Igbophilia in Amurika: De tings dat happun.

See eh, Amurika has tired me, I won’t lie. All through last year, I had serious problems with my blood-rise-up  because people with brains and anuses and freedom now went to elect Thing from the Addams family to be their leader, thereby bringing us closer to Revelations and see-see-sis.

Then, to make matters worse, I am tired of the snow and the rain and the cold and I just want some sun because I look ashy as if I have no relatives to make me look in the mirror occasionally. My hair is like straw – the one place I found in Roxbury that can do locs, the loctician swerved me after saying she would call me back. I don’t know why. Eez like people in Amurika don like money again. So, here I sit, separating my crackling locs and hoping not to start a fire. O di egwu. To think I used to be a fine chick sef. That one has passed.

The good news is, I have started Narrative non-fiction classes at Harvard so that I can be better at this whole truth-telling thing. But errrr, me I cannot leave this blog because I don’t have to put what I am saying into the kind of English that other people can understand, shey you get?

That’s how me I was minding my business, one old woman like this came and asked me if my name was ‘made up’. Never never in my life has anyone asked me that question before. I mean, made up how? Like my parents just picked a collection of sounds and thought “Ah, sweet music. That will be her name”? Only the woman’s age made me keep my tongue in my head. And another thing, I hate it when you tell people your name and they say “What a beautiful name!” How do you know it’s beautiful? Do you speak Igbo? For all you know my name means “She who will bring about the world’s destruction with her vagina.”

Just say my name sounds beautiful, and leave it at that. I have to teach people English again.

It’s raining. God is just crying over the sorry state of affairs in this country. Na wah.

Anyway, how are you guys? Leave me a comment abeg, let’s catch up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Igbophilia in Amurika: What is smiling everybody in Cambridge?

I am a news-watching person, and the news tells us that Persons of Hue have a way of attracting ammunition, much like Dwight Hendrickson does. Drawing fire is apparently our Trouble, so I just open my eyes when I am walking well-well. This was not something I worried about on my previous visits when I was (a) Single/a newlywed and (b) Here for a short while. However now that I am raising a black man-child, staying here for a certain duration, I gats to sharpen my eyes.

So, you can imagine my alarm as I was walking along minding my business, when one  woman like so greeted me. She looked me in the eye as if she knew my father’s name and our compound in the village. Me sef, I faltered and nearly stopped, so familiar was the gaze. She moved on.

A man the next time. I told myself ‘Nwunye, they have come. It is that thing which they have been discussing o,’ did my mouth hyo  and continued walking. Can you blame me? I’ve lived in South London for ten years, Newcastle/Bensham for two years prior to that. If someone says hello to you and you don’t know them, better jam your hands into your pockets or clutch your bag against your chest because verily, verily I say to you brother, sister, thou art to be divested of thine worldly possessions. Avert your eyes fast and…well, not run exactly, but do the hop-step-hop thing we all do while checking an imaginary watch and pretending our bus is late.

Don’t worry if you don’t get it. It’s a British thing.

This uncanny event occurred again. This time, the woman was walking her dog across the road, stopped and shouted ‘Hi!’ then  proceeded to have a conversation. I brought out my wallet and tossed it across to her. Her dog picked it up in its mouth and brought it back to me. I raised both hands in the air.

“That’s all I have. I know the value of the pound has fallen…”

The woman threw her  head back and laughed, ‘Ha! ha! ha!’ like that, her gullet moving as if she was swallowing mirth. “You’re funny!” she said, continuing on her way.

Hmm. I was beginning to pick up on the vibe of the place.

In the chldren’s  section of the library, I smiled at a pregnant woman with two children in tow. “Hi!” I said, showing her my thirty-two. She took her children by the hand and dragged them out of the library.

I don’t understand this country.