Igbophilia or ‘How to be Igbo in the 21st Century’.

Today is the last day for early bird (read discounted tickets) for the 3rd annual Igbo Conference taking place at SOAS, University of London,  2-3 May 2014.

I feel like an idiot because I was supposed to let you guys know since Thursday but I went on a mini-break and there was no service where I was so, I am telling you now. BUY YOUR TICKETS TODAY. DO NOT DELAY. (Yes, I rhyme too.)

Why? Well, the Igbo Conference is a great place to exchange ideas, stories, tips and even learn the language and culture. This year’s theme is on ‘Heritage’ and I am quite excited about the list of activities. But don’t take my word for it. Have a look.

Programme of activities.

You can buy your tickets here.

For the eagle-eyed amongst you, well spotted. I am part of the panel on the 3rd of May.  I will probably be wearing my villain shoes so if in doubt, look for that. I might even bring the Tot. It’ll be great to see you guys there.

Gwam Gwam Gwam…

…Why my mother has taken to signing off her texts and emails to me with her name ‘Oby’? Is this a trap?

Look, I am not paranoid. I just know my mother and living with her has prepared me not just for rolling with the punches but rolling away from them. My mother was very Old Testament we were growing up; swift to take offence, swifter to act still, delivering those dreaded mouth flicks that made you feel and look like you pissed off a few hundred bees. It was as if Jesus never happened. She’s only little so we all decided that the best retribution would be to grow taller, away from the knocks on the head and those ear-yanks that made you suddenly realise just what spirits did with the ear of a dog.

(Okay, I still don’t know. But whatever it is, I’m sure it hurts like shit. I am not swearing. I mean one of those obstructive ones that make your day worse on coming out so that it would have been better if they stayed on the insidewhatamIdoingdiscussingthiskindofnonsense?)

I swear my mother once pulled my ear so hard that for a week or so I was like Spider Man. I could hear butterflies in flight and smell rain even when the skies were bright blue. When I told her I could smell the unwashed liver smell which was the sole preserve of our house help Petrolina on the carpenter Pius, she knocked me so hard that my hearing returned to normal.

“That’s for spying,” she said, before giving me half a bottle of coke as a reward.

You see why I am so well-adjusted. And why I became a journalist.

Nevertheless, I shan’t take to calling my mother Oby , thank you very much. When it rains my left knee still hurts from the first – and last – time I attempted it as a joke and she threw a high-heeled shoe at me.

In defence of (my) Igboness

This blog is NOT about a hatred of Igbo people and things, especially Igbo men.

I do not hate being Igbo.

As a child I didn’t necessarily know I was Igbo. Yes, I spoke the language and I soaked in the culture as if I was a sponge, but when you grow up with everyone singling you out as ‘Nke a muru na obodo oyibo’ (the one that was born abroad) and making it out to be something special, you start to feel you are – somehow – above being Igbo. It’s not something you think about with a conscious mind. You don’t sit for hours pondering your uniqueness. It’s something that thrives in the warmth of admiration but has nothing really to do with who you are. Much like being able to grow your hair past your shoulders or being a lighter shade of black.

I was black. To a large extent, I was white – colourless even; the books I read, the music I listened to, the voice of my subconscious: white, white, white. (If you were born into the middle class and upwards before the mid-90s you understand what I mean. Let’s not get bogged down.)

It took moving abroad to make me appreciate all the things I took for granted growing up; unique forms of expression, smells, sounds. It was like my I-chromosome had been activated. This didn’t happen immediately – nor consciously, at first. It’s true that if you don’t stand for something, you’ll fall for anything. If you let people, they will define you. In my case, many tried.

Yet there is no one definition of Igboness – how can there be?  (I am aware of the irony because the blog seems to hold up a certain type of Igbo as the norm.) I took exception to condensing my life to its purest igbo droplet.  Did this mean I could no longer (unashamedly) enjoy 80s Brit pop? Motorcycles? Spanish culture? Rollerderby? Travel? Trdelnik? World literature? Did this mean I could no longer admire or date anyone not from ‘our side’?  Does discovering other sides to myself make me any less ‘Igbo’?

I don’t think so.

If anything, it has helped to appreciate being Igbo more. I no longer take language for granted, ‘Oh it will always be there’, because it is constantly changing, evolving. More than half the words my maternal grandmother spoke when I was more interested in charging around than listening no longer exist. The paradigms of beauty have shifted so that my dark-skinned paternal grandmother whose teeth were sharpened into points to offset her cheekbones might no longer be considered stunning.

I stopped caring where I was born years ago and considered where I was raised. I know that the English fox is crafty but that the Igbo tortoise is craftier. I know that an Akpu tree is not the same as a cassava plant although they both share the same name. I know what to do with a ripe head of Ukwa even if it is a bloody tough job. Burning tyres will always remind me of New Year as opposed to lynching. I cannot hear ‘Kom Kom’ without being transported to ndi uzu oka. I am from Oba of the nine villages, and my village Ezelle is the youngest, responsible for keeping Idemmili in priests. I can forgive you if there is no ojii when I come to your house, but if you sweep my house at night you are my enemy. Why are you sweeping away my wealth?

I belong.

I do not hate Igbo people. I can take the mickey out of my brothers and sisters, out of my culture because it is mine. I can see our flaws and I can laugh at our mistakes. This does not mean I do not appreciate the beauty of who we are.

After all, you do not throw your baby away just because it has bitten you on the breast.