Editor’s note

I debated a lot about whether to include my own personal answers to my questions in this project, and in retrospect I’m not sure why, as this has been an exploration for me as much as for anyone else. Indeed the inspiration behind doing this, stemmed from a personal curiosity and desire to see if there were people who also felt they shared what I will refer to as a perpetual see-saw between identity-limbo, and a tangibly and ferocious sense of being Black, British and Nigerian. Furthermore, a lot of what went into constructing the questions and seeking the right phrasing, involved me first asking them to myself and thinking about how I would answer them.

As someone who spends a lot of time behind the lens, I naturally suffer from the high disinclination to be in front of it, so my answers won’t be peppered with portraits of myself. That would just feel awkward. So sorry if you were looking forward to that :)

Read my answers, below.

Age: 32

Nigerian ethnicity: Yoruba

City/County grew up in: London

City/County of residence: London

Describe your heritage

I am a Black British Nigerian born in England to Nigerian (Yoruba) parents.

What to you, makes you Black British Nigerian? How do you define it?

I identify as a Black British Nigerian primarily because I am second generation born here and my parents are Nigerian. I feel quite connected to that identity as someone whose maternal grandparents spent most of their lives (55-65+ years) here with some of their children being born here, and both of my parents have also spent the vast majority of their lives (40-50+ years) here with one even arriving at secondary school age.

What challenges do you/have you faced that relate to your identity as a Black British Nigerian?

It’s a really complex and unique identity which carries the weight of a lot of stereotypes, perceived privilege and inherent prejudice.

Starting off, to describe myself as a Nigerian sometimes feels inadequate, wrong even…because Nigeria is a colonial construct. So if we’re talking semantics, then specifically I am a Black British Nigerian of Yoruba descent, which is a different experience to a Black British Nigerian of Igbo descent. We have different cultures, although there are some common cultural practices related to the Nigerian nationality as a whole. There is also the challenge of the social stereotypes that are placed on Nigerians e.g. generally fraudsters, loud, proud etc. Whilst these attributes are true of some people, it feels offensive when that appears to be the default perception applied to you. Furthermore if you quite apparently don't fit into any of those tropes, it's almost as if you're an alien, not a "true" Nigerian, a lily-livered watered down version of a real Nigerian. There’s also the angle (that can somewhat feel accusatory at times), of Nigerian-born and living Nigerians who automatically assume you know nothing or care nothing for your culture, and that you are swaddled in wealth and privilege and couldn’t hack a day in Lagos.

Then comes the question of language. I don't speak Yoruba nor really understand it past a few basic things. I did not grow up with my parents speaking it to me, a legacy of a Britain that told immigrants not to speak to their children in their ethnic languages to avoid confusion in school. And whilst I didn't care when I was younger, I think now that it's a shame as it excludes me in certain settings and makes my 'Nigerian-ness' seem weak to others. There are things in Yoruba that can't be translated into English with the same vim, and not being able to interact with that directly feels like a great loss. I have tried to learn it (I studied it for 2 years in university as a module), but with many friends with the same background in the same position, there was no-one to practise it with, and so I've only retained small parts.

What do you love about being Black British Nigerian?

I love our implicit code. Things like when someone is speaking and suddenly says 'Rara', Olorun maje' 'Chineke' and other such phrases, and it's like this invisible bond is created immediately because we have seen ourselves and we have seen that we are good! After that it is 'Ah my sister' 'Ah my brother'. I love the way we can tell if a stranger is Nigerian sometimes just from the way they handle situations, gesticulate, carry themselves or speak, even in English.

I love the passion we have for preserving the dearest aspects of our culture e.g. traditional weddings. Even though I personally find them tiresome at times, I still respect their sanctity to many people, and I love the fact that even 2 or 3 generations down in Britain, we are still doing these.

I love the fact that we are finding how to be proud of where we come from. No longer shying away or trying to make our names sound more ‘English’, but boldly making people say our 9-15 lettered names in school, at work, and not feeling pressured to take on aliases as actors and performers anymore. Shout out to Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje who was on this tip from way back. Reading that every time in the credits of Lost was like someone screaming ‘Do you know whoms I am?!’ I used to think ‘Raa, man couldn’t shorten it?"‘. Now whenever I see it though, I hear a cry of ‘Kabiyesiiiii ooo!’ in my head, and I think about the matchless sauce of a Black British Nigerian who stomped into the international acting scene in the 90s, with his full Nigerian-Yoruba name, and basically flipped the bird at all the societal pressures/prejudice that no doubt would have impacted him at the time. His life story in general is an incredible one and worth reading about.

Finally, I love that because we are falling in love with our culture all over again, this is now infiltrating the mainstream British music and entertainment industries and new forms are rising out of this.

Do you think this country values your identity?

I think this country only values my identity as a form of collective blackness, and off the back of that when it has something to gain from it, for example in sports, media and/or entertainment achievements. All of a sudden we’re “British” and we should be proud to be so and everyone is happy for us. Once those events end however, it’s back to business as usual and “Gellalamacantry” and “You should be grateful to be here” rhetoric.

Why should I be grateful to be born here? Telling me to be grateful for being born here is telling me to be grateful for colonialism, for slavery, because without any of those things happening, this country wouldn’t be what it is now. The fact is we are not leeches sucking from Britain looking for a handout; our ancestors’ bodies funded the bricks of its core institutions, we fought in its wars (I have relatives that did so), we come here to work, and our work ethic and desire for excellence is even extreme and if anything, might need to be toned down. We are not amoeba, we are contributors, creators, born-survivors and passionate about our culture and identity. Hopefully the days of us feeling ashamed or apologising for that will continue to recede exponentially.

What does the future look like for Black British Nigerians - what are your hopes for us?

The future for Black British Nigerians looks effervescent, colourful, bright, full of progress, but also without a shadow of a doubt challenging, full of opposition and resistance to our increasing confidence in showing off our talents, our self-worth, and our meaning in this world. But the same way in which those before us persevered through the worst of times to give us a voice for today, we too will continue to persist and ultimately those after us will be louder than we could ever have dreamed.

I think the takeaway we have is to ensure that we don’t allow our culture to dilute, our names to become the objects of derision, nor our languages to fade away. And that’s a challenge as someone who lives on the ever-shifting tightrope of this dual identity. Let’s take the good of our mingled ethnic cultures and nationalities and preserve them, and leave old, toxic, values in the past where they belong.

Tols