.

Such a privilege enabled me build rapport with diverse peoples anywhere I found myself. I also presumed I possessed a deep understanding of the Bible. That is, until living in Europe – which opened me up to a cultural background of the lands and Peoples of the Bible.

Clawing my way through the fog of a brutal cancer treatment opened me up to WWII literature. That in turn opened up a cultural exposition of the Jews to me more than the Bible. 

 Between Khaled Hosseini & Deborah Rodriguez, I ravenously sought out other Middle-Eastern and even found my way to Far-eastern works. At that point when I was down in the trenches, those stories helped ameliorate the nostalgia of Home. Simply because they were relatable.

Prior to here, my northern Nigerian background helped me  with the Easterners I had come across so far. Then when I got here, relating with the various Eastern communities was hitch free. Most share similar cultures which of course is an offshoot of Islam. Islam itself steeped in the Middle-Eastern background like the Bible.

As we bond over the similarities in our cultures and eat Pomegranates,  sunflowers seeds, apricots and other exotic fruits and seeds which were not present in my former life, the realness of it all strikes me. 

I have come to know that the widow of Zarephat was a Lebanese, Ruth was a Jordanian. Abraham was originally an Iraqi and Euphrates is not just a river in the Bible while Babylon was close to Baghdad. The Kurdish man selling my fish could be from Ephesus or the Greek Gyro man, a Macedonian. I interact with my Iranian friends and visualize Queen Esther and all the stories about the Persian Empire. 

I recalled posing under an almond tree and thinking of Aaron’s rod.  Plucking figs from a tree and an image of Christ cursing the fig tree came to mind. Or that time we were shown an olive tree which was more than a 100 years old.

My grandparents who were missionaries never stepped outside of Africa. For they and countless others like them, what images came to mind when they read the story of the fruits that the 12 spies brought back?

When we read that the Israelites cried out for the artichokes of Egypt, and our limited worldview limits us, do we simply lump it under vegetables?

As I sat on the kitchen Island and relished my lychee, I smiled again.  Amazing how a shift in position can enrich one’s perceptions.

From time immemorial, man has fought wars over the figures 6 or 9. Battles not because of the figures themselves which are fixed, but because of our viewpoints.

We take stances which even when are discovered to be flawed, remain too proud to admit to the little girl in the shop that we do not know what a ‘lychee’ is.

 

adjusting to life as an immigrant.

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“Your children have never seen you naked? How is that possible? I saw the wheels spinning behind Lucy’s eyes as she blinked astoundingly at Soraya. Two worlds were colliding here.

“Yes. This is the first time they would share bathroom with me. What business does my children have in my room when each person’s room is ensuite?

A few blank faces met other comprehending ones around the room.

“Each of your kids had their own room? Lucy asked again

And few of us nodded like the question was thrown at us while a black woman sitting beside her remarked “well that is a normal thing for us”

We were at a Wellbeing group for women run weekly by a Charity. I began attending although sporadically, after a referral when I was newly diagnosed of the Cancer.

Priceless. What this group has become in this new journey of mine. This space is a buffer for your sanity. A gathering of women from different walks of life talking over chai and coffee. This journey of cancer has redefined therapy for me. I am still redefining the word – cathartic.

In this space, language is not a barrier. Between; translation apps, gestures and someone else from your community with a better grasp of English, we understood ourselves.

Soraya is a Persian. The first time we met I had been impressed by her command of the English language. An inkling of her privileged background.

“Yes, we have a big house. And servants. My house is always full. Parties, laughter, we cook fresh food. But here, some people look at you like you are a beggar and do not know anything”. Her voice cracked as she wiped at her eyes

One of the women beside her rubbed her back.

“See my pictures”

Brandishing her phone; she circulated pictures of another life. One I grasped from where I sat. I had acquired enough social intelligence growing up in northern Nigeria to know what it means for a Muslim woman to share facilites with her teenage sons.

“Here. Said a volunteer pushing a cup of tea towards Soraya.

“Ladies, we can take a break if you want” Lucy announced. I felt sorry for her. She seemed totally out of her depth dealing with women across cultures.

We agreed to continue.

Asya, an Afghan and a first-time mother of a two month old baby, began speaking tentatively. Her baby was in the arms of another woman.

“I still find it very hard here. My husband says I will get used to it but when?”

“When I came here to the UK, I was ……… she searched her mental files for the word. As she grappled with her basic English, Soraya intervened. They both spoke Farsi.

“shocked”

“Yes. Shocked.

“Small houses. No parties. No markets. No people come to your house”

“As new wife, you alone and my husband go to work.”

All my life, lot of people inside house and outside. Children playing everywhere. Here, it is quiet like everyone run away.

“When I was pregnant, no mother, no grandmother to help. My baby take long to come and then they cut me to bring baby out. In hospital, they give me cold food.

Her voice quaked as she tried to compose herself. Some women nodded.

“Only me with baby until my husband come back from work.” Sometimes we don’t know what to do. sometimes I call my mother on phone”

“Do you not have help from other women in your community?” Lucy enquired

“Not same. They come and go. Nobody to stay with you and care for you and baby”

Her pain pierced me. It was one most BAME immigrants related to. For everything she described, an image flashed across my mind.

Nonetheless, the ironic use of the word ‘community’ abroad constantly amused me.

Even the people who felt inundated by community and craved their spaces back home, now cry out for community.

The other day, a Nigerian man had remarked how he missed the cacophony of the streets. Another missed waking up to see your neighbours setting up canopies knowing that your entire day was already lost to the noise of their party.

Yet, another missed the ‘disturbance’ from the church beside his house. How he disliked going home from work because of them but now willing to have them pitch their tent right back beside him.

Everyone now missed and craved ‘community’ including their mothers-in-law.

Listening to Asya share her story, my mind popped up an image. The countless times I had spent wishing a knock on the would be my mother showing up for duty.