Where even is “home”
One day, when I first moved to Germany, I met this old Ghanaian man at the bus stop. I was going to be there for a while, so I decided to have a conversation with him. He had been in Germany since the late 70’s/early 80’s. He got a German PR, but never got a passport. In his words, a German nigger is still a nigger. Even though he has a daughter, now a dentist, and German, probably by birth, he still shuttles between Germany and Ghana at least twice a year. In Ghana, he lives in his own place, in Germany, in the old people’s care facility. I remember the first thing that struck me was that racism must have done a number on this man. Second, was that a kid and 40 years later, this man still did not consider Germany home.
Before I left Nigeria, every time I heard someone moved back, I thought they were stupid. It did not make sense to me why anyone would leave the comfort and access of a system that works, to go back to our trash Nigeria. I have now lived outside Nigeria for exactly 4 years, and 8 months to the day, (yes, I still remember the exact date I left Nigeria, and the flight I took. An Airfrance flight, to CDG, Paris), and it is beginning to make sense. For one, nowhere has felt like home. I still refer to Nigeria as “home”. Never where I currently live. It feels like you are in a constant state of motion, especially if, like me, you have changed cities a lot. In this time, I have lived in Paris (for slightly over 6 months), the Netherlands, (for another 5 months), Nantes, (for a year), and Germany to date. Maybe it is the constant moving, for work or school, but it always feels like I am still searching for something I have not yet found.
Another thing is the absence of familiar faces and the fact that a lot of your favourite stuff is out of reach. You go to the gym, try to join a club, the first thing on your mind is trying to find someone that looks like you, because it makes the assimilation easier. You feel like an “other” and you are actually perceived as an “other”. You stand out like a sore thumb. When I went home in December/ January 2019, the first thing I appreciated was the familiarity. The fact that I did not have to watch my accent, or try to remember some foreign language, did not have to wait 2–5 business days to get jollof rice at a price that would make Lagos “bistros” jealous, or cook it myself, did not have to travel all the way to make my hair, also at a price I would use to buy two weeks’ worth of grocery while worrying that the hairdresser wouldn’t understand what I was trying to communicate. I did not have to search for a familiar face (Nigeria is unique sha, still you have to ensure the face is friendly).
I know Nigeria is trash, but it is my trash, I grew up in the trash. The peculiarities of okada and inhaling CO gas that will likely kill me, the agbero that you must squeeze face for, the security guard that wants you to “drop something for boys”, switching between clean English and pidgin without hesitation. Haggling in Ajah market and rueing the stupid Nigerian sun while nearly passing out from hunger and thirst. The familiarity of friends and shared histories without constantly having to provide context. I appreciate the opportunity to experience a system that works, and the opportunity to travel Europe, but when it comes to it, home will always be Nigeria. I hope to be able to retire to Nigeria if there is one to retire to when those bastards are done looting us.
I know we like to say Nigerians are too nosy, poking their mouths in other people’s businesses, but even that, I miss. November 2019, I had an emergency on a random Thursday and could not show up to work for a whole week. I shared office with two other people. Beyond the compulsory email I had to send to the office secretary to inform her of my absence, I did not hear anything from my office people. Not even the two people I shared a space with. I got back the week after and not even “where have you been?”. I met the cup of coffee I had had before leaving work that Thursday, with mould in it. I could as well have died, and nobody would have noticed.
The dating scene. That’s another rant. But I will give you a brief hint: I once matched with someone who was non-black (a miracle, by the way) and the moment he found out I was Nigerian, he disappeared. Your options are limited, and you must screen for all kinds of things. Many times, it comes down to a choice between allowing yourself to be disrespected or the short-term companionship of some dating app guy. It is not worth it in the end. It does not help that people never seem to understand that you are not the cup of tea of the people in your vicinity. “ahn ahn, premium babe like you, you mean you don’t have any toasters?”, and other cool stories. I am beginning to sympathise with people who move back to “find love”. When your support system is >1000km away, and you are dealing with issues, phone calls do not cut it all the time. Making friends is tough. Not only are you an adult with responsibilities, you are also likely in a culture that is very individualistic, and if you are like me, are in a place where English isn’t the first language. When people tell me to ‘put myself out there’, I am confused, because how? Where? What does put yourself out there even mean? Bumble BFF, where one would assume you would have better luck at, than the dating section of the app, proves useless in forming reasonable friendships. Being an “other” is a serious condition that does not go away.
So, while I do not have the sentiments of the old man at the bus stop, if I had to choose between giving up my Nigerian citizenship for a “better passport”. The answer is a definite “no”. I would rather renew a PR for the rest of my life than lose access to what I have always known, and probably will forever know, as home.
