He, I might have said as I wondered
why he was walking in the middle of the lane of a busy road, then as it became
clear, she was wearing heels you would expect to see on those modelling
womenswear, but her top was hardly masculine, probably feminine and never
really coming to terms of whether it should be classed as androgynous left me
more confused that you might be left with the pronoun they.
Yes, they were drawing attention to
themselves in clothes that could not be ignored once seen and a head shorn of
hair quite redolent of male pattern baldness, that drivers in cars contributed
to a needless cacophony of car horns get more people to look in the direction
of the commotion.
When I thought I would see them for
much longer, they disappeared into a whiskey bar and the chatter at the al
fresco tables would have been given to a surmise or two before we all returned
to what we were doing.
It is there to see
Whatever we were doing before a new
distraction came along, body adornment in the form of tattoos that usually were
discreet, but now they are all over the body down on the fingers with all the skin
surfaces covered including on the face, and this is now on the ladies. I catch
myself before I begin to question why, I guess they love and they do it, the
appreciation of beauty by strangers is beside the point.
People do not moderate themselves into conformity if they can help it, and much as a lot is being accepted at face
value and supported by laws to give protections against discrimination, being an
outlier can still expose you to unwelcome ostracism. It would seem our prejudices
are constantly challenged by changing norms and expressions we cannot avoid.
Our streets of education
We observe and document those
observations in memory that what was at first chimeral, with more encounters of
such rarities, we are eased to accepting these things are becoming commonplace.
Usually, we would not indulge and be
inclined to have these situations are self-expression even as an example might
provide guidance, we school ourselves into the knowledge that in all that
diversity of expression with its extremes that we have difficulty
understanding, there is a belonging we all have to share in learning of each other
and becoming better people.
As it seems one pandemic is winding
down, though not going away yet, we are presented with monkeypox and a threat
that it is spreading fast that those of us in a cohort once stigmatised for infectious diseases are once again appearing more susceptible to it. A public announcement
to drop-in by invitation totally failed the plain English test. We just have to
be careful. [MEN:
Monkeypox fears build as number of cases in Greater Manchester rise]
Signs with meaning
and some that require a bit of research, though I could not ignore one big
board as I step out of our apartment complex. It read, “Buy full set – Single lashes
R400.”
For the purchaser,
they probably know full well what is on sale, a lash of the whip it probably is
not, something for the eyes would be a sight to see. I have seen lashes that
could sweep streets, long and batting you wonder if the weight of those lashes
would require eyelid training to open the eyes before they slam shut.
Single lashes might
indicate the lashes for one eye which you have to pair up for the other eye, to
match length, colour, quality, lift, just allow your imagination to run
whatever course it chooses. Maybe there are cascading lashes, one mounted on
the other in an installation of double or triple lashes. Better to be observed
than to be tried out.
Fishing in Congolese cuisine
Further on at the bus
terminus, a kiosk serving Africain (sic) foods beckons to patrons to come and
try out from a list of foods with literally indecipherable names. I thought
I will start with the first and then consider if the rest should be studied.
Mbika (na) Makayabu,
the first read, which I found out was salted cod with sauteed vegetables, the
name already a mouthful before you have tasted the cuisine. I know in my heart
of hearts; I am not ready for this smorgasbord of street food. It is probably
tastier than the name suggests, and we’ll leave it at that. It is of Congolese
provenance, that’s a few thousand kilometres up north.
If you can follow
Lingala or just watch the YouTube video, you can serve it up at home too.
Whilst I might have
been a bit reticent elsewhere, I have been more open at work about who I am,
what I am about, what interests me and who is in my life. When it was not even
fashionable and the workplace was still trying to implement equal opportunity
legislation, my colleagues and bosses found themselves in close proximity to
what might be unfamiliar to them.
From the 1990s, they
first had a liking for me and then began a process of discovery. I was
interested in them beyond the workplace and they reciprocated with a sense of
humanity. In those times, I was in relationships and when one broke down, my
boss read me like a book, he opined, the only reason I could look and feel the
way I did was because of a relationship that had fallen through. So, I confided
in him.
Enforcing harmonious
environments
In another role, it
was my colleagues in a whispering campaign about it, my boss was having none of
it. He ordered them to come to my desk to apologise. Much as I tried not to let
it affect me, I was grateful for the support I had. Many simply said, they had
no issues with who I was, they were happy to have that diversity in their teams
and worked to ensure I did not feel uncomfortable or threatened.
With time, I decided
there was no point prevaricating, to a direct question I gave a truthful
answer. I corrected assumptions before they took root. The subtlety of pronouns
and ensuring the right one was used and known to be so. Never she, it is he, it
is him, his company and companionship define my life outside work.
Living my own truth
I note that I have
thrived in whatever I do when I have been open about these matters. In planning
for my holiday this year after almost 11 months apart. I first proposed a
holiday from the middle of December to include the whole of January. A
negotiation began, stripped down and bargained about until we agreed on 5 weeks
including the Christmas break.
I wanted to be with
my partner, he and I are planning to get married and that is our normal, we
are looking forward to it and planning for it, though the details will be
sorted out when we meet in Cape Town. Everyone in my team and my bosses are
aware, they know him by name and ask after him by name. To have a very
productive Akin includes recognising Brian is his better half. I am grateful
for the understanding, the acceptance, and the goodwill I have had through my
work life with regards to my relationships.
One boss even told me
to take as much time as I wanted off to deal with a breakup in 1999 after a
7-year relationship. I guess we appreciate that beneath it all we are all
human, with hearts, souls, and minds. Our partners being integral to our sense
of purpose and wellbeing. It matters a lot more than we deign to recognise and
make all the allowances for.
When my father first
learnt that I had travelled out of Nigeria to the UK, he was not in jubilant mood
at all even though that first trip was to acquire equipment for a company in
which I had 30% equity. I returned and, in the meanwhile, the relationship between
my business partner and I deteriorated because I was neither obsequious enough nor
too enamoured by the opportunity I had, I had many professional responsibilities
of which NextStep Limited was just one.
After my return, I
visited the British Consulate to fix my status, both to be able to travel to
the UK and if I needed to, emigrate. The need to leave Nigeria was not
pressing, though one of the contractual engagements I had from a year before
included the full payment for my flight ticket to the UK.
When I seized control
I was not mindful of
that prospect, even as Deji Sasegbon engaged me as a desktop publishing
consultant at his legal publications outfit. My father thought I had abandoned
academic pursuits to the whim of activities he never really understood. He took
it upon himself to attempt to secure my admission to an HND programme at the
Federal Polytechnic, Bida and despite his engagement with the Rector, my name
appeared to be switched with another in the rector’s files.
None of this bothered
me, as after my visit to the UK, I found that there was a market for my
Nigerian-acquired skill because I was more knowledgeable about the
things I wanted doing compared to the technical staff who were there to
demonstrate the kit I was acquiring.
Then I cared less
In the background, in
communications between my father and guardians who had direct influence over me
and access to me, he had suggested I was running away from responsibility.
Responsibility is a nebulous concept, but it is never 'responsibility' in its
distilled form, rather it is one of whether you can control, decide, instruct,
and require without question, someone to do your bidding.
It is one where your
independent view must seek the permission of another deemed superior, where your initiative
must encompass the pleasure of another who has set the expectations, where your individuality and uniqueness
is a function of conformity to some generally accepted norms and values or you are a misfit, you
cannot chart a course of difference else you would be excoriated, called to
order and commanded to obey or risk ostracism and be condemned as a radical.
Yes, I could run away
We were the runaways,
though I do wonder what kind of a runaway I am. My father is essentially
Nigerian, a proud one at that. I doubt if was ever Nigerian even if I spent
some of my formative years there. Daily, I was reminded that I was born abroad,
certain quirky mannerisms and my accent modified by influences from England and
in Nigeria put me in a limbo of identity.
I probably found ways
to navigate the system, but I really do not think I belonged. After having
moved to the UK, my father was a resident of the 60s, I became a resident of
the 90s. His experience of society then was radically different from my
experience. He was treated like a second-class citizen and hardly appreciated,
yet, in Nigeria, you could be a first-class citizen and it counted for nothing.
My storied identity
The greatest benefit
of our returning to Nigeria after the Civil War was that I attended really good
schools with an international pupil population, I grew up a world citizen, self-assured,
confident, curious, precocious and inquisitive, our teachers open to
questioning and discussion that we were free to be ourselves.
Within the non-formal
educational setting, I learnt without noticing it, to appreciate who I was in
terms of my identity and consequently my sexuality, though along the way, I was
abused, exploited, violated and much else. The end-product is tried by
experience good, bad, hard, and bitter, it would not be traded away to anyone,
if I could help it.
Nigeria? On my own
terms
I can understand my
father’s desire for me to return to Nigeria, maybe to visit, even dare to
settle down, I do not share any of that sentiment, especially the latter. I am
first, an Englishman who happens to have Nigerian parents, I don’t expect many to
agree with that, but it is my story to tell, not for others to usurp and retell
to their own intentions. I owe no explanation to anyone about my sense of self,
you can accept me for who I am or leave me be.
I ran away for my
freedom to be who I want to be, I ran away for the need to be independent of
influences I cannot reason with to get across my point of view, I ran away to
take on responsibilities I choose to shoulder rather than those thrust upon me,
I ran away to have my own prerogative in matters concerning myself, my welfare,
my sanity and my life. I ran away to thrive outside the confines of unwarranted
interference and according to my own terms.
Would I be returning
to Nigeria soon? I don’t know, but if I do, it would be on my own terms, at a
time of my choosing and if I find it convenient. I guess that is the most
inconvenient thing if it gets to the notice of my father, we are not the same
person, not by a running mile. Maybe, I could be given a little credit for
having my own mind.
I have just watched the documentary Black Sheep that has been shortlisted for an Academy Award in the short film category, about the quest for identity of a young black man in England of mixed African parentage, the actions the parents took, and the journey travelled by one of the children who followed.
The blog I have written is not a review of the film, rather it illustrates how journeys to destinations to live are different from journeys to a settled identity.
We as children embarked on many journeys with our parents to many places to live, to adapt, to school and by that been influenced by situations and circumstances in the home and our wider communities.
However, much as we have followed, it is unlikely that our parents have followed us in the journey of knowing who we really are. In my own case, my father has always had the presumption that we have the same identity and are would eventually be driven by the same passions, nothing could be further from the truth.
Marked as different
He never embarked on my own personal journey of discovery, for the idea that Nigeria is my home bears no reality to my circumstances. Despite the accident of fortune that had me born in England and spending much of my childhood into adulthood in Nigeria, I was never accepted as a Nigerian.
It was not in the way I looked, for in that, I was no different from any other Nigerian, but the moment I began to speak, my accent betrayed a foreignness that cast me as another, from somewhere else and that changed the way people interacted with me.
To those who knew me, they knew I was born abroad, not steeped in the customs and essentials of our tribal and societal strictures, so, I was excused, forgiven and may be excluded because I was not one of them. I was caught in a flux of identity between where I was born and defined by it and where my parents were born and alien to it. In that, my mother tongue was English and that was different from my mother’s tongue which is Yoruba.
Environments and influences
Parents have great determination, in terms of the provisions and opportunities they, if they have the means, put in the way of their children. Mine was of privilege in my primary education and the ease that was put into my life, but it did not spare me from other issues that attempted to cripple the joys of childhood, our once nuclear family infused with characters and characteristics that created negative experiences that leave a black spot in the childhood story.
For secondary school, they determined, I needed to be toughened up, whilst experiencing some cultural affinity with our clan. I was sent away for months to live with relations and then to boarding school. My first term was horrific and a terrible experience for my mates who were woken every night by my recitation of Psalm 23 because I thought and believed I was seeing ghosts.
As a bedwetter too, that was seen as weakness rather than what we now know as having psychological underpinnings that we eventually work through either by grace or good fortune.
Then, rather than recognise some of the turmoil I was going through, I was considered too slow by my father and my mother thought I gave away my things to curry favour. Everything or situation had a pearl of wisdom they are conceived in their minds was the cause to which they made what they thought was adequate provision.
Yet, somewhere in our lives, we had gathered tools and coping mechanisms that have given us resilience and strength to overcome crises after crises.
The question, “What is the matter with you?” was rarely asked in genuine concern for welfare or wellbeing, rather it was spat out in disdain, criticism and condemnation because one was not measuring up to an expected standard. It is possible that my memory fails me, but if I can recall outright praise, it had little impact.
How do you talk about clinical depression?
It all came crashing down after I left secondary school. The first two schools I attended after for a total of 4 years yielded nothing, I was asked to withdraw twice, and it was not because I was a dunce, I just did not know why I was in a class on certain days. With hindsight, these were times of clinical depression, the signs my mother in her religiosity would have thought required more prayer and ritual and the patriarch just saw as a weakling in his firstborn.
No, parents can never embark on that journey of personal discovery of their children, they can only facilitate, provide opportunities and paths. Most importantly, have an ear to listen to a cry, because children still cry, cry for help, cry to be heard, cry to be lifted, cry to be accepted. I fear parents lose that listening ear sometimes much too early for the benefit of the child.
I had no one to talk to about what I was going through, I needed professional help, but I was failing son fit to be taught a lesson of life so that I would sit up and begin to take responsibility. I smile today because I have been given the good fortune to make stories of the dark times of my life.
I was never on a quest to get an identity, that journey was always one of discovery, realisation and acceptance. Too many influences have interacted with my personality towards understanding and loving who I am. I embody many characteristics of my parents’ personalities and some that are uniquely mine.
I love who I am now, I accept who I am and live who I am for who I am, and all this would be radically different from who or what my parents would have expected me to be. I am a product of influences, circumstances and environments of fate, fortune and force, none of which I choose to repudiate.
When asked, I am an Englishman of Nigerian parentage, that is a settled matter. There is a long story to tell, because, in one conversation with my father, he said, “You have always thought like a westerner.” I am still deconstructing that platitude, for it is deep.
I recognise that this might read like an unfinished blog, this is because as I was writing I realised there are many strands to the story, too long for a blog and better put in the context of a book, whenever I get to write it. I have also written on this in other blogs from other perspectives.
