I chose wahala as the name of this zine because across some of Nigeria’s varied languages, it roughly translates to ‘trouble’ in English. In a sense, with this zine, we wanted to make trouble by disrupting the traditional narrative of the Nigerian diaspora. We are either caricatured as online scammers or seen as a ‘model minority’ (which, make no mistake, is a harmful stereotype). When we are allowed to exist as more than just part of the “African monolith,” we are spoken about, spoken to, and spoken for-- but rarely are our voices given respect, and rarely do we tell our own stories. I am a Nigerian-American Muslim womanist artist writer teenage girl. My lived experiences (my truths), speak to the knowledge that there is no right way to be a Nigerian. For someone who doesn’t live in Nigeria and has largely assimilated (for many reasons) into a different culture, it can feel like I have no claim to Nigerian culture. Like the music is not mine to listen to or the languages are not mine to speak. I feel like a poser listening to Fela or even saying a few phrases in Yoruba, even though I try to tell myself that these are all mine to love and be proud of. There is guilt, there is stress, in short-- there is wahala. I wanted this zine to help navigate through these questions, if only by reminding everyone that you are allowed to ask. This issue is largely about identity. The question of how I identify myself has been a delicate one to uncover, partly because of the conflation of race with ethnicity for non-white Americans. I am black, but I am also Nigerian. I love African-American culture deeply, but I honestly don’t know if I (an African in America) am pushing the boundaries of appropriation versus appreciation. African-American identity is tied to (while not defined by) inherited trauma stemming from slavery, sharecropper farming, Jim Crow, and countless other atrocities. Most Nigerian-Americans do not live with that legacy.
Instead colonialism took our mothers' tongues and bodies. But I believe that the diasporic nature of Black identity, and the globalized struggle against anti-blackness links us together. It’s no understatement that our liberation is bound in each other’s, when most Nigerians immigrated to the US because racial immigration quotas were lifted thanks to the work of African-American activists, and movements for black liberation (from colonization and racist violence) intersected across continents. That to be diasporic is to be constantly unwinding your identities-discovering new layers, connections, twists and turns and memories you’d never considered before, and it’s a complicated, frustrating, beautiful process. Seeing some of the different ways that contributors to this zine are responding to this process has inspired me so much to think differently about the questions I ask myself regarding my identity, and I hope it has a similar effect on readers. Thank you to my grandmother and mother for letting me scan your clothes. Thank you to all of the readers and contributors for taking this journey for believing in wahala. - Kanyinsola Anifowoshe Editor in Chief
editors Dawape Isekeije Grace Mecha Femi Badero
featuring Nneka Nnagbo Victoria Adebayo Diana Bamimeke Fikayo Odugbemi Jochebed Airede Michelle Ezeuko
Ola Faleti Olamiju Fajemisin Ruby Chijoke-Nwauche Adesewa Awobadejo Victory Ekeoma Zoe Vongtau
too black to be brit? olamiju fajemisin In London, during my primary school years in staggeringly white neighbourhoods, I dressed, acted and spoke the same as my classmates but I did not look the same. I noticed this difference, but I didn’t realise that I was feeling ‘otherness’. Now that I’m older I can assure you that my blackness is something of which I’m fiercely proud. I’m completely in love with what many consider to be one of my defining factors. However, being literally unable to assimilate, and thus not being able to become a carbon copy of my contemporaries, left me feeling very much like the ‘other’. There came a point when I wanted to rid myself of this: I felt as if I was being compromised. I was sick of being the one who “speaks really ‘white’ for a black girl.” My heritage meant that I was naturally more muscular than my friends, my skin dark and my hair’s curl pattern was 4C. I now understand that the longing I felt to have poker straight hair was incredibly damaging to my self-esteem. The circumstances surrounding where I lived and my heritage often meant that I usually felt too Nigerian for England, but in the same vein, I felt too English for Nigeria. Since my identitiy is partly based on how I relate to people on an interpersonal level, issues arise with my relationship with my Nigerian heritage. In England, you’re very much viewed as black before you’re seen as anything else, whereas in Nigeria you’re a Northerner or a Southerner. You’re Yoruba, Hausa, Fulani etc for any of Nigeria’s tribes. During the many summers spent in Nigeria for weddings, parties and whatnot, I finally felt as if I belonged to something bigger. I have always taken incredible pride in my culture. Growing up, I knew a handful of words in Yoruba. My parents spoke a mixture of both English and Yoruba about the house. but I failed to pick up Yoruba, something I now attribute to my longing to assimilate. Cue many an awkward smile when asked a question in the language I simply didn’t understand. It felt as if my personal identity had been compromised yet again, but I felt that I was as Nigerian, and as Yoruba as could be. I had the family, the food, the admiration of Fela and the name (albeit, this took me a long time to learn to love).
The list goes on, but the one thing I lacked was a means of communication: an ironic and upsetting occurrence considering Nigeria’s proud history of oral tradition. I’ve often struggled to comfortably understand my identity, as it seems like it’s so often plagued with inadequacy. At times I found it incredibly hard to totally relate to the cultures of the country within which I lived, and the one I am from. Upon reflection I understand why I felt the way I did, especially in my primary years, about identity. I’m now aware that much of this anxiety was borne of frustration of not being able to assimilate, and an inability to engage in simple conversation with relatives and friends. I now understand that these emotions are likely to be commonplace among the sons and daughters of immigrants, especially in a world where colour is the initial defining characteristic. I’m not, and definitely won’t be the last person born to immigrant parents in a land dissimilar to their own. Countless numbers of people will feel the same. The smallest things can invite guilt, for example preferring pasta to egusi soup. But coming to terms with the fact that many people share these feelings, and embracing the things about both English and Nigerian culture I can identify with has helped me to resolve some of these feelings.
Olamiju is an eighteen year old student and writer from North London. Since early 2016 she’s been on the Arts and Culture team for gal-dem and will start at The University of Bristol in September. Her writing often refers to feminism and her experiences growing Yoruba in a starkly white enclave of London. She hopes wahalazine will reach out to other diaspora kids, providing a platform on which we can all make jollof jokes.
Butterflies / Nneka Nnagbo Calcium
I urge my bones to be bold and bendable My eyes to be wide My heart dependable This love immovable And I, Indispensable But he keeps pulling me back And breaking me.
Simple Fictions This boy is simple. He thinks in lines. Linear motions, with no emotions. Doesn’t appreciate my words. All he sees are words on blank sheets blinking cursors and blank screens. Can’t decipher troubled thoughts From troubled dreams. They are all the same to him it seems. Yet, I rouse him awake with love. He dims my neurosis to sleep. Simple Fictions of a man and woman His heart is heightened And I’m enlightened.
All my Best Friends Silence, you are the most attractive essence I have ever known Destitute, we are bosom friends Sadness, I tell you all of my secrets Love, you break my heart yet I’ve never known you Alone, We are synonymous Quiet, you are the sound that echoes out of my insecure lungs Uncertain, I’m sure I am but I’m not sure Happy, you are the seldom pleasure I seek daily
Chapped I had a taste of him last night He is nostalgia Warm and familiar A sweetness I’ve tasted before On another boy’s lips But I felt no affection in his kiss just Chapstick on dry lips.
summer
ola faleti
*Previously published in Coalition Zine June 2014
You can’t ignore the resigned disappointment in your mother’s eyes when you stand alone, separated from the other college-aged youth at the mosque. In their flowing white robes, the girls heads’ covered with silk scarves, and the boys’ with white caps. They laugh and talk animatedly, “Salaam”-ing the adults they encounter, who ask about their studies. “I’m finishing up undergrad, getting ready for Occupational Therapy School” -“Physical Therapy School” -- “Nursing School” -- “Med School” and other varieties of the medical persuasion. You wouldn’t know what to tell these elders if they asked the same of you, other than the fact that you were traveling to France for a semester. And you wouldn’t necessarily teach with two language degrees. And there were a lot of thing you could do those degrees, you just couldn’t tell them all of those things now.
You have to swallow a lump in your throat when you mother tells you that you’re losing your culture at that school of yors. You think that perhaps you have been partying too much with these oyinbo* and their booze and cigarettes. This was something you were always conscious of, but to hear the words from your mother is like digging a scythe into your heart. And you suddenly feel guilty for looking forward to the return to your insular, white bread school – despite its racism, its ignorant small-town student body, and the fact that you will almost always be the token black person in any given space unless it is designated for students of color. oyinbo: Yoruba slang for white people Junior year will be the first time in college that you live with other black people, a fact which pleases your mother and you, although you are afraid of their African judgment. After all, you are an American at the heart of your Nigerian upbringing. You lament the fact that being jobless in August ferments so much contemplation and painful self-honesty. But in the long run, you know this is good. You look forward to learning how to drive with your dad and making egusi soup with your mother.
Mental Illness among Nigerians Adesewa Awobadejo
A few years ago, I had a conversation with a Nigerian woman in Ireland who told me she’d never heard about depression until she came abroad. She told me she didn't understand how children who are privileged, well-off and go on bi-annual holidays with their families abroad, experience phases of depression and suicidal tendencies-- while kids who are abused day in and day out when working as maids in Nigeria, are ‘okay.’ When I heard this, I started a long reflection on what exactly it means to be seen as ‘okay’. Mental illness among Nigerians is an issue that we never really talk about, and when we do-- we often carry many misconceptions into the conversations.
"
The limited statistics on mental health in Nigeria show that:
•
The prevalence of mental illness in the country is reported
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at 20%. The ratio of psychiatrists to the general population is
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1:1,400,000.
The budget allocated for mental health in the Nigerian health
budget is 4% of the total health budget.
(Gureje et al. 2010)
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There are not only Nigerians who are (unconsciously) suffering from mental illness, but there are Nigerians who are suffering silently, for fear of ridicule.
One of the main misconceptions is that mental illness is an economic issue. We think that once you have a roof over your head and clothes on your back, the virtue of gratitude should overshadow and bury any negative emotion or thought. And concerning schizophrenia or bipolar disorder? You're either possessed or insane. As the Yoruba would say, “O ti ya wè rè.” Which roughly translates to, “You’ve lost your mind.” Maybe the seeds of your sins have found suitable ground for germination. People will gather a series of possible causes but rarely show willingness to support you in searching for treatment. Visiting Nigeria last summer taught me a lot of things I didn't pick up before I moved to Ireland with my family over a decade ago. Although I was inspired by the ‘hustle’ and strength of our people, I was also perplexed by it. In Nigeria, we teach resilience and that can be our downfall sometimes. Where does vulnerability and transparency come in? How do we speak out? How do we tell others about our inner trembling, our mental exhaustion, our internal emptiness and inability to contemplate the future? We don't. People don't express themselves out loud in situations like this—and this silence breeds violence and corruption. Violence from people whose wounds are not yet healed, who think imposing pain on others will somehow rid them of theirs. Corruption from cynical leaders with hardened hearts. It's hard. It's hard to tell the government to spend money in order to raise awareness, when almost two-thirds of the population lives in poverty. It's hard to tell the government that the mental health of the people is their wealth, when they have an economy where money can literally buy anything and everything…
I wrote this piece not to make Nigeria look harsh, barbaric or anything of the sort. In fact, I know we're a very prosperous country with so much greatness and potential that continues to grow. I wrote this piece to educate and raise awareness on this issue. I know firstly, that depression is something that many people need education on, because it can be difficult to understand, especially if you've never suffered from it. At the end of the day, when beauty fades, money vanishes and our bones grow weak, all we're left with is our spirit/mind. So let's look after them and help our brothers and sisters look after theirs. I also wrote this to tell Nigerians who are coping with any mental conditions: You are not invisible; you are recognized and you are understood. I’m sorry for all that you have endured, but you are enough. More than enough! Grace, beauty and joy are on their way. If you are someone currently coping with a mental illness or happen to come in contact with someone who is, ‘MentallyAware NG’ is a Non-Governmental Organization fighting against the stigmatization of mental illnesses/disorders in Nigeria. They raise awareness through discussions on mental illness on social media and provide assistance to those in difficulty through free counseling services and referral to mental health professionals and facilities. Feel free to contact the organization at www.mentallyaware.org or @mentallyawareNG on twitter and instagram. You can also donate and/ or become a volunteer!
Adesewa is a 17 year old aspiring writer seeking to impact through words and spread God's love.
THE DISTRESSING SITUATION OF COLOURISM JOCHEBED AIREDE Colourism: the prejudice against darker-skinned individuals, especially in the same racial or ethnic group, is a part of the way we interact with one another – whether we like it or not. And in Nigeria, it wreaks damage on the minds of students and youths far more than people are aware of. I started thinking about the issue of colourism when my mother and I were talking about schools that operated with the Nigerian system, and she said that the teachers there would prefer me. I asked why, assuming it was about my brains, but I was wrong – she said it was because I was fair-skinned. Looking back on most of my primary school experiences, I realized that we were raised as children on this preference. Our darker classmates were always made fun of, and jeered with names like ‘charcoal’, and ‘blackie’. While this happened, our classmates conveniently forgot that we are all Black. They were always the ones that were cast into the roles in plays that nobody ever wanted. It didn’t seem like much then; we were just having fun, but, looking at some of my darker friends now and how they hate being described (even positively) as dark, I understand that it’s something that strikes deep chords in the hearts of children.
Nigerians may not always see the emotional impact of our sentiments, but
colourism can lead to actions with serious medical repercussions. Skin bleaching with certain chemicals can cause vitiligo (a condition in which the pigment, melanin, is lost, causing whitish patches), as well as skin cancer, blood cancers and severe cancers of the liver (Adow, ‘Nigeria’s Dangerous Obsession”) According to the World Health Organisation, over 77% of Nigerian women bleach their skin. We are quick to judge those who wish to change their skin colour, but we fail to realise that they’re not the root of the problem, it’s the ideal they’ve been raised on – that, the darker you are, the less attractive you are. Colourism can be more insidious than racism because it requires you to tear down those fighting the same battle as you. The way to tackle it and ensure that all young people grow up with confidence in themselves is through parents and elders who remind us regularly that not only does true beauty emanate from our souls, not from our appearances--but that all our skin types are beautiful. And it’s not only about our parents – we have to defend darker people from daily insults. We need to remember that our fight and our struggle is not within ourselves, and that we have bigger fish to fry. All shades of Black - ebony, caramel, cafe au lait, and everything in between—are gorgeous, no matter what.
Why bleach? Michelle Ezeuko Does your blackness make you uncomfortable? But your children will be black How will you teach them self love? But your ancestors are black How will you honour all their suffering? But your blackness is beautiful The sun kissed you the longest Held you in it’s embrace and couldn’t let go. Your blackness is strength Your blackness is survival Your blackness is revolution, power and victory Why wash it away? With lies we have been deprived of our history. With lies we have been deprived of our beauty. With lies we have been blinded and now we can’t see. We can’t see the beauty in the black that reflects the moon. We can’t see the beauty in the black that reflects the purity of nature. We can’t see the beauty in the black that is the very canvas on which the universe was drawn. Open your eyes. Never confirm their lies. Your skin is defiance and loving yourself is the victory.
Ruby Chijoke-Nwauche
Beauty #1 Somewhere between the smell of roasting plantains and fried fish; She cameOtherworldly. The brilliant white lace she wore glorifying her ebony skin. I stopped. I stared. Across the way, Mothers jostled with shopkeepers at every wooden stall, Mud splashed against Well worn shoes. But she floated Above it all; Above me. And I fell down at her feet. #2 I can't stop looking at the way your throat bobs when you speak and your hands move in gestures for the things you love. Your ebony skin glints in the sunlight and your eyes put every kaleidoscope to shame. I can't stop looking at it. At you and your lovely Iridescence.
Identity #3 I can't get away from the voices inside my head that are telling me I'm a monster. I can't get away from the voices inside my head that know me, But do NOT know me. The ones that outlined my future from before I was born. The ones that know, Seem to know, Who and what a black African teenager is Or what a woman is Or what a girl is. Talk and walk and sing and act and read andWhat did you say again? #4 I feel my palms begin to sweat And from the tears my face is wet I do not know how I'm alone When I at last have returned home My mother speaks a native tongue Different from the one I've come to long If home is where the heart is then I left my heart with the European It's sacrilege- cannot be spoken The African pride cannot be broken And so I am a silent Judas To scared to act and lost, at last.
Ruby Chijioke-Nwauche is an 18 year old girl from Port Harcourt, Nigeria currently studying English at the University of Manitoba in Canada who hopes to be a writer and believes in the importance of representation in art.
as the people fall
jochebed airede
I can only imagine the thud of the bodies as they hit the ground, The crunch of the gravel beneath them, Or the pool of crimson that fans around the lifeless body, Like petals on a flower We can only imagine the heart-wrenching grief Or the sense that your soul is an endless vacuum. Like leading a lamb to the slaughter, Like plucking the feathers of a turkey, Melanin-rich beings die. Under facades of ‘self-defence’, the guilty hide, And lie through their teeth. As blood runs through the cracks in the pavement, Forming the veins, the blood of the land.
Feeling Like the Majority as the Minority: An Interview on Sisterhood in White Spaces*
Victory Ekeoma
Many of us have faced the daunting yet inevitable transition from the casual ease of primary school to the intimidating 6 years of secondary school. At this point, the inescapable transition from childlike innocence to newly fledged teenhood, with its insecurity, self-doubt, and multiple existential crises, begins. When these circumstances are coupled with concerns of cultural identity and race: being a black, thirteen-year old Nigerian girl can be exhausting. I decided to gather five young girls who have just started their 3rd and 5th years of secondary school to discuss how they are navigating coming-of-age in an environment that didn’t anticipate the evolution of these proud Nigerian sisters. Firstly, you were all in different classes when you started 1st year, but there were 10 or so black girls for every 150+ white girls. So, what sort of people did you gravitate towards when you started 1st year? M, P, Ij: The white girls in our [respective] classes. Oh, ok! So you’re 12-13, starting secondary school, and desperate for new friends, except you’re in a class of predominantly white girls. Was that a big deal? Did you feel you had to change or suppress any part of yourselves in order to fit in and feel “comfortable”? N: Well, I didn’t want to hang out with black people for a while because I didn’t want to be stared at or identified as a nuisance, if you get me. I felt like the teachers and principals would think I was more proper or a better, more presentable student if I was around oyinbos. “Oyinbo”: Yoruba for white people M: For me, I came from primary school having a group of black friends where I was free to do as I wished, but in secondary school there was only me, and a black girl who acted white, so I acted like them. Yes, yes! I understand! You felt like you had to “act white” in order to be treated better because being loud, boisterous, opinionated, etc is usually part of the negative stereotypes associated with being black. Was it easy to switch it up and “act white”? N: Yeah, it was easy for me to “act white” because my primary school best friends were white so I was already used to it. It wasn’t until hanging out with black
people, that I realized I fit in so much better! I had never felt that way before! It was so different. Did it bother you that you had to act different in order to be treated better, or did it come naturally? N: It didn’t really occur to me that I was changing and acting different at the time, it’s only after, when I actually think about it, that I can see what was happening. What exactly did you have to change? N: You have to be more “proper”, you can’t be as free. You have to be able to eat flavorless food when you stall their gaff! “Stall their gaff ”: Irish slang for go over to their house Considering the fact that, as black girls, you had to “act white”, did that affect your self-esteem at all? N: Yeah, in a way. Like being who you are (black) isn’t good enough. You have to conform to what they are in order to be respected, you know. At the time you don’t see it, it’s not a big deal. You’re just like “when in Rome, act like a Roman” not knowing you’re bringing your true self down in the process. J: No, not really. It was a thing I knew I had to do. Also, at the time I had just cut my hair and I was growing it out natural. N: I think I’m just lucky that I found black people in first year because if I didn’t, it would be harder to reconnect with my black side, if you get me. I remember seeing you, J, with your natural hair and absolutely dying! I was so happy that you had the confidence to go natural, and your buns were so adorable! You were so badass with your hair! J: [laughs] Thank you! It’s just something you do without thinking too long about it. I know for me, being surrounded by my white friends when I was 13 was detrimental to my self-esteem! It’s obviously wasn’t their fault and I didn’t blame them for how I felt, but I’m sure you’re all aware that our society glorifies and idolizes Eurocentric ideas of beauty. Did you ever desire to fit neatly into that box of what’s considered desirable?
M: I wanted long, straight hair, in primary school, not gonna lie. So I would wear a weave, and the white people at my school were so rude about it saying “you’re wearing fake hair.” N: Yes. I wished I had less defined features like lips, nose, and curves, and I wanted oyinbo hair. I felt like my lips were way too big and sometimes people would make fun of them in a way that seemed harmless but really hurt. And because my lips are dark, I hated them. J: For me, it’s still a thing I’m working on. Ij: Meh, to be honest with you, nothing can bend my self esteem! No white person can ever define me! [laughs] This is kind of off topic, but did any of you ever bring Nigerian food to school and get made fun of because I definitely did. P: Yes omg! People would say, “OMG what the hell is that?” “Why’s it orange?” about jollof rice. N: “Ewwww, it’s disgusting! How do you eat that?” about plantain chips. Ij: Nah, they would say “lemme sample it” [laughs] “It’s too spicy!!” Majority of the food, they will say it smells! N: Or “Oh you’re African? My mummy’s neighbour’s cat is from Africa! P: Talking about this is actually vexing me. When you were 13 and “acting white”, did any of these thoughts cross your mind, or did you just go with the flow? M: I went with the flow. I didn’t make a big deal about it because I wanted them to be my friends. I was the same! P: Also, they think that you must be a certain colour to say you’re from [insert country here]! Irish people think that you must be white to claim that you’re Irish, if not, you are not known for being “high Irish”, if that makes sense? M: Someone once told me I wasn’t proper Irish, like she fought with me.
Ij: “Where were you born?” M: When I tell them I was born here, they start asking about my parents! Now we’ve vented a little, haha, can you think of a time you encountered overt or subtle forms of discrimination in school? N: It’s mostly subtle, and I actually think that’s worse because it’s harder to point out. M: They do it very discreetly. N: They’ll just be staring at you. M: Like they I got in trouble for my coloured hair (braids) but the white girls are allowed pink or blue hair and they do nothing. J: If you call a white friend over and you’re with your fellow black girls, they go red Ij: Swear, like tomato! Why do you think they’d be uncomfortable? J: Because it’s stereotypical. In movies or TV shows, black people are portrayed as the bad guys. I totally get that, and it’s so true! When it comes to discussing racism in school, do you call it out, or ignore it? N: Yes, I do in my class. They know me for my rants, but they just take it like “oh, she’s off again”. Would you have been able to do that in 1st year? N: Maybe not as passionately, but yes. Although, I know if there was another black girl in my class, they would take me more seriously. M: In 1st year I said nothing, but by my 3rd year, they knew to keep their mouths shut. J: Even my teachers know! I’ll start to make noises when they say something problematic.
This is why I adore you guys! The younger generation of Nigerian girls who are coming up through your school can feel such a sense of black girl and Nigerian pride when they look to you guys! Where do you think this sense of newfound pride came from? N: Being around other black girls! M: Being with black people! And being myself. I don’t have to act anymore! J: The concept of just claiming my title as a black girl is enough. Obviously, being proud to be black is one thing, but what about being proud of being Nigerian? If you looked at 1st year you, and you now, how do you think your Nigerian pride has changed (if it has) and why do you think that is? N: I’m more proud! M: I was always happy to be Nigerian because of our rich culture! J: It’s changed a lot. N: Like before I would still be claiming “Irish Irish Irish” with little mention of “Nigerian” so I could fit in, but now I hardly claim Irish, because at the end of the day, no matter where they gave birth to me, I’ll always be Nigerian. J: Retweet! Why do you think you’re more proud to be Nigerian? Is it because of the people you surround yourself with? N: Yes, it’s harder to be proud of something when it’s only you. J: Yes, it’s really only my mom and this little group of friends. I know for me, when I consider how much our artists, musicians, authors, athletes, etc. are excelling back home and how far more people are starting to appreciate that, I’m really super proud to be Nigerian! N: Yeah, but I also don’t like the way us Africans try to be like “the West”. We’re not proud of ourselves! Like for example, our artists try so hard to be American! I really think that if we embrace our culture then others will embrace us!
J: I think if people stop judging our culture, we will feel comfortable. M: N, that’s because society pressures people to act a certain way. N: But if we’re comfortable first, it’ll be easier for them to stop judging. It starts with us, because if we’re uncomfortable why should they be comfortable, you know? J: It’s just a learning process for everyone. There is both a universal and deeply personal realization that can be had when the words of these girls are mulled over. It becomes clear how beautifully intricate the tapestry that being a teenage girl, black, and Nigerian, can be. How microaggressions line the fabrics of our beings, and stereotypes influence how we navigate our societies. How becoming comfortable in our own skins, freeing ourselves from self-doubt and feelings of inadequacy, is a journey-- with ramps and U-turns. Talking to these girls, I also came to realize the power of a bond of sisterhood and solidarity. A bond that transcends age, as can be seen by the friendship of girls aged 13 to 16 who are at varying journeys through their teenhood. A bond built on cultural identity and freedom to bask in the nuances that make up being Nigerian, from our humor to our accents, our food to our music. The bond that makes you feel like the majority despite being the minority. One that brings about the freedom to be yourself. With these girls, I laughed to the point of tears. I resonated with their words and feelings. I was reminded of a how a younger version of myself echoed these feelings of insecurity and a desire to fit a mould that wasn’t designed for me. What differed between my experience and that of these girls was their ability to remedy those feelings through banding together, rather than isolating themselves in an uncomfortable space. There’s an intense joy I get when I realize that my sisters and their friends are discovering the magic that’s within them much earlier than I did. Like an overzealous dance mom over invested in the success of her children living out what she missed at their age: I’m standing at the sidelines, cheering on and encouraging the constant display of this black girl magic! *This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity and length
Victory N-Ekeoma is an 18 y/o Nigerian nomad raised in Ireland and based in Glasgow, Scotland. A lover of clothes, science, and words, she considers herself a professional peacock, a jack of all trades, and frequently brain dumps on the internet. ig @v.n.e twitter @notvictoriaok
young gifted and black, why we need nigerian creatives ola faleti The Nigerian-American Dream goes something like this: moving 5,000 miles away from home to a cold country, having children who speak great English and still stay connected to the motherland, having these children grow up, go to medical/ law/engineering school, making big bucks and making their parents proud. My parents came to New York City, what they saw as the most prosperous city in the most prosperous country in the world, in the late 80s. I can’t say I know what they were expecting, but I’m not convinced I was it. I don’t play sports. I’m not good at science. My math scores were consistently average on standardized tests while my reading scores were up in the 95th percentile. Law school? No way, too much studying. So I do what I know how to do: I write. I studied languages at university. My parents were more receptive to my interests than a lot of Nigerians would be. I don’t encounter too many who major in two humanities at school (and no - coding doesn’t count). “English? History? Fine Arts? What are you going to do with those? You need to find something l u c r a t i v e.” As if recording stories doesn’t mean something. As if the books, movies and music we consume come out of thin air. As if art doesn’t make the world go round. The American Dream is a flawed concept, but in my mind it’s not so much about the white picket fence, or the dog in the yard playing with your 2 children. It’s about the pursuit of happiness, the freedom to express yourself however you see fit.
That’s why I think Wahala Zine is important. The western world already has enough fucked-up ideas about Africa. Who knows that they really think about Nigeria outside of 419 scams? Artists like Yagazie Emezi, Teju Cole, Helen Oyeyemi and Skepta are only a few examples of the endless outlets of Nigerian expression. The world needs to know that we’re not a monolith. Yes, there are many brilliant engineers, doctors, lawyers, and chemists of Nigerian descent. Just like there are great painters, great actors, great playwrights, great directors. There are Nigerians who aren’t scientifically inclined at all. To see us as human is to recognize the diversity of our experiences. Parents want job security for their children, and I understand that. Doctors, engineers and lawyers are all respectable and important. But so is changing people’s perceptions. And that’s what good art does. Good art is especially necessary for kids of the diaspora. Our experiences run the gamut, from growing up in a closeknit Nigerian community in Chicago, to being the only Nigerian in a Stockholm classroom. The humanities are called humanities for a reason; these are the things that make us human. Art is how we come to understand who we come from, who we are, and who we have yet to be. The insidious thing about colonialism is the way it attempts to erase whole histories. To make art as a Nigerian is to reclaim our past, while highlighting the nuances that makes each Nigerian diasporic experience special. The black experience worldwide is filled with love, sorrow, joy, anguish and celebration. As artists, we must capture those things and then some.
Ola lives on the north side of her favorite city (which is Chicago FYI) and will learn to make jollof, one of these days. Her writing has been in Moonsick Magazine, Harpoon Review + elsewhere.
hajara ojochide usman. october 2 1964. nigerian woman. black woman burning, yearning for much more
hajara hajara zoe vongtau
sister speak, let them know what you’re here for
that woman was my aunt, my inspiration and friend
sister speak, let them know it’s in your core
she led a live we all wish would never end
nurturing and empathetic, she lived for others
i am reincarnation, a restoration of the sort
kind and sensitive, silencing rooms with breaths she uttered
i believe in radical love & feminism, to make it short
that woman was a fighter
she lives in me, breathes life into my work
for the unseen and oppressed wearing love on her chest muslim girl rising resisting suppression
she lives in me, stops me from following doubts that lurk i sing her songs in the light for all to listen
never making her beliefs a question
i sing her songs in the dark, for all in opposition
the patriarchy is a sin, she never let it consume her
and i love her to death and will continue what she created
never let fear or skepticism in the front door
for the hope of a day when we’re all celebrated
everything is going to change fikayo odugbemi We were all there. Every single one of us, all godless and frightened and filled to the brim with elation. It was almost graduation and Omar asked for us to meet at the place where became friends. I remember that day like it was yesterday. I was running from home: that empty shell with a father shaped hole and a lonely mother, with a sister drying out faster than smoked fish and a leaky roof to boot. No, I wasn’t running from home-- I was running from hell. In my erratic state I wasn’t watching where I was going and was about to fall off a cliff until I felt someone tug on my shoulder and pull me back roughly. I looked back and it was Omar. I’d seen him around school but I didn’t really know him as he wrapped himself in this cocoon of quiet and discipline, and kept his nose in a book at all times. Next to him were Bola and Mikayla-- the last people I ever thought would hang out together. Bola, a loud mouthed artist who inked on every surface and yakked to everybody, was as tiresome as he was talented; and Mikayla, a no-shit-taken monster of a girl. The moment you saw her you felt she must have been created at a factory with a penchant for twisted objects. They got the prettiest parts they could find, and put them together to make the outer shell, then filled the inside with horror and gore, and patted themselves on the back, concluding that they had created a formidable human being. To say I was curious to know what they were all doing together at such an isolated place was an understatement. I asked, and found out that they were each running from something. A few times a week they came here to think, talk and sometimes just sit and soak up the togetherness. I asked if I could join, and the rest, as they say, is history.
“What are we doing guys, why are we here?” I said. Omar turned to me and held my hand. “I wanted us to soak up this feeling for the last time, to remember us as we are and us as we were. We’ve all grown so much from when we met, and we have you to thank for that Andrew” “Aw, don’t say that, you guys all helped me! I mean, if not for you Omar I would be at the bottom of this cliff accidentally, all smashed skull and broken bones and if not for you three I would be at the bottom of this cliff willingly, all smashed soul and broken dreams.” “Wow Andrew. Way to set the mood,” Mikayla piped in, “Always the poet.” “Shut up, you’re the only dark lord here,” I said mockingly. Bola, not wanting to be left out, yelled “I am your father!” with a fantastic imitation of Darth Vader’s voice and we all fell about laughing until Omar cleared his throat as if to say, ‘Okay guys that’s enough, and now it’s time to be serious.’
“Listen, I know you guys hate getting heavy, since we all have enough of that at home-- but graduation is tomorrow and we may never see each other again,” Omar said. “Omar you’re right, I mean we are all going to different universities. I can’t believe I may never get to experience you guys fall in love and get married and have kids. I don’t even want to think about it.” Mikayla said sincerely. Bola added, “And everything is going to change, you know. When we go out there and meet new people, it’s all going to change. And that change makes me so scared. I hate change, Change fills my pockets with pennies of uncertainty.” “I’m going to miss you guys so much, I’ll miss our discussions on the relativity of time and the pointlessness of human existence. Even our dumb arguments on if gele is better than bigi.” I said. At that, everyone laughed. Omar pulled us all together in a group hug and we just stayed like that for hours while we laughed and cried about our exploits together, knowing that we would never have a friendship as close and as true as this ever again.
nigerian millenials on feminism fikayo odugbemi A lot of Nigerians will reject the idea of feminism, believing that it’s not a 'Nigerian' thing. If this is true, it’s largely because Western gender ideologies were pushed onto our existing cultures through colonization. It is ironic that Nigerians believe that in our culture and our traditions the man is the leader of the house and the wife the subservient servant. That she should be submissive and not allowed to have her own opinions. He refuses to see and accept that the woman can be and is more than a wife and mother. It's strange that submissiveness is encouraged in girls, when our history is full of powerful women who have fought the good fight for Nigeria and helped shape the country.
Girls are taught from the start that they are less than the man, that they should aspire to please and accommodate the man. We have told generations of girls they should learn how to cook and clean to make their husbands happy, and generations of boys to “man up” when they cry. When men come forward with experiences of rape and sexual assault, it’s discredited as impossible. Vulnerability is seen as inherently feminine and completely discouraged in boys, because it is thought to emasculate them. The subjugation of women is so far reaching that our president made a comment on an international news channel responding to his wife’s statement that she may not support her husband's second term if he continues to run the country the way he currently is. Muhammadu Buhari said, "I don't know which party my wife belongs to, but she belongs to my kitchen and my living room and Other room”-saying that she didn't have the right to have an opinion and that she belonged to him. There are a lot of misconceptions about feminism in Nigeria. You walk into a room and say you're a feminist and you literally hear the groaning and muttering that these troublemakers with no husbands have come again. To me it’s about (among many other things) making sure women get paid, treated fairly, aren't slandered because they are successful or referred to as sluts or ashewo because they are sexually active. It's about making sure men aren't referred to as being weak because they are being sensitive.
It’s about freedom from barriers: the feminist writer Joy Bewaki describes feminism as “a push behind the girl child, a motivation to strive and not be made to feel inadequate for denying traditions and certain social stereotypes that try to place boundaries for girls." I was so upset by a grim view of the future of women in Nigeria, that I decided to ask some questions to a few Nigerian millennials to get an idea of what feminism is to them. These interviews are not enough to judge the general mindset of Nigerian millennials but I think it's safe to say there are many young Nigerians out there ready to make a difference. If you are not sure about feminism, or are a feminist who wants to expand their knowledge about how feminism can and has manifested itself: take time to read articles and books, watch talks and documentaries centered on feminism. Think about it this way: why should your gender be a weapon against you? Why shouldn't you get that job or be allowed to say that thing, or cry, or dress that way because of constructed categories? Consider the injustice of this, then gather your things from the anti-feminist corner and hightail it to the feminist corner, we'll welcome you with warm hugs and a feeling of value. Are you a feminist? ANGEL Jemegbe: Yes Anonymous: Nah I'm not a feminist DUPE Faworaja: Well maybe, I like to think so. Maybe not an active feminist but I believe in equality. RHODA Babatunde: I wouldn’t say I am. How would you describe feminism? A: I think feminism is the liberation and emancipation of women on the grounds of not just social, but political and economical equality to men. Feminism is the fight for women to be seen as more than just tools and objects in society. Feminism is standing up for women everywhere who have been subdued and oppressed and subjugated. To not let anyone take away your natural rights because you have been viewed by society as weaker. Wearing what you want regardless of what anyone thinks is a type of feminism.
R: Feminism is basically a fight for everyone to be treated properly and given a fair chance. KEHINDE Olaitan: Political, economical, personal and social rights for women. How important is feminism? E: Feminism is important, it’s about getting equal rights for women in all areas of life... personal, education, job opportunities, political, marriage, the list can go on. D: Well feminism is very important because it creates a platform that fights for equality in societies where men are always chosen first. And women are not even given the privilege of the benefit of the doubt because they're perceived to be inferior. A: People have started to joke about it and laugh at girls who call themselves feminists because some people don’t have basic information about feminism. Feminism is important because we need girls to grow up with the mentality that they can be the president. It’s important because in some societies women are abused and subjugated essentially because of their gender. In parts of Cameroon and Chad and the Republic of Benin, women go through genital mutilation because they don’t want them to have sex before marriage or they only want their vaginas to be instruments of pleasure. It’s important because girls are not even allowed to be sexual because it is seen as inappropriate and indecent. You hear sentences like, “Who will marry this one?” But when a guy does it he is a ‘boss’ or ‘bad guy’. It’s important so women can be free to be who they really want to be. Not hide behind the shadows and be who society wants them to be: shy and obedient followers. When did you start to notice the men were seen as ‘superior?’ A: I started to notice at nursery school. Little things like how I’d sit and my teacher would tell me to close my legs cause no boy would like that. Or growing up and being told by other girls to wear a dress cause boys would find it more attractive. Learning how to cook which I thought was for myself but then hearing phrases like, “You better cook well so your husband won’t leave you for another woman.” I realised that boys were trained to be proper educated human beings while women were trained to serve men.
D: Ever since we were born. All those men that divorce their wives because they've not given them a male child, or when the male child is the one who goes off to be the engineer and when a girl is the engineer or the doctor or whatever, most people would still rather get their services from a man, cause they find him more professional or assume he knows what he's doing. K: When I realized that female political candidates don’t get the position even when they are qualified. How did this realisation affect you? A: I became a different person. I immediately started to do and say the things I wanted for me. Not for anyone else-- which led to me being bullied and going through years where I felt alone. But eventually I became more independent. Even until today some people don’t agree with the way I act and behave because it doesn’t always suit them. It’s not something they’re familiar with and so they frown upon it. It’s made me stronger and more liberal. It’s made me confident and for that I think it’s the greatest realisation I’ve ever had. Anonymous: It didn’t really affect me, I’ve always had a view that everyone should be treated equally, I’ve always done so and will continue to. R: This realisation made me speak up. K: Negatively. Makes me so angry to know they think so little of women. What effect has feminism had on society? A: It has both a negative and positive effect. Negative in the sense that people have abused the word ‘feminism ‘ in order to suit their individual needs, and people with feminist ideas or ideologies are being mocked and attacked. Positive in the sense that women are able to have control of their voices. It might not be so popular yet but it’s encouraging to see girls take charge of their own gratification. Girls no longer want to fight for boys. Girls want to be their own bosses. Which puts men in an awkward situation, and they start to feel threatened. A couple of days ago some dude on Instagram asked me if we could ‘hook up,’ and I said no.
He immediately dived into this fit calling my posts shit and saying I was basically talking rubbish all the time. All because I refused to ‘hook up.’ I just laughed because I realised how far we still have to go as a society. Anonymous: Positive. It gives women the opportunities to stand up for what they want and talk about things without being looked down or ridiculed for it. R: It has a negative effect on the society because it's not fully understood. Do you think feminism has an influence in work environments, family, school etc? A: Feminism does have an influence anywhere you are. It helps you see clearly and basically not accept bullshit people give to you because of your gender. In school it makes you less of a target for bullies because you’re not ashamed of who you are and what you do and wear because you don’t give a shit. At home it helps you build yourself for you and not for anyone else. You can tell your younger ones if you have any that they don’t have to take any rubbish from anyone because they’re women. It helps you demand respect. Because when guys do it they’re bosses but when a girl does it she’s a bitch. It shouldn’t be like that. It helps you lead better without questioning yourself, and it helps you trust yourself. This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity and length * views on feminism vary globally, and this interview does not necessarily reflect the opinions of the editors.
Fikayo odugbemi is a 19 yr old budding activist,who plans to revolutionize the education system in Nigeria. You can catch her making unaesthetic instagram posts on @unicorninkk.
black girlhood nneka nnagbo
Growing up in Ottawa, Ontario, I spent my youth writing and being inspired by old films and music from the 70’s and 90’s. The essence of youth has always fascinated me. Growing up a young black female in a predominantly white suburban township, and navigating my way through those differences, was hard and, at times, confusing. Searching for my identity and discovering my body while attempting to find common ground among individuals I could not directly relate to made me feel foreign in many ways. Through my photography, I found a comforting and quiet retreat. I didn’t see much mainstream representation and documentation of young black people, so I wanted to portray black youth in a way that I hadn't seen using a medium that I cherish vigorously: film.
There is a huge connection between my vision of feminism and the "natural" aspect of the models in my work. Essentially I wanted to deconstruct the male gaze. The male gaze represents "gazing" through the lens of a camera in a way that turns women into objectified spectacles. Ultimately, the reason for the "au natural" aspect of my work stems from not wanting "the spectacle" to overrule the plot and story of my photos. I want to create art that makes people feel something, anything —as most artists do. I want to capture people in their most disarming and charming conditions. I want my images to be somewhat of a time capsule of youth and a reverence of the past. But I especially want to highlight black young people and the spirit of adolescence because it is my belief that the smell of restless adolescence stays with you forever.