the tribal dance

My existence on this earth is indeed very interesting. Or maybe I just over-sensationalize it to make it seem so. Whenever asked where I’m from, I can simply offer a one-word answer or a single sentence; however, I choose to go off on a tiring tale of how I am a mongrel of sorts. You see – this of course is for those not in the know – Nigeria is a multi-ethnic nation with three ethnicities holding prominence – Hausa, Igbo and Yoruba. I have a half-Igbo, half-Saro (Sierra Leonean) father and a Yoruba mother, hence my trans-cultural outlook. It is as a result of this mix I claim ambiguity with regards to my origins. To this effect, in the eyes of others, I guess I’m just a:

Beast of No Nation!

This was not meant to be an angry piece but it might end up as such. If it should travel down that road, let me apologize beforehand for such an incident. However, after reading it, you might understand where my anger would come from and perhaps, end up even more incensed than I am. I will get to the sad part eventually but must first go through happier times (ignorance is bliss) and my heritage issues.

I grew up in Lagos, the former capital of Nigeria. Though located in the south western part of the country, which is populated primarily by the Yorubas, it cannot really be called a Yoruba state. Every Nigerian ethnicity is well represented in Lagos, so you cannot really quantify it as such, with millions having been born and bred out here. Also, it is a port city and the business capital of the country, thus making movement in and out of Lagos crazy on a daily basis. To this effect, you can’t really say it is a Yoruba state, can you? It was built by Lagosians who, in my opinion, are from all parts of the country.

I’m not sure all that was relevant but let me proceed anyway. I have never been to Abia State, from which my father hails. Neither have my brothers nor do we speak the language. We have lived in Lagos all our lives and all our journeys outside Lagos took us to all the Yoruba states, including Ekiti, my mother’s home state, on several occasions. Also, my maternal grandmother, who speaks only Yoruba, has lived with us since I was four years old, so I will be expected to communicate accordingly, no? My dad and all his siblings grew up in Lagos and communicate in Yoruba more than they do in Igbo.

In essence, my location, travels and upbringing more or less make me Yoruba, right? Plus, mathematically, I am 25% Igbo, 25% Saro and 50% Yoruba, no? 50 is the biggest percentage, no? This was always my defense because I thought it was logical. It is a logical analysis but there are some things you just leave alone and I guess this is one of them. I’d always say, abroad you’re from where you were born, so why is it different here? I would always offer this defense in an instant. It did become rather tedious after a while, so now I just say I am from the corner of Cameron & Gerrard in Ikoyi, Lagos; the “suburb” I grew up in. “That’s my story and I’m sticking to it!”

:)

That’s what I thought. I was happy. No worries. All was find and dandy. I was a 50% Yoruba lad. Oh, I so was… until my confused existence was put into perspective for me. Rather painfully I might add. It had hovered above my head for a while but hearing the actual words stung. A deep, piercing pain that made my skin crawl and my bowels rumble. It was one of those delayed effect things. And sharing it with my-brother-from-another-mother, Dikko (he’s quarter-Igbo, quarter-Hausa, quarter-Yoruba and quarter-Kalabari – a Nigerian if I ever saw one); further reconfigured my reality. It happened like this:

There was a girl I knew, really cool girl. I’d bump into her occasionally and we’d say hello. Hellos became brief conversations. One such brief convo lead to exchange of digits. Exchange of digits led to textual intercourse (my moniker for text flirting). Text flirting led to the phone call. I call it that because she called me out in that convo: “Why don’t you just ask me out already?” I was quite tooken (Don Lango 101 peoples, shhh) aback by that one: “What do you mean?” She asks why I called then: “Just to say hello and see how you were doing.”

In fairness to her though, I did up the ante on suggestiveness in the last bout of textual intercourse, so her outcry was not unfounded. Since she’d stepped up to the plate like that, I decided to ask her out and we met for drinks (a 7UP and a Chapman with about 2 hours of talking) a day later. It was a good meet during which she confessed she was very attracted to me and thought I was a good guy but us hooking up was doomed to failure from jump so we should just be friends. No explanation besides “trust me” was proffered for the impending doom. So I let it slide.

We bumped into each other on a night out and ended up having a blast with a lot of winding and grinding on the dance floor. Take my word for it; there was more chemistry than Ababio (Nigeria’s premier secondary school Chemistry text book) between us that night. We had a phone convo the other day and I apologized for having to be frank but that “let’s be friends” line was bullshit. The frankness did stagger her but she recovered briskly. She came back with the usual lines; “it’s too soon”; “let’s take it slow”; “let’s not spoil it”; you pretty much catch my drift, yeah? I was like, sure, whatever but I just think it’s bullshit because I know what I witnessed last night. She confessed feeling it too and wanting to get with me too but she knew it was doomed. And to appreciate my frankness, she’d be frank as well. And the it happened. She opened her mouth and spoke:

“The reason I can’t get with you is because…” I had started filling in the blanks myself with the usual suspects: you dated my good friend; you have too many women in your life; I just can’t take you seriously… you know, the stuff I heard all the time. I was already getting my response ready depending on which of the variables she hit me with but nothing, and I repeat, nothing could prepare me for the concluding words of her statement: “… you’re Ibo!”

Get the rest of the story in a future blog. I am a bit too irritated now to continue but I have been leaving this hanging for a mo’ plus I haven’t posted in a while so let me just whet the appetite with this for now (and annoy in the process of course, leaving you hanging like that) and get back to you in a bit. Trust me.

PS – She is a Yoruba chick.