If you had known me when I was much younger, and asked how I identified, I would have told you that I was Black. This would have been my way to acknowledge my Blackness in America, being that I was born and raised in this country, while simultaneously acknowledging that I was born to Nigerian immigrants, which usually meant that my particular experience as a Black person in America was markedly different from most of my African American peers. I was not from one of those families that traveled back home every year like some cousins I knew, which further solidified my distance from my parents’ homeland and cultural practices.
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Though I couldn’t fully claim the experience of African Americans whose people had been enslaved and brought to this country, their collective struggles and triumphs had taught me a lot about how I wanted to show up in the world. I had a great respect for what they had been through as a collective, and the beauty they had produced in the face of such odds, and, for me, the particular reality of navigating the US while Black was more resonant in my consciousness than my Nigerian identity.
In high school I was introduced to authors like Toni Morrison and Richard Wright. I read Jazz in a literature class as the token BIPOC book that had made its way into the syllabus, and Native Son in an Intro to Law class, where the teacher used the character of Bigger Thomas as a case study into the mind of a criminal. It would be years later, when I was training to become a teacher myself, that it would hit me how cruel this particular teacher had been in her final assessment of the main character. I’d break down in tears over this revelation, and say a word of gratitude for the struggles fought to make it possible for me to have access to authors like Morrison and Wright, even if in such a limited manner.
It isn’t about writing in a way that only humanizes Black people to white people and non-Black people eager to learn about different experiences—it’s also about telling stories where Black people, no matter where we find ourselves, can be witnessed by each other.
I suspect the teacher’s hope was to plant a seed that would make me criminalize Blackness, but instead, I developed a curiosity about my personal connection to a larger Black experience within an interconnected—and at times fraught—tapestry of understandings. Perhaps I could not fully claim the experiences of African Americans who had produced prolific writers like Morrison and Wright; and neither could I fully claim the stories told by Nigerian writers like Chinua Achebe and Chimamanda Adichie. But at the very least I could be in conversation with these writers from my particular vantage point.
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I’ve been asked quite a few times: Who do you write for? Usually I’m asked this question in reference to identifying who in the marketplace would be interested in reading my work. It’s become a complex question to answer, because usually, I’m mining decades of absence, dispersion and grief within characters who are trying to find the language to say the unsayable across space and time. And sometimes, if they could say that which could be said, they may choose to not say it at all, because the people they’re speaking to already have the scaffolding to understand their experience. If the scaffolding doesn’t exist, then this gap becomes a part of the story, a tension within the relationship.
When I lived in Nigeria for three years, there was a saying many people would use to convey this sentiment of what is intrinsically understood because one has been steeped in a particular experience shared among those who have lived it.
We know ourselves.
I was speaking to a friend about the teacher who introduced me to Native Son in high school. I’ll call this friend Naimah. She was born in the US to an immigrant Nigerian mother and an African American father.
“This teacher asked every Black kid in that class—and you know there were only two of us—did we ever feel bad about being Black.” I said, enraged. “And of course we say yes, because we think she cares about what’s happening to us. And then the next day she draws a Venn diagram on the chalkboard breaking down Bigger Thomas’ mind, making the case that he was primed to become a criminal. And then she wanted a fifteen-hundred-word essay on how one becomes a criminal using Bigger Thomas as the example. That was the only Black book we ever read in her class! Can you believe?”
Naimah, who usually had an answer for everything, shook her head and said,
“Girl, I know. These people… God will deal with them.”
“God will deal with them,” is what many Nigerians said to express powerlessness in the face of an impossible situation. They simply give it over to a higher power and move on.
From Naimah’s response, it was clear she had her own set of grievances that she had moved on from. I felt great relief in knowing that I was understood in this friendship. The type of pain I was still holding was known, and it didn’t require further explanation.
What steers my writing, is a quest to find the we. My experience straddling both Blackness in America and alienation from my parents’ homeland has made me crave literature where those of us living within the African Diaspora, and those on the outside, can learn about and from each other. It isn’t about writing in a way that only humanizes Black people to white people and non-Black people eager to learn about different experiences—it’s also about telling stories where Black people, no matter where we find ourselves, can be witnessed by each other.
It’s my hope to show the intimacy of how one shifts between worlds and different understandings. This is the experience for those of us who exist in that place Chicana feminist and writer Gloria Anzaldúa called the third space. Anzaldúa was describing the growing consciousness emerging within Latinx communities finding themselves between two homelands; grappling with being from neither here, nor there.
“I am participating in the creation of yet another culture,” she writes in Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza, “a new story to explain the world and our participation in it, a new value system with images and symbols that connect us to each other and the planet.”
Anzaldúa’s tremendous groundwork has helped me become a writer unafraid of writing worlds within worlds while recognizing how I exist in all of them.
When someone reads my work, the most exciting thing a reader can tell me suggests understanding, and being understood: “Say less.”
