Narrative Essay

Foreigner at Home

“JOANNA- JO -JO -JOANNA ayy JOANNA…”
These lyrics blast out of the speakers. I literally have an Afrobeats song that sings my name (even though I spell it J-o-h-a-n-n-a)! How much more Naija (Nigerian) could I get?
Mr.Eazi runs onto the stage and shouts his catch-phrase “ZAG-A-DIS”!
Then the large crowd of Afro-beats fans screams back “ZAG-A-DAT”!
Trust me, there is no better place to feel part of the Nigerian Diaspora than at an Afrobeats concert in Central Park, headlining Mr.Eazi. In the audience we Shaku, Zanku, and whine to the music. The melanin in the crowd is poppin’ and I can almost smell the Jollof rice in the air. Anybody with eyes can see that I belong in this crowd.

I eventually come down from the Afro-centric high that is that night, and a couple weeks later the family and I are off to the Motherland. Boarding that Virgin-Atlantic flight, packed to maximum capacity, there is no need bothering to ask where the final destination is. If it isn’t the Nigerian jerseys from the 2016 FIFA World Cup that gives it away, it is definitely the fact that a watery, unseasoned imitation of jollof rice is being served as the on-flight meal. Waiting for the plane to take-off, Mom tells us about one of her experiences from her last trip to Nigeria.

“I was jejely (calmly/casually) walking out of a Danfo (public transportation bus) , and then this old baba (old man) comes and starts singing in Yoruba. In the song he is saying welcome back from abroad. And in my mind I’m like AH-AH, how does this man know that I’m coming from America? After I give him a couple Naira and ask him how, he says that he can just TELL when people are from abroad…”

Thanks to mom’s story I am all nervous about arriving with an accent that will obviously expose the fact that I live in America. Speaking with a Nigerian accent is all fun and games at home, but my Pidgin (broken English) is nothing compared to that of a Yoruba market-woman with the ability of sniffing B.S from miles away.

It’s in Ibadan, that my abilities to be low-key are put to the test. The first challenge is getting my hair braided which takes soooooo long but since it’s cheaper here I no dey vex (I’m not mad about it). A family friend, Ayodele, accompanies me to the hair salon and gives me precise instructions not to speak Oyinbo, (English/ how Yorubas refer to white people) since it will encourage the hairdressers to charge higher prices, thinking I can afford it because “I am coming from abroad”.

The only solution I can think of is barely speaking and trying my hardest to hide my accent with low whispers. I almost mess it up by blurting out that I wanted to buy water, which I was going waatr instead of watah. But I’m dedicated to my mission cause I’m not tryna go broke from braiding my hair. Unfortunately, this exhausting experience is not the only one of its kind.

This time me and Aunty Fumni are off to Bodija Market, but keeping silent in a place where there is haggling left and right no dey easy OH! Again, I am warned not to speak Oyinbo. I brush it off and try not to take it personally, after all I don’t want aunty to be charged more money just because of my accent.

Thankfully, her haggling skills have me laughing in my head. We’re only trying to buy 2 pineapples from this street-vendor, but for whatever reason he insists on trying to sell 3 pineapples for 1000 Naira (The currency difference between Naira and Dollars is pretty big). His wahala (stubbornness/stress) is too much for aunty and she starts driving away, but since the man has sense he gives her the fruits for the price she wants.

I collect the change from the vendor, remembering to be low-key about my accent, and then I realize that I’m not as Naija as I think I am. Don’t get me wrong OH, I love my country, but why are they trying to charge me extra like I’m Oyinbo? Why do I have to change my voice to fit in? Am I not Nigerian like them? I guess it’s one thing to Shaku and eat jollof rice in New York, and another thing to hop on an okada (motorcycle public transportation) across town to Ojuolegba, daily.

Feeling like a stranger in my country is a hard pill to swallow, especially when I was convinced I was as Nigerian as you get a couple weeks ago. It dawns on me that the longer the family and I live in America, the more we become insiders to the Diaspora and outsiders to the Motherland.

PS: As annoying as it is, I’ll hide my real accent any day if it means I can listen to Afrobeats and eat jollof rice.