Japa Series Ep 3: The R-Word
Because what is life in the Diaspora without a sprinkle of discrimination?
Oh, the wonders of racism! What is life as a black person in the diaspora without a sprinkle of racism?
The textbook definition of racism is “the belief that that race is a fundamental determinant of human traits and capacities and that racial differences produce an inherent superiority of a particular race.
Despite this simplistic definition, you can imagine that racism manifests in layers for people who hold multiple identities. For instance, an Asian man’s experience with racism would be different from that of a black woman.
Despite experiencing this firsthand as an immigrant, discrimination based on a person’s background is not foreign to me. The Igbos in Nigeria, despite being a majority tribe in the country were the biggest casualties of the civil war of 1967 - a war I strongly believe was fueled by ethnic conflict and greed from our wicked, wicked leaders.
Violence against people who are different from us is also not new to the human race. In fact, racism and discrimination thrive on divergence. As humans, we live in a communal bubble of parents or guardians who raise us to think and act like them, as they were raised by those before them. This would mean that in a world with billions of people, there would be millions of bubbles like this, each with its unique idiosyncrasies.
Historically, communities spoke the same language, ate the same food, carried on in the same manner, wearing the same outfits, and so on. Hence, foreignness would definitely steer the direction of the community. Foreignness could bring change to ideology and systemic ways of life in communes. And for a tribe or people who share the same values, foreignness could be met with hostility. The world might be a global village, with an extensive range of languages, and cultures, we remain guarded and protective of the things we hold dear.
Right-thinking people ought to draw a line between protecting what’s sacred to them and accepting that we are not alone in this world, that the earth does not, in fact, revolve around our tiny bubbles.
Unfortunately, not many people are able to do this, due to ignorance and refusal to evolve beyond a myopic point of view. And perhaps, this hostility is where racism stems from. Or maybe I fell on my head while writing this because to try to understand how bigots think, one must be either on crack or just be a little crazy.
This hostility is the same reason why straight people go out of their way to justify violence against people who fuck differently from them. Sex, like race and cultural identity, is personal, complex, and yet inevitable. But we humans like to pry into spaces we don’t belong to, sneak in and violently mark those different from us with pieces of ourselves within, to say “I was here. Now a piece of me, or what I believe in has now become part of this foreign entity”.
Like racists, bigoted straight people are uncomfortable with anything that’s not made for them, remotely. So they complain, just like white supremacists about encroachment, forgetting the whole world has been curated for them for centuries.
A direct consequence of this is erasure, which extends to bloodshed, and systematic dehumanization. And when the oppressed push back, they ask “why are you angry at your dehumanization?”
Canada is said to be home to many races but black people are a minority of a minority unlike in America. While I’m not remotely interested in the politics of this, what still boggles me is the layers of racism I have to endure as a black Muslim woman since I am at the intersection of discrimination, by gender, by race, by faith, and so on.
On my way to Canada, I felt the change of power in the air when we stopped over in France. Suddenly, people who had blonde hair on their own heads, could not understand why a black woman had the same hair color on her head. The stares from men were also sexualized - not in the way Nigerian men would stare. It felt different.
My identity on forms took a different narrative, and I suddenly had to embrace the concept of being simply “black”. Not Yoruba, not a Lagosian. Just black.
So after two weeks in Ottawa, the Asian hijabi at the bodega staring me down from the counter and watching my every single step in the store started to feel familiar. The weird folks who almost walked themselves into the bush when they saw two black women taking a walk made me chuckle.
The people who commented on my “good English” or the white woman in the shop who reported a family member, her client, for simply reading a contract, didn’t come as a surprise.
What surprised me, was when my nephew, a 4-year-old kid started to say someone called him “black”. Adults who have experienced racism know what this means. That calling a child “black” is not “a matter of fact” but a malicious attempt to point out the colour of his skin, to pick at his self-worth and humanity.
I know bigots are hateful to everyone and couldn't they let him enjoy his childhood, at least? Even in the so-called Muslim community, racism is rife - in spaces where we share the same God.
In light of this, how does an olofa mojo navigate racism?
White Canadian racism is casual and smiles in your face as it curiously examines you, like you’re a cute animal in a petting zoo. With other races (those who call themselves POC), it frowns at you, quietly dismisses you, and sizes you up, as if to ask, “ho, why is you here?”, but in racist.
Some do get violent in rare cases but the redneck types don’t have the liver to act up because Canadians pride themselves in having a better reputation than Americans. So they keep the racism light, spicy and liberal for us.
In response to this, I sometimes squeeze my face like a wicked secondary school matron when I see white people because we’re all mad here. I also don’t greet visible Muslims who aren’t black - unless they greet me first because I shouldn't be chopping an ‘L’ in the name of God. I keep my head up high and dress as powerfully and brightly as I can, since the way I dress, speak, and act is highly political.
Immigrants are as mistrusting as they are welcoming of others - yet we still form the same bubbles we left at home, albeit in a foreign context. Many would argue that this could hinder integration. But how else will one integrate where everyone probably thinks you are not the same as them - but with a smug smile on their faces? To navigate being a foreign entity in a system that accommodates you until you own wear your identity proudly, you must have your own bubble, which insulates you from the madness. You need to be rooted in an environment where your personhood is reinforced and acknowledged, where your language is not “colloquial’ and where you don’t have to code-switch to accommodate others, in fear of being misunderstood and gaslit.
You must denounce the angry black woman stereotype and hold your own at all times. You must raise your head and speak firmly at all times. You must refuse to smile at stupid jokes and questions like “oh, isn’t Nigeria so bad and terrible?”, from someone from a war-stricken country.
You must not question your sanity, no matter how many times people project insanity on you. You must learn to laugh at the foolishness you experience from a certain demographic. You will learn to cry, and then forge ahead again and again.
I don't know what I'll do if I ever experience racism first hand. I think I'll cry I just hope I don't cry in front of my oppressor(s).
It’s a shame that we have to choose between living in a useless country or facing racial injustice. It’s a bigger shame that most of us are happy to choose the racial BS. I enjoyed reading this, as always.