It was a Saturday afternoon in the summer when we met physically. His face didn’t look as red and patchy from the video calls and photos we shared. He was still beautiful, anyway. He didn’t smile much. I don’t blame him. It was a long ride - four hours from Toronto to Ottawa in a Sienna - in the middle of August to meet me. Think driving from Lagos to Ilorin, without the extremely bad roads that have you saying your last prayers at every sharp turn, though.
He didn’t smile much when we met. But it was love at first sight. The thing is, loving him was easy. He didn’t get me initially. I was the blond-haired, loud woman he had to share a house with, in a new world, with new people, and new experiences. His red face scared me. He looked too delicate. Too perfect and too demanding for me.
He had to adjust to the madness, and then to loving me. But he did love me, eventually. So we started our journey.
My nephew, H, came into this world, a few days after I landed in Canada. I didn’t meet him until he was three weeks old because of COVID-19. The day I left Nigeria, something in me shifted. I knew a change was coming. My home for almost three decades had gone forever. In that plane, I was the embryo, aware of its mother’s impending labor, my emotions all over the place. I am pro-choice but I like to think that babies develop a minute sense of awareness in the womb.
So like H, when he was born, I wailed and cried endlessly on the day I arrived in Canada. Omo, I cried ceaselessly. The salt in my tears could adequately season white people’s food for millennia.
Babies are weird. They’re almost parasitic in how they demand love, food, burps, swaddles, entertainment, cuddles, breastmilk, and so on. Who can blame them? They literally have to relearn their existence in a new plane - with lots of oxygen, noise and strange people. Nine months after adjusting to the uterus, nature forces them out and they have to figure things out - with the guidance of their caretakers- fortunately. Even with the privilege of guardianship, it’s fucking hard being a human. It is.
The immigrant journey is akin to being born again. You’re in a foreign place - with new people, new foods, colours and rules. Okay, maybe babies didn’t ask to be born - but an alien is an alien - whether you came by force or not.
Like H, I felt helpless when I came here. I had to relearn the basic things I knew before. Then I had to adjust my older habits to my current reality. I mean, I no longer miss amala with the intensity with which I did before. I also cook my stew with a blend of fresh tomatoes and canned diced tomatoes. I would never cook that in a million years back in Naij - but there’s Canadian ata din-din and there’s Nigerian ata din-din.
Nigerian immigrants who have been here longer remind me of those soccer moms, who like to one-up every other mom they meet. The first thing they ask is “when did you come?”. “Your job still pays $16 per hour? Haha, I know someone that made $70k in his first year”, “I bought my first house after 9 months”, and other touching stories. Kind of feels like telling a mom your kid walked right after coming out of their mother’s vagina. People say H is supposed to walk on his own now. If we were back home, they’ll recommend all sorts. But who cares? The kid will still walk.
It’s a year of living with H now - and he still can’t walk on his own. He’s scared shitless every time he stands without support. But with practice and support from me - his crazy aunty and his selfless parents, he is becoming more fearless.
I can relate to that. I have a village here but we’re all immigrants. We don’t know what the fuck we’re doing. But we’re figuring it out together. With support of my village, my parents, my loved ones, my internet friends (yes, I have actual internet friends who are not mad), I am unlearning fear. Hell, I even zip lined for the first time - something my phobia of heights would’ve prevented me from achieving. I even launched my copywriting services.
Like my beautiful, beautiful boy, who babbles and sometimes throws up in his attempt to communicate, I am not afraid to look mindless, immature and confused. I still don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. But at least, I have learnt to crawl so far. I can’t walk on my own too. I still wobble and fall on bad days. But H taught me to stand up- even if I’l cry and be a little baby for a while.
I still don’t have a full-time job as well. I only just started relearning how to write again. I am even applying for internships after a six-year career in the biggest companies in Nigeria and W.Africa- because I am not afraid to fall and fail.
So happy birthday to me , and happy birthday to my nephew.
Here’s hoping we grow up more next year.
Happy Birthday, Baby
Absolutely beautiful writing, happy birthday to you and baby H.
This is so beautiful. Happy birthday to you and baby H ❤️❤️❤️❤️