From my window on the west side of Manhattan, Kansas, the night air crackles with the sound of fireworks. Like a Van Gogh painting come to life, the sky is ablaze with color, mirroring the excited chatter of Americans celebrating their nation’s greatness, past and present. It’s well past 6 PM, and the sun still beats down, a fiery witness to the pre-Fourth of July revelry. Their enthusiasm, however, feels distant, failing to ignite any spark within me. Instead, I find myself observing the unusual energy that has taken over our typically quiet street at 1545 International Courtyard, a place that truly lives up to its name tonight. A diverse mix of people fills the street – some in lively conversation, others dancing, children waving sparklers against the blue canvas. I watch from my window, a detached observer in this vibrant scene.
The irony of their exuberance is not lost on me. Since arriving in this country, I’ve been privy to countless discussions questioning the very essence of this celebration. Many voices challenge the narrative, pointing out how it often overlooks the experiences and contributions of Black and Native Americans. Yet, here we are, on the eve of the Fourth of July in 2021, nearly two years into a global pandemic, and the spirit of celebration seems undeterred. Fireworks illuminate smiling faces of every hue, hotdogs and burgers are plentiful, and a collective sense of joy washes over the neighborhood.
Indian, Pakistani, Nigerian, Ghanaian, Korean, and Chinese faces mingle in the crowd, all celebrating a nation that sees itself as a global leader, a beacon of hope. Observing this diverse community united in celebration of a country that promises them citizenship, I recall a quote encountered at the World War I Museum in Kansas City, Missouri: “America is a nation of immigrants.” This phrase, attributed to John F. Kennedy from his 1958 book A Nation of Immigrants, encapsulates his political vision. But I often ponder who Kennedy truly meant by “immigrants.” Did this embrace extend to the Italian communities of New York, the German enclaves of Kansas and Missouri, the Jewish refugees fleeing Nazi persecution, or the Irish diaspora scattered across the United States? Did it include Black Americans, descendants of enslaved people, forcibly removed from their homelands, exploited for labor, and denied basic humanity, yet instrumental in building the very “American Dream” they were excluded from, and later escaping the Jim Crow South in pursuit of a semblance of a new life?
Even as I contemplate this, I recognize another layer of falsehood embedded in Kennedy’s well-meaning statement. It suggests a belonging that often feels conditional. As a non-immigrant myself, I’ve often heard immigrants express that their only true possession in America is the promise of becoming American, a status granted at the discretion of bureaucratic processes. The American Oath of Allegiance seemingly demands a severing from one’s past, an adoption of a new identity that necessitates a forgetting of who you once were – a past you can’t fully erase, a former self you can no longer fully embody.
In a conversation between writer Teju Cole and podcaster Krista Tippett, they discussed Lassana Bathily, a Malian immigrant in Paris who bravely saved six lives during a terrorist attack in the supermarket where he worked. His reward for this heroism was expedited French citizenship, elevating him from his “immigrant status.” Similarly, Mamoudou Gassama, another Malian immigrant, earned the moniker “the Spiderman of Paris” in May 2018 for his incredible rescue of a child dangling from a balcony.
“The superhuman is rewarded with formal status as a human,” Cole observed in his discussion with Tippett. “The merely human meanwhile remains unhuman, quasi-human, subhuman. The already human, to be granted humanity in this arrangement, must be superhuman. No, not merely superhuman, but visibly, demonstrably superhuman. Gassama crossed the Mediterranean in a tiny boat – that was superhuman, but no one filmed that. He remained subhuman and there was no reward. Such is the Empire’s magnanimity.” In the absence of extraordinary feats, for the average immigrant, hope often rests solely on a promise.
This resonates deeply with me. Many immigrants I’ve met here, particularly those like myself who weren’t fleeing war or American-driven conflicts but were drawn by the allure of a “greener pasture,” cling to this promise. We were sold a carefully crafted illusion of American greatness, a dream packaged like a perfect Christmas gift. But upon arrival, the harsh reality hits: this dream is not universally offered, especially not to those who look like me. And in that realization, a strange sense of familiarity emerges, as if you’ve returned to a home you never truly left.
Lost in Translation: Teaching English in America
My first day as an English Language and Arts Instructor for bright-eyed, college-bound white high school students during a summer program in the US was filled with apprehension. Standing before them, I couldn’t help but wonder what they thought of me. Did they, like I would have at their age, question my ability to actually teach them anything of value? I braced myself for the inevitable teenage tests and challenges, knowing their capacity for both innocent curiosity and mischievousness. But beyond their perceptions, I was grappling with my own anxieties about America. The shifting social landscape around gender and pronouns felt like a minefield. My mind struggled to keep pace with the rapid changes. I worried about misgendering students, stumbling over pronouns, and even the simple act of pronunciation, particularly the American “r” sound. I was acutely aware of my presence as a large Black man with dreadlocks and earrings, wondering if my students felt intimidated, if they harbored prejudiced fantasies of aggression, echoing a recent encounter with teenagers at a church concert who hurled racial slurs at me shortly after my arrival in Manhattan. I even wondered about my accent, if it would elicit the same shock as it did from an elderly woman at a grocery store when I mentioned I had just arrived from Nigeria.
“You mean to tell me they speak English down there?” she exclaimed, gesturing downwards as if Nigeria were located beneath the floor, genuine surprise etched on her face.
“We don’t only speak English,” I responded, “It is our official language, just as it is here.”
But my deepest concern was teaching these students about a language that historically belonged to people who looked like them. A language imposed upon my ancestors by colonizers who came to exploit and steal, bestowing upon us the “Empire’s magnanimity” and a democracy that proved to be fragile. A language I had, in a sense, paid a price to master. Yet, my worries proved largely unfounded. The students were receptive, even engaging. I shared my unsolicited food opinions – my aversion to garlic, cheese, and avocados, and my dismay at their pervasive presence in American cuisine.
They laughed at my “lack of taste,” jokingly calling me a vampire and threatening to expose me to sunlight, even jokingly offering to “drive a stake through my heart.” They offered their own suggestions for “fixing” my palate. In the final days of the program, we found common ground in Nigerian rapper Olamide’s latest hit, ‘Rock’. We worked on assignments, drafted college application essays, all set to Olamide’s melodious voice filling the classroom from a small speaker, singing mi o mọ bọ ṣe n gbe body o. Occasionally, a student would raise their hand, requesting a translation of the Yoruba lyrics, to which I would jokingly reply, “If you really want to know, you’ll have to renounce your American citizenship.”
The Weight of Memory and Louis Armstrong’s Trumpet
Louis Armstrong’s trumpet intertwines with the hum of my apartment’s air conditioner, filling the room with his 1967 hit, ‘On The Sunny Side Of The Street,’ streaming from my iPhone 7 speakers. It’s a sweltering 99-degree day outside. The sporadic pops of fireworks continue to punctuate the air. The first time I truly listened to this song, I was back in Nigeria, walking the streets of Lalubu in Oke-Ilewo Abeokuta, shortly after government soldiers were deployed to “clear” the streets following the infamous EndSARS protests of October 2020.
The weather that evening was gentle, the rains having subsided, casting a sepia tone over everything. The song didn’t hold any particular significance then; it was just another track on my jazz playlist alongside Ella Fitzgerald, John Coltrane, Billie Holiday, and Frank Sinatra. But the image of soldiers stationed at the Ibara intersection, guns aimed at passersby, interrogating everyone – “Where are you going?” “Who are you?” “Are you one of those troublemakers?” – became indelibly etched in my memory. It triggered buried childhood memories of Nigeria under military rule, of riots and government crackdowns on dissent.
I arrived in Manhattan in the grip of winter in January 2021. My journey followed weeks of uncertainty, fearing my passport might be seized, my trip cancelled due to my involvement in the protests. In Abeokuta, I was part of a small organizing group, contributing by coordinating donations and assisting with mobilization, using my modest social media presence. Reports of protesters being harassed by security officials at airports were rife. The protests were over, but the government’s response felt far from finished. They sought to silence, contain, and control us.
The protests were ignited by a viral video depicting officers of the Special Anti-Robbery Squad (SARS), a notorious unit of the Nigerian Police Force, shooting a young Nigerian and stealing his vehicle. The video sparked widespread outrage, as young Nigerians shared countless stories of extortion and police brutality. Like many others, I had my own SARS encounter. In 2015, traveling from Abeokuta to Lagos for a church service in Ikeja, I was forcibly dragged from a taxi and brutally beaten by SARS officers who falsely accused me of being a long-sought thief.
Survival to tell the tale was a privilege. Those of us who survived, or knew someone who didn’t, found our collective voice in the EndSARS movement. The protests were a spontaneous eruption, unforeseen by both the government and participants. Our shared sentiment was simple: we were tired, and we demanded change. In a speech marking the formation of the All Progressives Congress (APC) in 2015, political strategist Bola Ahmed Tinubu had declared a “Silent Storm” was brewing. We cheered his eloquence then, but it was our storm, not his or his party’s, that ultimately materialized.
Daily, during the Abeokuta protests, we marched from the Ibara intersection to the governor’s office, chanting, “Sọrọ soke Wérè! ENDSARS! What do we want? Justice! When do we want it? Now!” Soaked in sweat and relentless rain, we marched, yelled, and hoped that our democratically elected government might, in some way, listen. If they did listen, it was to a message we hadn’t intended. On a somber October night, the government’s response was to deploy soldiers to the Lekki Toll Gate protest site in Lagos and elsewhere. Soldiers opened fire on unarmed protesters, and the following day, the government denied any wrongdoing to the world.
While Abeokuta avoided the carnage of Lekki, the images of bullet-ridden bodies and protesters singing the national anthem to armed soldiers in a desperate plea for mercy were enough to send us home. I was with a group of local youths when news broke of soldiers heading to Lekki. It was 6 PM. Like many others, I tweeted, urging followers to go home if possible.
In Abeokuta, geographically removed from Lekki, we hadn’t anticipated military intervention, so the protest continued. Some people were even dancing. I watched with admiration as local youths demonstrated their commitment to the cause, maintaining order and collecting litter amidst the pervasive scent of marijuana and cigarettes. In those moments, I saw beyond the “bad boy” label society often assigned them. Fifty minutes later, my phone buzzed incessantly. Calls from my mother, sister, and brother flooded in simultaneously.
“Soldiers are shooting protesters, check Twitter,” my brother texted. I did. Almost everyone at the Ibara protest did. It felt like a digital summons. Within minutes, the protest dispersed. Some of us sat on the ground, glued to our phones, witnessing the unfolding horror live-streamed on Instagram: people shot, running, crying. We watched, sat, and wept. No soldiers came to Ibara. Those who remained exchanged wordless glances, grappling with a collective trauma we couldn’t yet articulate.
A month later, in the aftermath, the government’s propaganda machine went into overdrive, denying the witnessed events. Protesters were randomly arrested, jailed, shot, and had passports seized. The government acted with chilling efficiency.
Earlier that year, I had gained admission to a university in Kansas, United States, for graduate studies. My departure loomed, but the government’s actions instilled fear. My brother suggested a clandestine exit via Port Novo, Benin Republic, or Accra, Ghana, to reroute my flight. But the implications of such a departure weighed on me, particularly concerning future returns. A week before my scheduled trip, I said goodbye to my parents, packed, and headed to a friend’s place in Lagos, seeking proximity to the airport and flexibility for a swift departure.
Those final days with my journalist friend, Socrates Mbamalu, revealed harrowing accounts of the government’s crackdown. I learned of a young boy paralyzed by a stray bullet, of police massacres disguised as curfew enforcement. Two days before leaving, I confirmed my flight with the airline, receiving reassurance that everything was in order.
My Lagos-Istanbul flight was uneventful, except for the moments after bidding farewell to family and friends. My older brother’s hug at the airport felt strange, almost unfamiliar, given our family’s reserved nature regarding physical affection. A week prior, saying goodbye to my father, he’d declined a hug, citing Covid-19 concerns. I’d hugged him anyway, knowing it might be years before we met again. He wouldn’t meet my eyes then, and later admitted the news of my departure had been so shocking, he’d refused to believe it until that moment.
So, with my brother at the airport, I wondered what he was feeling. We’d lived together for eight years, responsible for each other, comfortable in shared silences and noise. He’d witnessed my artistic eccentricities, heartbreaks, work-related frustrations, and culinary experiments. I sensed, or perhaps wished for, tears. My younger sister, the absolute light of my life, was also there – our first meeting in a year. Last time, she’d come to my office in tears, devastated by a breakup on her third anniversary. Her pain had ignited a protective rage in me. But on my departure day, she was vibrant and beautiful, reminding me of childhood dreams of European travel, of lives exceeding our upbringing. I said goodbye to Socrates, who also accompanied me.
Leaving them and heading to check-in, I felt lightheaded, beads of sweat forming. I ignored the airport porters, checked in, and turned to watch my family and friend wave. I waved back, a jolt of electricity running through me. Despite long-imagined anticipation, the reality felt surreal. I stood transfixed. A uniformed woman approached, her mask askew.
“Why are you acting like a woman? You’ll miss your flight,” she said, her voice grating. Her words snapped me back. I swung my backpack on and headed towards the waiting area. Each step felt heavy.
“Aren’t you going to get your sister something?” the woman called out. I stopped, observing her shamelessness. I pulled out my wallet, handed her a banknote. As she left, another uniformed woman appeared with the same request. I realized this was their routine: airport officials harassing passengers for money. I ignored her and walked on, glancing back for a last glimpse of my brother, sister, and friend. Finding a seat, I could no longer see them, and the bottled-up tears finally flowed.
Hours later, at Istanbul’s vast airport, a South African man approached me, proposing an investment scheme. His face was unpleasant, his nose wrinkled as if detecting a bad smell. He covered his face with a beige mask, matching his trench coat.
“You are into Yahoo Yahoo, aren’t you?” His words were a statement, not a question, as if he’d done a background check. I turned my head, inadvertently encouraging him. “You are too well-dressed not to be. Everything you are wearing is new and flashy.”
I’d heard this before, from a Nigerian police officer during a lunch outing with a colleague. Roughly dressed officers had stopped us, resembling armed robbers more than police. My colleague’s father’s security agency connections had diffused the situation. But I hadn’t expected to hear these words again, especially not in an international airport.
“And that’s a sign of being into Yahoo?” My voice betrayed a rising fear.
“I hope I’m not irritating you, my friend,” he said, casually touching my elbow. I flinched, and he withdrew his hand, tucking it back into his pocket.
“Why would you be?”
“What I’m saying is, if you were into Yahoo, I don’t judge. I’m a businessman myself. I’m from Soweto, but I lived in Lagos for years. I know how shitty Buhari has made the country for young men like you.”
“Shit happens. Doesn’t mean I’d turn to crime. Yahoo-yahoo is crime, isn’t it?”
“Well, depends on how you see it.” He adjusted his coat. Something about him felt off, like he might be security in disguise. “I help young men like you reinvest their money. That’s what I do. I can help you.”
Our conversation started with him asking for a cigarette. A strange opener, but as a first-time traveler, I was glad to meet someone who looked like me and spoke English. “Smokers are givers; we don’t borrow,” I told him. He laughed, took a cigarette, and lit it. We stood on an airport balcony with other smokers, each lost in their drags, avoiding eye contact except for me, having been at the airport for thirteen hours with another five to go before my Chicago flight.
He persisted for twenty minutes about his “business,” until we’d smoked all my cigarettes. Though curious why he’d singled me out among other well-dressed black passengers, I was tired and craved coffee. He vanished as quickly as he’d appeared, disappearing into the airport crowd.
Later, at a coffee shop, a Sudanese woman approached. Her face suggested a faded beauty.
“Is anyone sitting here?” she asked, gesturing to the seat opposite me.
“No,” I replied.
“I’m waiting for my daughter. She’s in the restroom,” she said, pointing towards the “restroom” sign. I nodded.
“It’s good to find someone else who speaks English here.”
“True,” I smiled. But paranoia crept in. How did she know I spoke English? Why me?
“I heard you ordering coffee,” she said, as if reading my thoughts, and smiled. She had an American accent.
“Sorry if my face betrayed anything,” I said. “I’ve had some strange encounters in my short time here.”
“No worries. Strange encounters are part of the terrain when you travel Black.”
“I’m learning that,” I chuckled, recalling the extra security pat-downs we black passengers received upon arrival from Nigeria.
“It doesn’t get better, so brace yourself,” she said, then stood, slinging her backpack over her shoulder, and walked away. “I’m Nikky.”
I watched her join a young girl, maybe ten years old. I sipped my coffee, hoping for an uneventful remainder of my airport layover.
Guilt, Isolation, and a United Nations Backyard
Armstrong’s song was ending, his trumpet solo building to a crescendo. I reached for my phone to replay it, wanting to hear the American national anthem riff, my favorite part. I’d found a YouTube performance by Esperanza Spalding for the Obamas in 2016, where she explained the song’s origins during the Great Depression and World War I, a time of despair, making it a song of refuge. It resonated as a refuge for me upon arriving in the US in January. While the pandemic’s end was in sight, things still felt bleak, compounded by the profound loneliness that had enveloped me since leaving family and friends at the airport.
Adjusting to the time difference and settling into my university-owned apartment south of the Manhattan, Kansas campus, I was consumed by guilt. My small one-bedroom apartment, similar to many in the complex, reminded me of overpriced serviced apartments in Lagos. As winter deepened, the biting cold seeping into my bones, I imagined my parents experiencing this place. My well-traveled father might not be impressed, but my mother certainly would. She’d want to experience everything, perhaps even play in the snow like a child, with her characteristic childlike wonder. I remembered my last glimpse of my father in Nigeria, emerging from his room, sweating, complaining about the heat and a two-week power outage. Every comfort in this new place – electricity, food – amplified my guilt.
A loud knock jolted me from my thoughts. It was Sam. Sam’s knocks matched his build: all force, no subtlety. A muscular man with a fondness for alcohol and women, his accent a blend of Ugandan Swahili and American English from his years studying Food Science in the US. His presence reminded me of our planned hangout.
“Are you ready?” he asked, entering my apartment.
“Yes,” I lied, rushing to grab a shirt and sneakers. We drove into the harsh Manhattan evening sun to a suburban neighborhood of similar houses, unlike International Courtyard. More people walked the streets, the sky a canvas of colors. Dogs barked at the fireworks, straining against their leashes.
At Sam’s friend’s backyard, a “United Nations” gathering awaited. Each guest represented a different nation, a different continent. An all-American white couple (our hosts), a Korean couple, and two Asian women. Sam and I completed the diverse group. Sam later mentioned this had been his crew since arriving in Manhattan. I felt a pang of envy, having struggled to find my own community.
We shared beers and played games. Our hosts served ribs, turkey, and pork chops. I became the subject of amusement when Sam revealed my picky eating habits and aversion to cheese spreads. Conversation shifted to sports, the Super Bowl, and America’s unique sporting obsessions. As the evening progressed, we landed on policing in America and globally.
Sam and I recounted police brutality experiences from our home countries, sharing surprisingly similar narratives. We highlighted the racialized aspects in America versus the more generalized brutality back home.
After our stories, Ben, a guest born in Seoul before his family migrated to the US, declared we were mistaken. “I’ve been to Seoul, London, and Madrid, and the US has the best police,” he asserted, matter-of-factly.
“No one’s arguing that, if ‘best’ means best equipped and funded,” I chuckled.
“No, I mean community relations. You’re safer seeing an American police officer.”
Sam and I exchanged glances, then burst into laughter. Just that week, a video surfaced of NYPD officers beating an elderly woman while colleagues watched.
“Even you don’t believe that,” Riley, one of our hosts, said, her blue eyes fixed on Ben.
“Many of you don’t understand what it’s like to be a police officer,” Ben retorted, revealing he was a former deputy.
“I don’t know, bro, and I don’t think I want to find out,” I said.
Driving home, Sam remarked, “The problem with American police isn’t whether they’re good or bad, or community-oriented. It’s that ‘good’ cops don’t hold ‘bad’ cops accountable. In Uganda, and probably Nigeria, we know the police are bad, and we run.”
Pulled Over: The Blue and Red Lights of Anxiety
Weeks later, driving home with another Nigerian PhD student friend after margaritas at a bar in Aggieville, Manhattan, we turned onto Claflin, nearing International Courtyard, and noticed a police car tailing us. I asked my friend if he knew why. He wasn’t sure.
Between pulling over and the officer approaching, anxiety surged. I tried humor, but jokes wouldn’t come. Social media had primed me for this – a black person pulled over in America. Images flashed: George Floyd, Derek Chauvin’s knee on his neck, pleading for life; Dreajson Reed, Malcolm Williams, Brent Andrews, William Lamont Debose, Demontre Bruner – young black men, like us, shot after minor traffic stops.
I recalled Josh Begley, an American digital artist, and his ‘Officer Involved’ project shown at a Lagos writing workshop in 2019. Begley visualized police incident locations on Google Maps, creating a portrait of death, each site a screenshot or Street View image. I’d found it interesting how he shifted focus from victims to the sky above their final moments, echoing a friend’s words: we share the same sky, living and dead, yet some think they are superior.
I thought of Amadou Diallo, the Guinean immigrant immortalized by Wyclef Jean after being killed by NYPD officers. What would be said of me? What memorial for my death? Would I be a martyr or forgotten? Friends would say I never published a book, left a good Nigerian job for a dream. My father’s skepticism about the “greener grass,” my mother’s daily calls – our last conversation ending in my frustrated reminder that I was a grown man. What would my death do to them?
Looking to the side street, the World War I memorial stadium stood silently, a witness. The summer night was hot, the sounds of tires and car horns the only other witnesses. My friend gently touched my hand, snapping me back, instructing me to put my hands on the dashboard, avoid sudden movements.
“Guy, don’t worry. If they’ll have trouble with someone, it’s me, not you.” His words, meant to comfort, heightened my anxiety. The officer approached, seemingly reading my thoughts. “Please be calm, this will be brief,” he said, but calm remained elusive.
He asked if we’d been drinking. My friend said no; I admitted to a margarita, explaining I was being driven home to avoid walking. Unsatisfied, the officer asked for my friend’s license and registration, returning to his car for twenty minutes. He returned with another officer. He asked my friend to exit for field sobriety tests. Pass or fail, more tests awaited. I recorded on my iPhone. The second officer approached me.
“Your friend says he’s from Nigeria, and English is official there. Can you confirm?” He was warm, friendly. Speechless, I felt suffocated, despite open windows.
“Yes,” I finally said. “British colonization – English is our official language.” The words felt like apologies.
“I didn’t know,” the officer said. “I’m Dylan. I always thought Nigeria was French-speaking.”
I wanted to correct him – Niger, perhaps? – but didn’t. He was laden with equipment. I wondered how he moved. Instead, I repeated my earlier explanation, emphasizing the first officer’s disbelief.
Dylan listened, shrugged, and echoed the first officer: “He’s just following standard procedure.”
I wanted to retort about “standard procedure” killing people, but I didn’t.
Later, after being released; after Dylan stayed with me while I arranged another driver for my friend’s car; after I pressed Dylan about the real reason for the stop; after his colorblindness claim; after watching his colleague handcuff my friend, arresting him for failing “one test out of many”; after two agonizing hours awaiting my friend’s call from the police station, I wondered: what is it about me that attracts uniforms?
