With her homeland in upheaval, a Nigerian mother living in Belgium pens a letter of hope to her infant son
G,
If you’d incline your head half an inch closer, you’d feel the tension on the right side of my neck, down to my back. It is painful and uncomfortable, but I’ve learned to live with it when it comes. The kinesist says it’s stress. I’m holding you like the day you were born; grateful for your existence. More than ever; for the privilege. That you’re here with me while your aunties and uncles are on the streets back home. I don’t want to forget this moment just like I promised to remember every detail of months ago when the world shut down.
Better days have come and have swamped those memories. It was just months ago when we were forced to stay home; trips, activities, sports, everything would come to a halt for as long as a virus ravaged the globe. It was as if we were living in a movie, but guess what? We survived. Most of us still walk around breathing into a cloth; wearing a mask is our new normal.
2020 came with a bang, from January, taking lives, leaving us without closure. Anyway, that’s what death does to you. You ask rhetorical questions, knowing that the answers won’t come. These were times when what seemed trivial was valued. Hugs, closeness, going for a walk, pasta, and even tissue paper. Love was lost, fondness became irksome, lovers separated, children were seen as a liability or were treasured, parents were tired, workers bore losses, businesses shut down; lives in hundreds of thousands, gone.
And yet, talents were discovered. Mummy joined YouTube.
Afterwards, the world was hit again by a recurring human pandemic– racism. I’m telling you this not to instill fear. But, be aware. Although you may live in a different era or place, it was this year that yet a father was openly murdered by the police in America, because of his skin colour. Not too different from Mummy’s shade. If you ask me, I’d say we’re all the same. But I come from a place where colorism also exists amongst us. You might argue that you’re not Black and it’s okay.
Whatever you do, remember this year. This moment. These days of being active online, protesting. Bearing the guilt of being privileged. Son, I am not, and I know but it seems so and I’m fine with that.
Privilege is a relative thing. I’m not satisfied with the way things are in the place I call home. I’m not there but my spirit is. I am shaking, I have cried endlessly for the ‘small’ things that are excusable. I went to work but wasn’t really there. It is still 2020 and Nigerians are stripped of their rights. Last night, during a candlelight protest, people were telling stories; old wounds began to bleed again. It seemed like an open therapy even for grown Black men.
Remember the generation before you. They’re doing what their fathers and mothers couldn’t so that you don’t have to do them. It is powerful. Maybe their parents exhibited strength in their own way. I’m too exhausted to excuse them. Let’s focus on how a revolution has happened in less than a week. There’s an app called Twitter. I never really placed a premium on it, but I’ve seen how a country with almost two hundred million citizens is being reformed by its youths. A hashtag, #sarsmustend started and is still ongoing as I write. I’m finally breathing. I logged off for my sanity, but I can’t promise I won’t log in again in the next five minutes because that’s all I’ve been doing these days… until I drift asleep. I wake up and continue. I have never felt this powerless and yet hopeful.
Your mother’s land is in chaos at the moment but be my archive, to save the next thing I’m about to say. I am proud of my people. Youths are terrified, tired, tortured, arrested, killed, and yet, they’re still fighting day in and out. Abuja protesters faced teargas, water tanks, gunshots and you name it. Lagos faced deaths, arrests, torture, and brutality. Port Harcourt showed their governor who owns the street. I heard Ogbomosho chased their king. Nigerians in London marched peacefully. Enugu danced with masquerades and walked tirelessly to a dreaded station.
Women are organising, leading effortlessly. Lawyers and doctors are working. Generosity is at its peak; people are being their brother’s keepers. Nigeria is uniting. It may be ordinary for other countries, but here’s why this is important. It’s the ‘first’ time. And the energy is empowering.
G, whatever you do, remember: Collectiveness. Idea. Action (no matter how small). Be brave enough to speak your truth. Bravery is what you do with these. Once the anger is felt and the intentions are right; the work will be done.
Know that with me, you never have to choose how much of a Nigerian or Belgian you are. The other day, a colleague asked how I felt bringing up a mixed child. I told him it’s not something to be conscious of but I’m aware that you will shape your own reality. What matters to me is that I am raising a good human being and one’s skin colour shouldn’t be a problem. Am I supposed to feel a certain way? See, people have a funny way of showing they’re interested in your life. Why am I telling you this? It could be me whose name turns to a hashtag because some crazy officer mistook me for something else or was just trigger happy. Could be anyone and anytime and that is scary.
So, remember the voices of your aunties and uncles who while grieving for the lost ones are still fighting for what is rightfully theirs. Just for life. Fighting while protecting the same people that are humiliating them. It’s a silent war. Yet they succeed in taming the rage so it doesn’t become violent. Class! Harmless on their side, but it feels like we’re fighting our evil parents and what’s weird is that in Nigerian culture, we are not raised to do that. But what has to be done is being done. Na who no respect himself we go disgrace. I’m holding you close and whispering ‘I love you’ because I get the chance to say it. I don’t trust myself enough not to be on the streets had I been in Nigeria. I may or may not. I’m an impulsive person and right now and for days, my mind wanders to and in Nigeria. I’ve never loved that country like now and it’s funny because just on Independence Day, I had given up on my homeland. The thing tire me.
There’s something about this lightbulb moment we all are experiencing. Deny it or not, the grandpapa leaders are having it too. They may seem detached–they are in many ways–but they never hexperedeet! Never expected it. They’re used to tossing, intimidating, and dividing; but change is happening without them. It runs chills in my spine like an awakening. And it’s beautifully terrifying to see young people fight for a future in spite of the bleak prospects. There’s no hope but they weave it and wear it like an accessory. Invisible as it may seem, they believe and trust that if only they can imagine it, it is done. That’s their core. And they move! It gets bleaker, they move towards this profound light in their mind’s eyes. They move towards the freedom they dream of. It will come. It has come. I’m holding onto it, too. It almost feels like they’re prepared for a journey; rough, but they’re resolute in their persistence. I am proud of them. Too proud it makes me cry.
G, you are a Nigerian (too). Remember home. If you lean towards these people, you’d find that humour is hope disguised for them. Something has to be funny even amidst pain. Food is a love language just like your Papa says it’s mine.
It’s in the way they yarn. Man must wack and laugh. Na who no laugh face go squeeze. Chop this life because problem no dey finish. I pray you chop this life well, my pikin. I pray you never have to choose between Papa and Mama’s place. Follow your heart in the direction it will lead. Remember 2020. Come close.
Tomorrow, if Baba God wake us again; we go move!
Bio: Angel Patricks Amegbe is Nigerian writer, poet, and mother. She’s the founder of The Happyblacky blog, and the author of ‘The Days of Silence,’ her debut novel which will be published in 2021. She currently lives in the countryside of Belgium with her family.
