A Winter in the Heat

In the bustling confines of my 5th-grade classroom, a palpable buzz fills the air as my classmates excitedly swap tales of winter break traditions. Stories of snowy slopes and cozy family gatherings abound, each narrative painting a picture of seasonal bliss. As my turn to share approaches, I grapple with the stark contrast between my family’s itinerary and the typical holiday activities of my (mostly) white peers. There’s a fleeting temptation to fabricate a response that aligns more closely with theirs, but I resist the urge, knowing the disingenuousness would be palpable. With a forced air of confidence, I reveal that my family and I are embarking on a trip to Nigeria.

The reaction is instantaneous—a chorus of impressed murmurs ripples through the room, followed by an expectant hush as my teacher’s intrigued gaze settles on me. But before she can pose any follow-up questions, a classmate interjects, “Isn’t Africa basically just a bunch of huts and stuff?” Laughter ensues, transforming the initial intrigue into mockery.

Growing up in a household with two Nigerian-born parents, fluent in their native tongue, I should have been steeped in the rich tapestry of Igbo culture. Yet, to my profound regret, I haven’t (yet) learned the language. It’s a realization that stings with hindsight, a missed opportunity that weighs heavily on me now. My parents, newly arrived in America, eagerly embraced the customs of their adopted homeland. Sundays were synonymous with rigorous household cleaning, accompanied not by Nigerian melodies but by the strains of Celine Dion or Michael Jackson echoing through our home.

But let me be clear: I was not a stranger to my culture. In fact, far from it. We savored my mother’s delicious Jollof rice almost daily, reveled in community events hosted by our Nigerian friends, and occasionally gathered as a family to watch Nollywood films. For a brief period, we even attended a Nigerian church. Yet, as time passed, American culture gradually took root, casting a shadow over my Nigerian heritage. Being Nigerian began to feel more like a footnote than a defining aspect of my identity.

My parents eventually recognized the subtle erosion of my cultural identity, but it took time. Before delving into my earliest encounters with self-consciousness and insecurity, it’s important to note that I was showered with words of affirmation as a child. I was their radiant, exceptional, smart-cookie of a daughter, and they made sure I knew it. However, their loving words paled in comparison to the weight of the damaging experiences that would shape my psyche and self-esteem at school.

Children are inherently impressionable, absorbing the ideologies of the environments in which they’re immersed. Unfortunately, mine was an environment where teachers would poke fun at the pronunciation of my last name, where peers insisted I ditch my braids and straighten my hair, where ewww-ing at my ethnic school lunch was totally acceptable. And not one student looked like me; there was nowhere to seek solace, no form of representation to mend my shattering reverence towards my race and culture.

I would come back from school in tears, and my parents would tell me the same thing: to ignore bullies, that I was beautiful, that I was an African, not an African’t. I wanted more than anything to embrace their affirmations, but my time in school only fueled an unwavering desire to assimilate. While my parents had always harbored dreams of family trips to the motherland, it wasn’t until they realized their children were losing touch with the culture they held dear that those plans were expedited.

My mother had stocked up on packs upon packs of chocolates before the trip, a memory etched vividly in my mind because I had yearned to tear into those chocolates and give myself a few cavities. Despite my continuous pleas for a piece, she remained steadfast in her refusal, iterating that the chocolates were for “the people.” I hadn’t a clue who these “people” were or why they were more deserving of a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup than me.

But it wasn’t just chocolates; we had an entire suitcase brimming with candies, toiletries, and clothes we no longer wore. That big red suitcase accompanied us from our home to our packed car, and finally to Boston Logan International Airport. Oddly enough, aside from the nerves, I have hazy recollections of the airport and the flight experience. Boarding the plane, finding myself seated next to an older boy whom I was madly in love with for 14 hours, and enduring the discomfort of airplane belly are fragments of memory that linger. It wasn’t until we landed at Nnamdi Azikiwe International Airport that the core memories of our journey truly began to formulate.

To capture the instinctive sentiments of my 10-year-old self, I planned to categorize our experiences throughout the trip into three recurring themes: Like America, Better Than America, and Shitty. Within minutes of arriving at the airport, I made my first Shitty categorization. With my father already in Anambra awaiting our arrival at the family house, my mother was left to navigate airport formalities solo, a task typically handled by my father. While she was no stranger to air travel and adept at managing four children, our welcome to Nigeria was marred by the presence of a stern-faced man dressed in army green military attire, whose mission seemed to be to provide us with the most unwelcoming reception possible.

“Hi, Sir, those are our bags,” Mom pointed behind the man towards our suitcases, which had ended up among some unfamiliar ones.

Security Sour-Face didn’t even bother to meet my mother’s gaze. Upon noticing the difference in her accent, he let out a halfhearted chuckle and gestured behind her.

“You need a ticket to retrieve your bag.”

As if on cue, a tall man sauntered past the guard, effortlessly retrieved his two suitcases, and departed, ticketless.

My mother couldn’t help but laugh. “Are you going to ask where his ticket is?”

Security Sour-Face ignored her.

My blood was boiling. I understood immediately what was unfolding before us. I knew my mother to be a forthright, outspoken powerhouse of a woman, her presence exuding an aura so bright and commanding that it often intimidated others. Coupled with her Americanized accent and her gender, she was an immediate foe to Sour-Face. My mother and I exchanged knowing glances, silently shaking our heads at the blatant display of sexism. We both knew this would not have transpired if Dad were here. Resolutely, we made our way to obtain a ticket. Shitty.

We emerged from the airport into a world ablaze with warmth and color, the bustling cityscape enveloping us in a comforting embrace that stimulated my senses in a way that was strangely nostalgic. While my brothers marveled at the verdant palm trees swaying in the breeze, my attention was drawn to the towering skyscrapers dancing on the horizon. The cacophony of sounds—Yoruba friends exchanging animated greetings, the blare of taxi horns, and the distant strains of afrobeat music—melded together in a symphony that stirred my soul.

The sun beamed down on my skin and a toothy grin infiltrated my face as I inhaled Nigeria. My mother grabbed us and motioned for us to follow her all the way to a man holding a sign that read our family’s name. On top of the 22 hours of flying, we had another eight hours of driving ahead of us. However, to my surprise, it wouldn't be my mother at the wheel. Instead, a man with a reassuring smile and a cartoonish top hat would serve as our personal driver for the next two weeks. Better Than America.

Before this moment, I had never considered myself a city person. Yet, as we navigated through the streets of Abuja, I found myself captivated by the vibrant energy pulsating through the city. Pedestrians marched along the sidewalks with purpose, their attire vibrant and their skin aglow in the sunlight. The tantalizing scent of freshly baked goods tickled my nostrils, while the shimmering skyline beckoned to me. This version of Africa stood in stark contrast to the one America had painted for me—a place marred by poverty and despair, as depicted in commercials of starving children and sensationalized Nollywood films centered on witchcraft and horror. Americans are subtly conditioned to view Africa through a lens of perpetual destitution, their perceptions shaped by limited exposure to the continent’s true diversity.

But amidst the taxi cabs, bustling street vendors, and towering billboards, I couldn't shake the feeling: this was kind of Like America.

It wasn’t until we ventured beyond the city limits that I encountered the different faces of Nigeria.

Still reeling from the urban beauty we had just witnessed, I watched as the roads grew rougher and the landscape shifted. The gleaming skyscrapers gave way to dilapidated buildings, and we found ourselves traversing dusty dirt roads. I had never before laid eyes on a homeless person, but now they were a haunting presence, their ragged figures dotting the sidewalks. My stomach churned as clusters of children, some no older than myself, approached our car with outstretched hands offering snacks. Their pleading eyes bore into mine as they tapped on our windows, but our driver remained impassive, unfazed.

Turning to my siblings and me, my mom offered reassurance, “They just want us to buy their food. There's no need to be scared.” When the next group of children ran to our car, my mom cracked her window down and purchased a loaf of bread from a young girl.

***

As night descended, our car approached the gate of our family home in Anambra. Two smiling security officers stood ready to open the gate, their welcoming demeanor mirrored by the lively sounds of afrobeats music and excited chatter emanating from within. As we passed through the gates, we were greeted by a jubilant crowd of family and friends, their cheers filling the air with an infectious energy. I spotted my father standing alongside his mother, whom I was meeting in person for the first time. The village glowed under the warm glow of yellow streetlights, the celebratory music swelling in volume as we stepped out of the car to join the festivities. It was an adrenaline-fueled blur of excitement, but soon we found ourselves dancing with distant relatives and friends that I would later get to meet properly.

The first morning in Nigeria consists of taking a shower with a bucket of warm water, eating the most delicious breakfast I’ve ever had, and playing soccer with the neighborhood kids I met the night prior. Witnessing the village in the daylight was a surreal experience, it was nothing like America and it was beautiful. Each house looked different and colorful, the sun generated an orangey hue that made it look and feel like it was summer 24/7. The earthy warmth of the sandy plains felt soothing on our bare feet.

It was in this moment that I truly understood the significance of “the people” my mother had referred to—the neighbors who welcomed us with open arms and grateful smiles. From the youngest children to the eldest elders, they embraced us, grateful for the gifts of chocolates, clothes, and sanitary supplies.

But it was truly the children who stole my heart. Unapologetically witty and mischievous, they mirrored the playful spirit of my brothers and me. They marveled at our accents, we marveled at theirs, and they shared jokes and games that my siblings and I still reference today. In return, we introduced them to the joys of Madden NFL on our PlayStation, bridging the gap between our cultures. I also appreciated that our new friends looked like us.

I felt beautiful in Nigeria. While the constant showering of kisses and compliments from my new aunties certainly boosted my confidence, it was the representation I saw around me that truly transformed my perception of self. For the first time, I saw images of women in commercials, advertisements, and magazines with skin like mine.

My new friends exuded a pride in their heritage, their blackness, coily hair, and neat braids serving as a celebration of their identity. They were proudly African, with cute accents and rhythmic dance moves that they would later teach me. I didn’t realize it then, but it took seeing consistent and positive representation to awake a discernment of self-confidence that had been buried underneath criticism, shame and assimilation. It was a revelation, a validation of my identity that I had never experienced before.

By the fifth day, I had not only embraced my newfound identity but had also mastered a Nigerian accent—a feat that earned me a chorus of impressed murmurs, a far cry from the mocking laughter of my classmates back home.

As I sit in my 5th grade class, surrounded by eager chatter about winter wonderland festivities, I find myself reflecting on my own holiday experiences—far removed from the snowy landscapes and cozy cabin retreats my classmates have enjoyed. Memories of my time in Nigeria flood my mind, and with them, a newfound perspective on culture, identity, and belonging.

My mind goes back to the categorizations: Like America, Better Than America, and Shitty. Now, I realize just how silly these labels of comparison were because it set forth a notion that America was the ultimate standard of beauty and greatness, blinding me to the richness and depth of cultures beyond its borders.

In those two weeks in Nigeria, I discovered something far more profound than any naive ranking system. It was a realization that challenged the paradoxical dilemma of my existence—a longing for community in a place where I felt shunned, yet harboring a misplaced disfavor for the vibrant culture that defined me.

Little did I know, the community I yearned for had been with me all along, woven into the fabric of my DNA. It’s my turn to speak and my 10-year-old brain does not possess the ability to explain my newfound pride in culture, analyses on beauty standards and growing self-confidence. For now, all I can tell the class is that I had fun.