The eternal racist

When I first took to England to study for a postgraduate degree in 1991, I found that it was not the city I visited on holidays. Living there was a different kettle of fish from just visiting. I found myself more homesick and more irritable but I also discovered something I had always taken for granted hardly paying attention to. I was amazed to find that sometimes my English friends were having difficulty dealing with my knowledge of a lot of things. They were either shocked or hesitant to find that I had as much if not more education than them.

     It was shocking to find out that  they knew very little about my country and were constantly making comments that either put my country down  or try to reduce my esteem .I was alarmed that people I treated nicely, I shared information, food and gift  with were unable to deal with my pedigree. Over the course of two months I found out why.

To my consternation, I discovered that I was not meant to speak so well, dress well, have a decent job back home or even mention that my parents had gone to school. These were anathema to them. How could this be possible? Such things did not happen to black people. I was expected to have an accent, be escaping my dreary life in my inefficient country and be seeking asylum. They were upset that I had no intentions of remaining in England after my studies and I had missed home so much, my every sentence was peppered with how soon I was returning home. I was black, bottom-line, I was meant to be begging, sad and hoping that some lawyer will take my case on and write me into the annals of English life forever. I was gobsmacked that hose I thought were my friends were not dealing with me very well and hoped that I will either disappear or have a politically correct story, like I left home because I was being persecuted for witchcraft.(laughter) or I was going to be killed because my father wanted only male children.(More laughter)

While this was playing itself out, I began to ignore them and spend a lot more time with my African friends. At least we ate from the same plate and shared similar stories. I found that they missed home as much as I did and we therefore warded off our loneliness by recreating home away from home scenarios; food, clothes, events, parties, picnics and going to watch African shows.

This was all going very well until I met Mr Nose. He was a tall Caucasian lecturer who taught on the MA course I was taking, but he was some sort of a minor teacher on the faculty, allowed perhaps two seminars a month. He was to be found on the corridors of the university constantly looking busy doing nothing or sipping a drink alone at the university pub. His marked characteristic was his very strong nose which flared when he laughed heartily, which was often. 

On this day, I pulled a chair and sat beside him in the Pub. As usual he was sitting alone. As I sat, he began his slow but steady journey into an incredible racist skit. He started first of all by intimating me of a young Nigerian who was trying to become French. He was horrified, he said, because he did not think there were African French men. This was 1991 for goodness sake and I was not sure which form of mental illness Mr Nose was in the grip of. I looked bored and listened to him out of duty. I had after all pulled the chair. But I think he saw the look of displeasure on my face and moved on. So what will my dissertation topic be he asked?  Oh, I said rather casually, I am doing a comparative analysis of community broadcasting in Nigeria with the same mode of broadcasting in a small European country which I had not quite decided on. He became quite upset, telling me how Nigeria was not even good enough to be discussing broadcasting on. I pulled out my Nigerian statistic and stormed out of the place. 

Believe me; the eternal racist still exists everywhere you go. Those who move seats when a black man joins them in a bus and those who still inquire if you are actually on the right cue when you take your place on a business class cue on your way to board an aircraft. How can you be black and be in business class? By their estimation, that’s so wrong. 

I have found these silly species of human beings everywhere. In the 21st century where a black man has risen to the top of the American political ladder, there are still people who believe blacks are not brilliant or even human. Well, Hello, Mr Nose, I have gone on to do better than you and I still treat you with decorum. That’s the sweet revenge. Ha Ha!

Eugenia Abu