what is my heritage? - by Tayo Adefila

On my Pinterest, I see pictures of girls with their skin wrapped in asooke, and their heads crowned with afros. Their melanin’s radiance rivals the sun, and their words are laced with a history I somehow share. Me. The girl who’s had pin-straight, relaxed hair for as long as she can remember. The “grammatician” who is constantly expanding her English vocabulary, but when I speak my mother tongue, you wouldn’t know if I was saying “come” or “beans.” At school, my roommates effortlessly exchanged words in Yoruba, while my ears fought to recognise even just one word out of the whole conversation. At work, my superiors speak Yoruba in my presence and laugh about how they could sell me without my knowledge. At home, my sister mocks my inability to understand the simplest sentences. And I somehow still share the same roots as those African queens… I’m someone who believes if I don’t see progress, then I’m not doing enough. I had a whole gameplan set out for the next six months. I planned to study my people’s history and culture. I even went as far as downloading a textbook on how to speak Yoruba. Whenever the conversation starts to tilt towards my background, I’d become extremely attentive, desperate to soak up whatever knowledge I can. These things have helped. I’ve learnt a lot, truly. But deep down, I feel like an imposter. I didn’t grow up in a quiet town in the West. I was born and bred in the hustle and bustle of the Nigerian diaspora. I wasn’t taught how to speak Yoruba in school (a big flaw in our education system!) Instead, I learnt to speak English better than some native speakers. I wasn’t and still am not a part of a tightly knit community of families who have known each other for generations. But let’s get something straight. I don’t resent where and how I was brought up. In fact, I love it. But I know in my heart of hearts that there is a deep yearning for the untold stories of my DNA. I do not hate the British man or his Portuguese neighbour, but I do blame their ancestor’s handiwork for my lack of knowledge. The other day, my mother and I were out buying cosmetics, and I couldn’t find raw shea butter anywhere. It baffled me how the shelves were stocked with imports, while a commodity this country has produced for centuries was scarce. I could write about reverting to our ancestral cosmetic practices, but that’s a topic for another day! When I think of just how much of my cultural identity is lost to the past, it tears at an old wound. One that’s yet to heal; one so many still bleed from, including myself. Not to dwell on colonial rage, I have a question for you. Do you know how to speak your mother tongue? If you do, how did you learn? Since my uni was in the west, everyone thought I’d learn to speak when I got there… It’s been two and a half years since I became an undergraduate. I don’t even pronounce “ekaro” right! But regardless, I’m still pushing. Mama has officiated a new “no oyibo” verdict in the house. So wish me luck!

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