Becoming an hydra

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Photo by Mohamed Nohassi on Unsplash

"Nne,choose antifragility, be an hydra. If one of your head is cut off and I don't mean literally, grow back two more in it's place. Everytime you're hurt by these racist puffed up agric fowls, become stronger not physically now but in your mind. Nne don't forget."

These were my dad's parting words in a California community hospital two years ago, after his valiant battle with cancer.

Allow me to backtrack a bit. I've spent four years in Atherton, California. I often refer to this state as the Lekki of California. Yet, I'm still unaccustomed to the quiet on York Avenue and Zoro Road. For the first time, I find myself yearning for the familiar sounds of Ibadan: the rhythmic kon kon kon of the mobile Mallam shoemaker, the shishishi of the mobile Mallam tailor, and the brisk pa pa pa of the iron condem collector.

This longing led me to suggest a taste of Nigeria to my friends, Slyvia and Jan. We embarked on our journey in Sylvia's G wagon, a generous gift for her 20th birthday, and made our way to the African market near Trader Joe's in Oakland, a reminiscent of Mushin in California. Our excitement bubbled over as we anticipated a break from our usual fare of jambalaya, pizza, s'mores, and mac and cheese in favor of pounded yam and "eguuseeii” as Slyvia pronounces it.

A little at a time, that's how I pay my bills. That's the story of the working girl. Always going overboard buying things I can't afford.

Dolly Parton's "A Little at a Time" played softly in the background instead of my initial suggestion of Fela Kuti's international thief thief. This song however succeeds in momentarily transporting me from the cool confines of the car to the scorching sun of Nigeria, scouring for plants that don't look harmful.

Back then, we relied on my dad's modest pension, yet somehow, I managed to attend the finest schools in Nigeria. I remember his worn-out Volvo, its brake sluggish, faithfully carrying me to Concord School in Ibadan for early morning classes at 6:00.

Our substitute for spinach and ugwu was an unfamiliar weed, Stellaris media-chickweed, that no one else seemed to eat. We turned it into soup, reassured by my mom that it was edible. Later, in a project at the University of California, I'd learn it was indeed safe to consume.

Days were marked by watery chick weed soup and eba, watery chick weed soup with rice and watery chick weed soup with yam from the small farm at the back of our house.

This was all before my dad won the green card lottery to America. I remember the day he broke the news to us. That night, we ate efo soup and semovita and discarded all the chickweed we had prepared to make the usual watery soup.

The vividness of that day leaves me wondering about the great change in our circumstances.

The sudden switch from poverty to comfortable.

The transition abroad wasn't easy, and with my dad's passing, the burden shifted to my mom. She took on a series of low-wage jobs, from babysitting for Mr. and Mrs. Dalton in Alabama to housekeeping for a newlywed couple in Michigan, Detroit. She even worked as a nurse at the English Oaks Nursing and Rehabilitation Center in California, and as a retail clerk in the Walmart Supermarket in Camden, NJ, the most perilous city predominantly occupied by African Americans.

It is her tireless dedication that fuels my pursuit of African American Studies - AFRICAM in the university of California. Suddenly, the sharp "pa pa" brings me back to the G wagon.

To the command "come out and lie on the ground pals!" from two young guys with guns, we rushed out and proceeded to lay on the ground.

I'm on the ground shaking and sweating vigorously alongside my friends when one of them points a gun to my head "gimme the keys to this whip". Slyvia extends her hand, "Here it is, please don't hurt her."

A sense of pride overwhelms me because I just realized that my American friends who I sometimes refer to as puffed up agric fowls to my brother love me as well as my life.

I'm overwhelmed so much that it almost brings tears to my eyes.

That I matter in a country full of white people who have little to no regard for black people to my friend, Slyvia.

I've realized that guns possess this uncanny control, it renders you compliant to every order and makes you docile, even at the absence of none.

This entire situation evokes memories of a night back home in Nigeria. A deafening crash that I was the first to investigate. Our house was under attack by a bunch of thieves with poverty initiated weapons- cutlass and big sticks instead of the usual guns.

Hearing "e lo mu, e ma je kolo”(go and get her, don't let her go) from what it seems to be like the leader, I stepped back. As I rushed back to hide under the bed, I realized that I had not chosen the best hiding place when my feet was dragged out by one of the thieves. We were left to be without phones for a month. Me, my brother, my mom and my dad- Everyone.

I'm also reminded of the robbery in Lagos traffic, the silent attacks on moving cars. A young boy, who should have been in school, pointed a gun at my mom. Captive to the sight of the weapon, she surrendered her bag and phone. Great was the power of the sight of the gun that she was even going to hand over the car keys.

I've concluded that threats with a gun makes you benevolent, makes you a good samaritan. Only with a gun though.

The boy, with a smirk on his lips, said, "keep that one, madam,". A smirk that said"God don butter my bread".

As Slyvia tries to find comfort on the floor, she confesses, "I feel gutted." After a thorough search, we're released, left with nothing but ourselves. We dust off and continue our journey, hungrier than ever for that taste of Nigeria.

"Dad, I'm becoming that hydra," I murmur to myself amid panicked gasps as I do a lot these days in my head.