(C) Daily Kos This story was originally published by Daily Kos and is unaltered. . . . . . . . . . . The Life of A Second-Generation Nigerian American [1] ['This Content Is Not Subject To Review Daily Kos Staff Prior To Publication.'] Date: 2023-06-28 Everyone in the Community, a tight-knit group of Nigerian diaspora located in the United States, wants to see me get married. To them, marriage and progeny define an existence. Oftentimes, I can hold the same belief, though I could do without the constant reminders. At the behest of my mother, uncles, cousins, et cetera, I have courted a stream of potential romantic prospects, with none of the matches yielding fruitful connections. Nevertheless, I do not lament these couplings being torn asunder, for I am almost forty-seven years old, finally confident in who I am and what I want out of my life. The women also know what they want in a partner, and I do not blame them for rejecting me, as we are too old to be wasting our time. The community remains undaunted as they continue to initiate searches for available partners. This is especially true of my Cousin Carson, the incandescent, persistent warrior, and dutiful acolyte of Jesus Christ. According to Carson, the Almighty God has gifted him with a beautiful wife and healthy child, ensuring the continuation of his biological line. He wants the same thing for me and insists that there is a plan, one that is a byproduct of the mystical benevolent force. As I searched for the perfect Isiagu attire at the local African clothing store one afternoon, my cell phone started vibrating inside my pants pocket. I dug the phone out and emitted an elongated sigh, instantly regretting answering the cell phone when I saw my cousin’s name flashing across the screen. I pressed the phone against my ear and said, “Hello Carson.” “Eze, my brother!” exclaimed Carson. “How are you doing man? How is life treating you?” “I’m doing all right, man,” I said. “Life is pretty good right now.” “That’s good my man. Real good.” “How are you doing?” I said. “My man,” said Carson, “I’m blessed bro’. God is doing so much for me! All glory to the highest! Am I right?” “You are right. All praise to the highest.” “God is good!” “All the time.” “Yes! How are your sisters, my man?” “My sisters are doing well. They are healthy and working like I am. There is a lot for me to be thankful for.” “That’s great my man.” “Uh-huh.” A slight gap between words, allowing time for me to gird for what I knew was coming. “So how is everything going with the girl man?” said Carson. “Are you keeping in touch with — ?” “Give me one second, Carson,” I said. “I’m shopping with my mom. She is calling me over to her.” “All right.” I scrolled down the list of phone contacts until I reached Yesenia, quite possibly the most taciturn woman I have ever encountered. At the beginning of our dance, when I initiated conversations, she would reply to my comparatively voluminous texts with one-word responses. Thinking that she despised me, I seriously entertained the prospect of abandoning the conversation altogether. However, recently, she has offered more timely responses to my entreaties. They have been terse, devoid of any romantic sprinklings. She has already told me that she wants to approach the situation as friends, creating a foundation by getting to know each other over a significant period. I sent Yesenia a text message, an obligatory greeting containing just a few words. My cell phone vibrated seconds later, heralding a return text from Yesenia: “Good afternoon to you too. I’m doing well.” The message contained eight words, the most she had ever texted. It had been a week since our previous textual interaction. I raised an eyebrow towards the sky. A near-immediate response containing more than three words? Perhaps Yesenia had been feeling my absence. After pressing the phone against my ear I said, “I’m back Carson. What were you going to ask me?” “The girl I set you up with man,” said Carson. “Have you been talking to her?” “Oh yeah, man. We have been going back and forth a lot. You know, we are still kind of trying to feel our way through things. I think we’re going to keep working on building a rapport through our conversations.” “Huh? What is “rapport” my man?” “Oh. It means becoming familiar.” “Oh. Okay.” “Maybe I can come to California to see her in the future? Then I’ll be able to see you too!” “That sounds great my man. I’d love to see you.” “All right. I’m going to go now.” “I’m glad you are doing well, brother. Say hello to your mother for me and keep calling that girl. Call her every single day so she knows that you are interested.” “Sure,” I said. After finally extricating myself from the call with my cousin, I was relieved, because I abhor talking about my relationship status with members of the community. My forehead perspired as I approached my mother, a sign that I was particularly nonplussed. Although I appreciate the concern from the community, the constant needling and questioning about my relationship status can become too much. And as the start of the biannual Amaigbo Town Union Convention, a gathering of the Nigerian diaspora, approaches, the questions become more incisive and invasive. As my mother negotiated with multiple outfits in the fitting room, Janet, the store owner, and I conversed in front of the door. The subject of my bachelorhood came up, prompting her to ask if I was interested in meeting one of her nieces. Janet extolled the virtue of one niece in particular, calling her a very nice woman, reserved and cool like me. I gently rebuffed the idea, informing her of my current situation with the other woman. Janet remained unconvinced and told me to “come see” her after the Amaigbo Town Union celebration had run its course. “Why are Nigerian people so curious, Momma?” I said after she and I returned home from shopping at Janet’s African Clothing Store, a thriving business and lynchpin of the Denver Amaigbo coalition. Momma and Janet had immigrated to the United States at about the same time, a year before I was born, and have enjoyed a lasting relationship. “I don’t know my dear,” said momma. “Our people always want to know everything about another person’s business. Nobody can know anything about any of them though. It is annoying. But they are our people.” “Yes I, know. There is a lot more good than bad with our people.” *** I was existing without friends twelve years ago, a fact of my life that had not bothered me for years. If I became lonely or bored, I could always escape my predicament by reading a fantasy novel or streaming a television show. I was very content being a loner, a singular tree in a landscape replete with ash. My mom had been concerned about my penchant for solitude. When my dad fell ill, eventually succumbing to kidney disease and multiple myeloma cancer, Nigerians from all over the world suddenly became interested in me. Strangers suddenly referred to me as brother, nephew, and cousin, although the majority of these people were not blood relatives. As we celebrated my dad’s life at the funeral reception, a man donning black Isiagu attire approached me. He introduced himself as Gabriel, said he knew my father, and announced himself as the leader of the Denver Chapter of the Amaigbo Town Union. To me, he was another stranger, one who spoke with the same accent as my father. The quizzical look on my face did not dissuade Gabriel from pursuing his ultimate task, which was to begin the process of adopting me into the union I had spent years trying to forsake. I’d wanted to avoid my father’s fate, forever contributing money to projects taking place in Nigeria, his home. Feigning listening as Gabriel spoke, I just nodded my head as he put forward his pitch, confident in the notion that I would eventually put this impressive man and his community in my rearview mirror. “We are brothers!” said Gabriel. “Not exactly brothers by blood, but brothers either way! Do you feel me? Our ancestors come from the same place.” “I get what you are saying,” I said. “I understand.” “You don’t think I’m being serious when saying this?” said Gabriel. “I mean this now.” “I know. I hear you.” Gabriel interlaced his fingers and said, “You and I belong. Do you know what I am saying? You belong to us and we belong to you.” *** Ten years have flown by since my first conversation with Gabriel, a period that has brought about consistent growth and cogent understanding. Gabriel’s initial assertions have proven to be prophetic. Despite all my efforts to turn back the inevitable, I have become an integral part of the community, achieving official status with my inclusion in the Denver Chapter of the Amaigbo Town Union. The Amaigbo Town Union is a non-profit organization, counting more than one-thousand first-generation and second-generation Nigerian American citizens as members. Our organization is governed by a constitution, a document that reminds all members of their bond with the Nigerian diaspora. To remain in good standing with the organization, each member is required to donate their time and money. A whole lot of time and money more recently, although I do not mind much, because as I grow older and wiser, my affinity for the community grows. Because I realize that I am a part of something bigger than myself, a vehicle for everlasting change. It’s all that I’ve ever wanted. Tomorrow, I will go join Gabriel as we forage for food supplies. Included on the list of desired delicacies are plantains, moi moi (rich in protein), rice, and chicken, staples of Nigerian/Igbo culture. These foods will be served to a group of two hundred Nigerians, honored guests gathering together for a gala night at a hotel in my hometown. Members of the Amaigbo Town Union will be wearing Ishiagu uniforms, the women shimmering in their floral dresses and head wraps; and the men cutting impressive figures in multihued shirts, pants, and kente kufu caps, strutting across the floor like peacocks. If you scroll to the photo above, you’ll be able to see one of the uniforms I will be wearing to the Amaigbo Town Union Convention. While posing for this photo at a park a few months ago, one of the older women in attendance gushed. “You look like a prince,” she said. “You are stupendously regal.” I am anticipating lively conversing with my brothers, as we hold court in our Isiagu uniforms, objects of pride and affection. And who knows, maybe I’ll be able to sweep one of the attending queens off of her feet. [END] --- [1] Url: https://www.dailykos.com/stories/2023/6/28/2178214/-The-Life-of-A-Second-Generation-Nigerian-American Published and (C) by Daily Kos Content appears here under this condition or license: Site content may be used for any purpose without permission unless otherwise specified. via Magical.Fish Gopher News Feeds: gopher://magical.fish/1/feeds/news/dailykos/