Observing Heritage from a Distance
Two events this month
should have created a kind of nostalgia in me, but I seriously failed to be
excited about either. I had become an observer of sorts of elements that have
formed part of my identity.
Whilst in Cape Town,
there was the Commonwealth
Day Service at Westminster Abbey on the 9th of March, and then
yesterday came the conclusion of the first UK state visit in 37 years by a West
African head of state, the Nigerian one. [The
Royal Family: State Visit by The President and First Lady of Nigeria]
The first event
gained significance through someone I follow on Twitter/X who had been invited
to a reception at St James's Palace, though he could not attend because he was
indisposed. As an activist for Nigerian immigrant causes, he had become
prominent enough to be noticed and recognised as an important Nigerian diaspora
figure.
For the state banquet
at Windsor Castle, several people of Nigerian heritage were invited to represent the Nigerian community, many of whom have stronger roots in the United Kingdom than in Nigeria.
An English Identity
My living parents are
Nigerian, but I was born in England, and though I have strong influences of
Nigeria in my identity framework, I do not identify as such. To any question
about where I am from, I respond that I am an Englishman, and I am originally from
England.
This is reinforced by
the fact that two-thirds of my life has been spent in Europe. Even for ethnic purposes, I would describe myself as Black English rather than the typical Black British or Black African.
This distinction
matters to me because Black British functions as an umbrella term that groups
together vastly different backgrounds and experiences, often implying a
hyphenated identity or connection to a diaspora narrative.
Black English, by
contrast, centres my English identity as primary. It asserts that I am English
who happens to be Black, rather than suggesting divided loyalties or perpetual
newcomer status.
The choice is
deliberate: it reflects where I was born, where I belong, and how I understand
myself. It challenges the assumption that Blackness and Englishness are somehow
contradictory, and it refuses to accept that “English” is synonymous with “white.”
For someone like me, whose connection to Nigeria exists more in memory than in
meaningful attachment, this specificity matters.
The Outsider's Accent
I can reminisce about
aspects of childhood and development that have served me well from having lived
in Nigeria, yet for the simple reason that I had an accent, I was always an
outsider.
That accent was no
affectation; it was the sound of my formative years, the linguistic imprint of
the England where I first learned to speak, to think, to understand the world.
By the time we moved to Nigeria, my identity architecture was already established.
The English
pronunciation I arrived with immediately identified me as different. In the
playground, in the classroom, even within extended family gatherings, the way I
spoke became a constant reminder that I did not belong in the same way others
did.
Children would mimic
my speech, adults would comment on how I sounded “British” or call me “Òyìnbó,”
and I became known as “Ọmọ ìlú Òyìnbó,” the boy born abroad, or more literally,
the child born in white-man’s land.
The accent was an
audible barrier that no amount of time or adaptation could fully erase, a daily
declaration of otherness that shaped my understanding of where I truly
belonged.
The irony, of course,
is that this very accent that made me perpetually foreign in Nigeria was simply
part of the spectrum of English voices from the West Midlands. In Nigeria, I
was told daily through reactions to my speech that I was foreign; in England, I
simply was.
My parents, who moved
from Nigeria to England and back, could navigate both worlds with the fluency
of belonging. They spoke the languages without pronounced accents, understood
the unspoken rules, carried the cultural memory in their bones. I had none of
these inheritances.
Where they were
returning home, I was simply living abroad. This distinction, between inherited
belonging and biographical accident, crystallised my understanding that
identity is not a matter of bloodline but of lived experience and genuine
connection.
The experience taught
me something fundamental: identity is not about where others place you, but
where you place yourself, and where you are recognised as belonging without
constant explanation.
Detachment and Memory
In terms of identity, whilst I am interested in what goes on in Nigeria, I am more detached than ever. The closest association nowadays depends on whether my flight between France or the Netherlands and Cape Town flies over the Nigerian landmass, where place names trigger some memory or recognition from more than 50 years ago.
In general, I have
determined there is no reason to visit Nigeria since I left over 35 years ago.
I have the name, I have the influences, I have the memories, but the nostalgia
has fully settled into obsolescence and insignificance.
Gratitude Without
Nostalgia
Yet I love that
Nigeria was part of my upbringing because it strengthened elements of
self-identity, self-esteem, and self-respect. For that alone, I am grateful for the Nigerian experience, as it reinforces the context and sense of who I am.
God bless Nigeria, for when things are going well in Nigeria, there is less anxiety for all of us
associated, even in the remotest sense, with Nigeria.
