Is Kemi Badenoch suffering a midlife identity crisis?

Kemi’s Nigerian baggage

Once again, Kemi Badenoch, the Leader of His Majesty's Most Loyal Opposition, is in the news, not for policy ideas on how she intends to lead His Majesty’s government, if she becomes the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, but by defining herself against her Nigerian ancestry.

Her new tirade is about how she no longer sees herself as Nigerian, while how you identify is quite left to the individual. One can only wonder if our principal is suffering an identity crisis in trying to situate herself comfortably in the minds of the electorate she desperately needs to appeal to. [The Guardian: Kemi Badenoch says she no longer sees herself as Nigerian despite upbringing]

Gosh! A baby girl

The difference between her and me? I did have a childhood I vividly remember in the UK, born of parents who were students and residents rather than of a mother gaming the system for pecuniary advantage, the likes of whom forced the government of Margaret Thatcher to change the rules of birthright citizenship.

Kemi might protest until she is blue in the face that her mother was not engaged in birth tourism and consequently she herself was not an accidental anchor baby, but let us speculate on how having a medical doctor father in Nigeria, it was expedient for her mother to travel to the UK for medical treatment, and then she pops out in a maternity hospital, how convenient.

On the other hand, my mother was heavily pregnant with my sister, as anyone would have noticed in the last picture we took before boarding the plane on our departure from the UK. How things might have been different if someone had counselled my mother about the need to anticipate the opportunities Kemi now has for her then-unborn daughter.

Embracing all influences

I identify with Nigeria by heritage and influence through some of my formative years, but now, I have spent about 40 years living in Europe, and I do not define myself through the denigration of Nigeria as she does. When I was in primary school, most of us Black kids had foreign accents, and our schoolmate children of immigrants or expatriates in Nigeria mostly had Nigerian accents.

I am broadly European, even though I have a mastery of Yoruba and an understanding of Hausa. I do not pretend to know Nigeria that well, and I spent more time than Kemi in Nigeria, but left 35 years ago.

I'm affected daily by Nigeria because I have family and relations there, and a thriving and prosperous Nigeria is a comfort for all of us of Nigerian heritage in the diaspora. Yes, there are bad memories as there are fond memories, but it is in the UK that I have experienced muggings, racism, prejudice, and all sorts of attacks on the person.

I didn't live in the Netherlands for 13 years, trying to please the Dutch by putting down England or Nigeria, I embraced all influences that make up my third culture kid identity.

She needs a better narrative

In Kemi’s case, it is both political and personal, the need to constantly redefine herself in the context of Nigeria. If we set aside the circumstances of her birth through her mother for some unforeseen benefit as the story gets told, her pronouncements framed in a negative mindset about Nigeria are becoming unfortunate.

Eventually, someone is going to ask her what she intends to do in government and whether she can drop the Nigerian baggage she lugs around as a chip on her shoulder and see herself as just a black English girl who happens to have Nigerian parents.

I have no problems saying I am an Englishman with a Nigerian heritage and European influences, accent and all. More importantly, I am comfortable in my own skin; I dare say, she exhibits a form of self-loathing with an eagerness to belong and please.

Nigerians getting agitated by each outburst by Kemi are missing the point. The issue is not Nigeria; Kemi is still struggling with who she thinks she is, and well into midlife, she has not found a clearly positive narrative to embrace all the influences that make up her multifaceted identity.

Time after time

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Like a foreigner to them

It is a source of amusement when I consider those who dismiss my viewpoints as borne of Western ideals totally bereft of understanding the cultural norms of my forebears.

I appreciate that I am quite detached, if not absent, but to mistake any of that for being oblivious is to fail to understand the power of influences of place, people, and position on the character and personality of a person.

One gets dismissed as a foreigner, mostly for convenience in terms of taking guidance, one's generosity is however more welcome and accepted than when one’s Western-tainted wisdom is dispensed. People only align with you where there is some advantage they can gain.

Time is not time to them

The somewhat unfortunate and conspicuous Englishman in me is rarely gratified on the use of and the sense of time as a material of precise measurement, by others.

You could be forgiven for thinking you live in a totally different universe, their timepiece is usually lagging yours by hours, and any synchronisation takes no consideration of putting any value on your time. It is assumed; you always have the time to suit the needs of another rather than yourself.

What a foible it becomes, if you are fastidious and punctual, making every effort to be on time and on schedule. You strive on principle to ensure any inkling of not making an appointment is always communicated with respect and courtesy to the other person.

Making allowances for them

Time to them maintains and retains an elasticity totally indeterminate, that no properly functioning watch can aspire to give it any sense. Your attempt at giving time a bare modicum of precision is to be viewed as an obsession indicative of a mental health problem.

Even with the allowances made for tardiness, patience is ultimately a finite resource, and if others have no better things to do with their time, it is not universal. In the Western world of thought to which I have belonged for longer than I can remember, the abuse of your time is a clear sign of disrespect.

This is why I have adopted the flexibility of allowing the other person to decide the time and place for any meeting. I know I'll be there, on time.

It begs the question when the person who chose the time and place for our meeting is not there on time and has not bothered to communicate why. If you cannot keep to the time you set for yourself, what can you successfully do for yourself?

Childhood: The fears and hairs that still haunt

What I heard to my hurt

My ears have a sense of betrayal of self, the sounds that syncopate with the rhythmic resonance of my ear drums taking me into worlds that I have never intended to visit. It was one such occasion when my aunt and our male valet or servant were having this conversation about the esoteric and weird, uncanny stories of the evil supernatural in the hearing of an impressionable 10-year-old.

Seeds sown into my vivid imagination would result in 2 terrifying encounters in which I believed I had seen the devil, a red-crested beastly creature at about 7 feet tall, arms raised like in surrender, but I saw terror and the spirit of fear that I never knew before took hold.

A dismissal of my experience

In the first sighting, my father dismissed my screams as some sort of juvenile exuberance and over-excitation, until late at night I woke up to a sound that brought everyone running to my rescue. My mother was both confused and perplexed by this strange change in my demeanour and as we sat in the living room this apparition appeared again.

My listening experience in the space of less than 30 minutes, the unguarded conversations of seeming adults unaware of the consequences of their discussion in the presence of a child would suggest that in the 1970s there was no knowledge of the serious safeguarding requirements to having anyone care for children and the result was a spectrum of child abuse, much of which I have written of.

In the grip of superstition beyond sense

I guess this informs why I curate what I absorb into my overactive imagination, fundamentally, I do not watch horror films, I have the capacity to imagine enough without have the stimulation of things that might go beyond my control.

Maybe I do now rationalise situations in which I find myself that I am more controlling of irrational fear, or so I think. Then I was walking up a road late at night when I realised the open field to my left was in fact a disused cemetery some gravestones displaced like a place abandoned and desecrated to the extent that the forgotten are indeed forgotten in terms of care for the place.

Between the temptation to look there and look away, I quickened my steps and still stole a few glances, for where in folklore have, I acquired the idea that a graveyard, the reliquary of the dead could be a hive of activity that would interact with the living? And yet, whatever schooled that idea into my consciousness has left it unlearnt.

I was ready to scream

Then the hairs still in their roots of my bald scalp were standing on their ends, in an excited state of sense something otherworldly. In the grip of unexplained fear, a wild guttural sound was forming in my throat and ready to explore into a torrent of the fiendish wailing of a banshee, and on the other hand, I checked myself thinking, why are you about to scream about nothing but the phantoms in your head?

It is however likely, if I had screamed I might have not only given voice to the fear, but also it would have allowed the extirpation of the tension, a release that might have brought people to enquire about the source of my discomfiture either for my embarrassment or in sympathy for hapless mental gymnastics with endearing pity for my need of some sort of help.

Time in a timeless appearance

It was not long after that, a homeless man in the recesses of a building along the way nodding to something asked for the time. A time I should have been ensconced in the warmth of my bed. The reckoning wondering is the person I told the time was homeless as pertains to the life in which we live or homeless from the displaced stones of the graveyard in an encounter I was not prepared to countenance.

If there is a lesson in this that has had lasting consequences for almost half a century, it is an admonition to parents to beware of the people they expose their children to, whether relations or employees. I doubt many parents fully appreciate what it might portend and, in my case, I might have been better helped by a child psychiatrist then being trafficked between religious and animist grottos of unlicensed practitioners of strange acts along with the rituals of reading Psalms in a language I hardly spoke into buckets of water for spiritual ablutions to ward away evil spirits.

You haven’t heard half the tale of this gruelling thing, much of which I attempt to forget as I also deign to forgive. Much as one was wronged there is grace that abounds to soothe and calm the troubled soul and it in that knowledge that I have found hope and redemption.

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Pat Robertson and the dreamers who rejuvenated Christian living

Bringing back memories

The announced passing of Pat Robertson at the age of 93 today brings to mind an aspect of my history I have barely touched in my many blogs until now.

In late 1982, I resumed admission at the Yaba College of Technology to study Electrical Engineering having made the switch from the Lagos State College of Science and Technology where I was reading Chemical Engineering not so much out of choice but by the influence of an old student who came to give a talk at my secondary school along with the poor career guidance help that was prevalent in those days.

I have many times argued with my mum who at that time was a principal of a secondary school that such showboating visits are not helpful in career guidance, rather they lead impressionable young people off on excursions of fantasy without any understanding of drive, passion, or reality of what they innately can do. However, that is another discussion.

I was missing in action

I was 16 years old, and I was suffocating under my parent’s roof having been in boarding school since the age of 10, my first year at YabaTech as it was called, passed uneventfully, I barely passed the year, I was mostly truant and my head was hardly in order as there were classes I attended that I could not say I was in that class or what we were doing. Maybe a professional assessment would have suggested I was clinically depressed.

My second year began uneventfully and this time I was squatting when I fell into a group of avant-garde art majors who intrigued all by their creativity and ability. A building at the end of a concealed and somewhat secluded road housed the Christian Union building and nothing about them was inviting as guilt and condemnation simply reinforced the idea of the God I had known from the time my mother to me to secret religious meetings from the age of 3 in England.

This is God?

God was a tough punishing deity that required more than sacrifice, tears, and blood to be barely appeased and was never pleased. One night, 3 art students invited me to follow them to this Christian Union building and my discovery? They began speaking in tongues and I was caught in wonderment.

Soon, I found there is a growing band of Christians mostly led by these art students who were giving the bible a new sense of meaning and relevance to our lives and even though my mind was messed up by many things, I was quite an effective student union representative and now, a budding born-again Christian. With that, a new frontline of war was opened on the home front that I did not have the wisdom to manage at that point.

A band of Christian musketeers

Along with this was how Bible study really looked like serious study and not of the Sunday School variety, and the first point of debate was grammar, semantics, and interpretation, whether women need to cover their heads, or their hair was already a covering. The contentions between traditional evangelicals of the brooding and appearing sad-to-be-humble type and the livelier, let’s take the world by the horns stuff, or even maybe more.

I could make a long story of this, Dake’s, Strong’s, Vine’s, Amplified, the lingo was Greek and sometimes Hebrew, the speech was soaring homiletics dispensing stranger-than-fiction hermeneutics and chief of them was the most talented artist of his generation. We had the Americans to give us speech, accent, and direction, we believed we were making God interesting and the slightly curious would find out more.

An American invasion was complete

Enter The 700 Club, which in the 1980s was the staple of Christian television that did not fill you was eschatological dread but a longing for a better experience of a loving and amazing God. The Christian Broadcasting Network founded by Pat Robertson amongst other influences seemed to fill us with daring, adventure, and boldness. Soon, we broke away from the Christian Union to form The Fellowship and there were extraordinary demonstrations of the power of God in our midst from albeit very flawed men, the grace of God remains a mystery even in its powerful expression when we yield to what God has purposed to do in and with us.

Whilst does not entirely read like a tribute to Pat Robertson, it is a tribute to a generation of influential and impactful Christian men and women of ministry who dared to dream seemingly impossible dreams and through their living, their testimonies, their sermons, and their books especially tried to teach others that they can bring these dreams out of the invisible and unseen realm into living present reality.

If we could only dream

These dreams, built broadcasting networks and outreaches, universities, campuses of almost enchanted living, even stupendous wealth, impactful businesses, and churches planted into regions that would have been impossible to reach changing lives so radically and fundamentally, you may not believe much of all this started from a simple dream.

Pat Robertson was one of such men and women who dreamed the impossible and for that, I commend him even if in the latter times of his years he became controversial to the point that whatever he said was dismissed.

God rest his soul.

Other Pat Robertson blogs

Blog - A fatwa in everything but name (2005)

Blog - Fatwa evangelist blurts out again (2006)

Blog - Thought Picnic: How Do They Launder Demons? (2013)

Blog - How God laughs at the thought of being a voter (2020)

A Black Englishman? He laughed

An Englishman he is

He scoffed on the verge of derision; the thought of a black Englishman of Nigerian heritage was beyond him, 'How is that remotely possible?' He remonstrated. A docket for which he could not find a pigeonhole as the more common black British of Nigerian heritage would have gone down better with him.

Obviously, I was being asked to follow him down the classification of Black British, which broadly, I might be, but particularly, I am not. Great Britain comprises the three nations of England, Scotland, and Wales. The identities being English, Scottish, and Welsh, the United Kingdom is of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.

Whilst I can understand there are elements tending to hijack the English identity for nationalist purposes, what we cannot allow is for them to rob us of how we choose to identify just because some have deployed that identity to nefarious ends.

An Englishman I am

That I identify as an Englishman is quite fundamental by reason of birth and with an appreciation that the British influences that moderate my sense of being are exclusively English and quite different from if I were born and bred in Scotland or Wales.

I became acutely aware of this when I lived in the Netherlands and between the question of where I was originally from and what my heritage was, people still found it difficult to understand that in the last century or so, with much travel, immigration, emigration and settlement, the question of identity is rarely fixed by parenthood alone, the congenital elements notwithstanding, the rest can be so radically different from your forebears.

And a black man too

Living in Nigeria, I looked like everyone else until I began to speak, as my accent was not typically local. It set me apart in advantageous and sometimes disadvantageous ways, what they call a British accent is anything but, accents are regional, and they can also be influenced by teaching and conditioning; that mine became a smorgasbord of Black Country in the West Midlands, a bit of Received Pronunciation in school and Nigerian hearing, it has become literally nondescript whilst tending to an accent you might hear in England than anywhere else.

I now find that depending on where I am certain aspects of identity projection breakout more than others. My being black has never been in dispute though I could remember the shock of arriving in Nigeria to see that there were more black people than white people, until then, I knew a different world, but that sojourn in Nigerian solidified my black identity, I am comfortable in my own skin.

European to the core

Returning to England, there was a time of adjustment, whilst I was fully aware that I had every right by birth and by the law to live and work here. However, my sense of identity was in flux, I was in a phase of just being Black British until I found that I could be broadly European too and with that, I emigrated to the Netherlands, and there, I was an expatriate rather than an immigrant; an Englishman abroad. Funny, the issue of identification tags.

I guess the dominant side of my European identity came to the fore when I went to South Africa, even though the complexities of racial identity still bedevil interactions, you begin to see the intersections of identity and propriety in how where you are, what you do, how you speak, and so on puts you in the system whilst setting you apart again. That I can understand Afrikaans and nothing of Zulu leaves people questioning and a long story if I could be bothered. Yet, I have felt more European when in South Africa than anything else.

I identify as my identity

Now, where were we? I am a black Englishman of Nigerian heritage; I think that portrays a keen sense of identity with a lot of detail and no need for extraneous justification. That one chooses to identify as such is one’s prerogative and whatever anyone thinks about it is totally irrelevant.

Yes, I always tick the ethnicity box of Black Other or write in Black English. I am sure the Scots or the Welsh would take umbrage at being classed as broadly British when they have a keen sense of their primarily national identities, why does it have to be different when you are Black or any other colour for that matter?