So the honeymoon is over: Notes on travelling home
Photo: Muhammadtaha Ibrahim Ma’aji
A conversation I’ve been having with other returnees, especially first and second-generation Africans who have relocated back to their ancestral homelands, has been about what to do after the honeymoon is over. You’re beginning to settle into your new environment. It’s different in many ways, yet feels somewhat familiar. Things are getting real. You’re torn between conforming to cultural expectations, defying them, or finding a balance between the two. The funny thing is that many of us who have relocated usually weren’t that good at conforming before we made the leap to move. So I digress!
I’ve been relying heavily on inspirational quotes to make sense of my experiences in Nigeria as someone integrating multiple cultures in one body. Here are five areas of learning I’m navigating, with five great quotes to go with them.
No Wahala
If the cashier has no change at the grocery store, then no wahala. If petrol runs out at the station, then no wahala. If the bank takes over a month to mail your debit card, then no wahala. If a task can’t get done because the electricity’s out, then no wahala. If the restaurant says there’s no okra soup (even though it’s on the menu), then no wahala.
No wahala is a Nigerian pidgin term meaning no trouble. I find this to be a very Zen way of relating to life, and appreciate that the African musical sensations Demarco, Runtown, and Akon teamed up to make a song titled “No Wahala”. They understand that the phrase is a necessary vibe out here.
The admission that one can only control so much is a sentiment many Nigerians carry, and they embody this principle in humorous ways. If you watch Nollywood films or talk to someone on the street, you see how something so devastating can easily become a joke. Perhaps it’s a coping mechanism, but sometimes I’d rather be laughing than crying. I admire our intelligence and the way we continue to rise in the harshest of conditions. I’m not surprised that this country has produced some of the most prolific creatives, go-getters, and thinkers the world has ever met.
I mean, life here can be chaotic, and on some days all you can do is throw up your hands and say, no wahala.
“The same sun that melts wax is also capable of hardening clay.”
Wahala!
But wait. If the cashier has no change at the grocery store and you need that loaf of bread, then wahala! If petrol runs out of the station and you need that gas for your generator, then wahala! If the bank takes over a month to mail your debit card and you need your money, then wahala! If a task can’t get done because the electricity’s out and other people are relying on you to get that task done, then wahala! If the restaurant says there’s no more okra soup (even though it’s on the menu) and you know you don’t like the taste of any other soup they’re offering, then wahala!
Sometimes you actually have to admit that what you’re dealing with is in fact wahala. This is the contradiction many of us have to navigate here—constantly balancing our frustration and wish for things to just go smoothly. I recently checked in with a neighbour to see how she was faring with no electricity for three days. She expressed my frustrations perfectly: “Yeah, this is rough. I’m just going through so many emotions right now. I don’t even know what to do.” She had no generator, which likely meant that she had to walk some fifteen minutes, under the unforgiving heat, to the nearest barbershop in order to charge her phone. Her food would have also gone bad—mine had.
Part of living in the world is reckoning with the world you’ve been given. Wahala! Wahala, for sure.
“Babylon is everywhere”
I’m the Oga
In Nigeria, Oga means boss. The oga is the Big Man, the El Jeffe—the one who gets things done and calls the shots. Nigeria, like many places, has a huge boss culture. Think Game of Thrones. Ambitious players, hungry for power where people either bend the knee, seize the throne, or become like Arya Stark and develop a kill list. This might be an over the top example, but what I’m saying is that the conventional boss mentality trope seeks power over a situation, rather than power with. It’s a world of vicious binaries.
If the boss commands, you obey. If they are right, you are wrong. If they lead, you follow. Admitting a flaw is their kryptonite, so you better believe that any shortcomings and outbursts are your faults. Sometimes they are beloved for their benevolence; sometimes they are feared for their crudeness. Often, both dynamics are at play and contribute to a deeply authoritarian culture. The end always justifies the means, so if someone’s dignity gets trampled along the way, so be it.
That’s not me.
Emotional intelligence and making empathetic connections is what I value most. So, rather than having to be right, I can hear different perspectives. Rather than existing in absolutes, I can remain flexible. This doesn’t mean that I don’t respect my elders, or honour those who have put in a good amount of work to be where they are, or that I won’t be firm when needed. It just means that might does not always make right, and no one person has a monopoly on the truth. And what I’m not going to do in 2020 is worry constantly about saving face.
Power’s interesting, you never know who you’ll become when you have it, and it’s easy to misuse. We’re all human, and acknowledging vulnerability is usually difficult for folks in positions of authority to reveal. Minding my business, sharing my creativity, and making the world a kinder place is the kind of oga I’ll be.
(Pronunciation: O-gah, emphasis on the gah)
“ I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”
Who You Be?
The conversation about whether I’m Nigerian or American enough never ends. I relate to American things while I find myself often hanging with locals, though I feel comfortable in both scenarios. I’m always surprised at how other people’s assumptions reflect their experiences and biases. Like the time I hung out with a White American lady, and we were talking about our different friend groups. Then she said: “Yeah, this is for all my American friends,” indirectly implying that I wasn’t part of U.S. culture. I simply replied: “I’m American.” She clearly saw me as the Other, and it was a reminder that we have a long way to go regarding race, culture and inclusion.
Then, there was a Nigerian lady who said: “I thought you would be like most Westerners and assume that you know everything about how Africa needs to develop. But I guess you’re more Nigerian after all.”
There are a lot of expectations to manage.
People measure you with their own yardstick. The painful truth is that sometimes they’re not thinking very kind thoughts about you, let alone thinking of your highest good. Even more reason for you to think kind thoughts about yourself, know your story, and affirm your worth—no matter what anyone thinks. It’s up to you to choose—or not. It’s perfectly OK to be from many places and understandings.
“What Other People Think of Me is None of my Business.”
It’s Okay Ma, Be You
Ma is a term often used for women in Nigeria. All I can say is that the word has a certain swagger to it. It reminds me of the popular American rap song, “Hey Ma,” by Cam’Ron. It’s a vibe.
In my time here, I’ve had many people advise me on how I should handle my transition. When I have faced obstacles, people have said: “You’ve got to toughen up.” “Welcome to Nigeria, what did you expect?” “You should know the name of the village you are from.” “You should be grateful.”
I found myself apologising a lot for not knowing something or for having difficulty with my transition. I realised that I was beginning to feel bad for being me, and it was leading to crippling doubts.
Here’s what I’ve learnt: there’s always someone eager to tell you what you should do, how you should do it, and assert that they know your life better than you do—hence why they keep telling you what you should do. They are intense in their convictions, and if you’re not careful, you might get caught up trying to prove yourself to meet their demands.
In order to cope, I found two people who I knew would tell me the truth in a judgement-free zone. They rarely told me what I should do—usually, they spoke from their experience and told me their observations. What I really need these days is a cup of tea with a friend who simply asks: “Are you ok, ma?” I’ll never forget the words of one Nigerian expat that I’ll forever hold close: “Don’t worry, you’ll make it. You will find a place that loves you for exactly who you are and the talents you bring. You are needed here.” I cried on sight.
“It is Safe to be Me.”
***
There’s a huge difference between visiting somewhere and choosing to live somewhere. For me, living somewhere is a commitment to a particular geography with all its quirks and history. I think of this as an alchemical reaction of sorts, where the environment shapes you and you simultaneously shape the environment.
I hope this helps you in your own journey or at least gives some food for thought. Feel free to share your experiences and any gems you’ve picked up along the way.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Itoro Bassey is a Nigerian-American writer and cultural worker based in Nigeria. She has received residencies and fellowships from the Vermont Studio Center, the San Francisco Writers Grotto, the Edward Albee Foundation and the Aroji Drama Academy (Kenya). She has publications and honors in Prairie Schooner, Glimmer Train, the Book Smugglers and the Speculative Literary Foundation. She is currently working on a novella series following four generations of Nigerian women grappling with generational trauma, migration, and change as they weave themselves into the American fabric. Follow her on Instagram and Twitter for up to date information about her latest projects.