I’ve had this conversation with myself and others multiple times and I have been quite convinced that only a family of my own could keep me abroad, until now. A job no matter how much it paid couldn’t keep me here, man shall not live by bread alone right?
There are too many people dying at home, too many going hungry, too many atrocities being committed against the weak and orphaned and too many who couldn't care less. I do care, and I feel, God willing, I can make a difference. Ideally, the only excuse, the only situation that could console a guilty conscience would be if I were taking care of a family of my own. I would be too busy in love, too busy procreating, and too busy raising kids to beat myself up. I could live with myself if my life was not self centered. My family depends on me and I’m directly responsible for them. On the long run, it may not turn out to be the most fulfilling life, but again, I would be able to live with myself. As an afterthought, I guess I’m saying only love could keep me here.
I have now sort of come face to face with this decision, to stay or not, which of course is not entirely dependent on me but for the sake of this post, let’s say it is. Let’s say it is entirely up to me whether or not I choose to stay. It turns out I would not stay and this time my reasoning is sound and urgent enough to generate a conviction stronger than steel—although somewhere way deep down I think love could conquer all but again, for argument’s sake, let’s assume I can control love and because of this conviction I now have, I won’t allow myself fall in love—so there will be no changing my mind.
I came face to face with what my family would be. Instead of this abstract family that would form in my mind whenever I thought about it, this time I met my children. Pounded yam and moi-moi eating Americans born to a Nigerian parent. They’ll know my culture but never fully understand it. It’ll be a far of idea similar to my grasp of the Zulus. I’m very well aware of who they are, what they did and importance to the history of South Africans but I’ll never be a Zulu. My children will know me and my culture but it’ll never really be theirs. It’ll be “mummy’s culture”. I guess, I could try to force them to practice something they don’t fully understand—while making the younger years more awkward than it already can be—but my people say it takes a village to raise a child and unfortunately, if I stayed here, it would be just me and my lonesome. I wouldn’t have to force a culture on them on Nigerian soil consequently making them feel different from their friends sometimes; in Nigeria, it would just be the way it is and we can focus our parent-child conflicts on more important issues such as why there shall be no dating till they turn 21 :). One of many heart breaks I can predict is the day I hear them say “my Mum is Nigerian”.They will never fully understand their culture, never really speak the language and worst and in my opinion the biggest shame of it all, they might not be like me. I need them to be like me! I never felt like a minority or second class citizen till I came to this country. As a matter of fact, I never noticed my skin color. They might sometimes blame disappointments in their lives on skin color whether or not it’s true. I don’t want them to have to be geniuses to be special. I want them to have an accent just like mine. I want them to understand the hustle and bustle that is Lagos and appreciate the strength that keeps Nigerian people trying even when the situation looks hopeless. I’d like them to understand what it is to truly lack. To know and understand that there is a huge world out there that does not revolve around them. I’d like them to see how small they are on the scheme of things and just know, without having to be constantly reminded that they can be anything they want with a little sweat regardless of skin color. I’d like them to know the difference between trivial and crucial. They should never ever know the meaning of affirmative action or minority quota. I want them to be flogged in school for misbehaving. I want them to kneel and prostrate when they greet their elders. I want them to be multilingual in English, Pidgin English, Yoruba, and understand “Wa Zo Bia”. I want them to understand that differences can unite rather than divide. I want to die in my father’s land and be buried among my people.
