by Gina Yashere
“Because I’m near your house. I would like to come back.”
Apparently, stalking was an effective wooing technique in the late ’60s, as my mum didn’t call the police but instead allowed him in, and they talked into the early hours. They soon became an item, the “it” couple on London’s Nigerian social scene, like a Kanye and Kim but without the butt implants and MAGA hats. My dad’s brother was furious, since my dad had snagged her right out from under his nose. Despite reservations from both their families—Mum’s side because although he was from a well-known family, his family was not wealthy, and Dad’s side because he was a Muslim and would convert to Christianity to marry my mum in a church—he put a ring on her finger, and they decided to make a life in England together. Well, not quite together. While my mother stayed in London, my dad went back and forth to Prague to finish his master’s. My mother was obviously charmed by his “Go get ’em” attitude.
Unable to get work as a teacher, due to the attitudes evident in the previously mentioned rental signs, Mum enrolled in a secretarial course and did various admin jobs way below her skill set while also financially supporting my dad with his studies. My mother paid for his accommodations, clothes, and even his food. She saw this as an investment in her future family and figured that once he had more qualifications, he’d be in a better position for both himself and the family when he returned to London. In the meantime, he’d pop over to London whenever school was on hiatus, and despite them living in two different countries, they got busy and started their new family.
Both of my parents had a child each from previous relationships. My dad, a son, whom I found out about many years later because Nigerians are the Ray Donovans of Africa and love to keep family secrets, and my mum, a daughter, from a short-lived relationship when she first arrived in London. This was Taiwo, who Mum sent back to Nigeria temporarily, to stay with her extended family, while she and her new husband set up a family unit long distance. Taiwo’s name in Yoruba roughly means “First to taste the world,” because she is the first of twins. Her twin brother would have been called Kehinde, which means “One after Taiwo,” but he didn’t make it out of the womb alive, a fact I didn’t work out till I was sixteen. Nigerians don’t tend to talk about death, and coupled with their love of secrets, that meant that through most of my childhood I assumed I had an older brother living in Nigeria.
The first new Iyashere was me. I was born eight years after my sister Taiwo.
My full name is Regina Obedapo Ebuwa Iyashere. For most of my childhood I was called by the shortened version of my middle name, Dapo. At the time of my birth, Mum lived in a house in North London on Regina Road, which had been turned into ten one-room flats, each occupied by families from different parts of Nigeria. Yep, my first name is after the road my mum lived on—so my mother actually started the naming-your-kid-after-a-location trend waaaay before David and Victoria Beckham named their kid Brooklyn. I’m just glad I wasn’t born on Fanny Hands Lane (that’s a real London street).
I was born with a large birthmark in the same spot as my grandmother’s mark on her neck, the one that appeared when she was poisoned to death. This brought great joy to my mum, as her mother had been returned to her. Nigerians are huge believers in reincarnation, and Mum has often told me that when she and her sisters were young, they’d often laugh as my grandmother regaled them with stories of who she would come back as in her next life. My grandmother had said she would return as the exact opposite of who she actually was, one of many wives of a Nigerian chief. She said she would return speaking perfect English, unfettered by any man, unburdened by children; she was going to see the world, work a man’s job if she wanted, and be a much freer spirit, doing whatever she wanted. Sound familiar?
Being a reincarnation got me the second middle name of Ebuwa, after my grandma, and also the family nickname “Granny,” which my mum still calls me to this day. I would have preferred a better nickname, like “Throat Ninja,” but whatever. “Granny” is what I got, and my mum takes great pleasure in dragging out those two syllables. “Grrrannnyyy!!” This also meant that I could never get rid of this birthmark, as it is essential to who I am in the family. Not that I have ever wanted to. I enjoy the story of where it came from, the link it gives me to the grandmother I never saw or knew, and it makes me feel special. No superpowers unfortunately, but hey, at least I can boast that I’ve lived once already.
One time I did one of those call-in psychic sessions that were big back in the day. I thought it would be fun. The psychic told me there was an older woman guiding me through life, who I assumed was my grandmother. And the way my life has gone, I do feel as though I have a guardian angel, if you will.
When I look in the mirror, I’m reminded that my life and character traits seem to have exactly matched my grandmother’s next-life predictions, and I wonder if she enjoys how she turned out this time around. Most of the time, though, I don’t notice my birthmark. It’s just part of my body, like my eyes, or my small ears, which got me the less endearing nickname “Pigeon Head” from my brothers, though that doesn’t even make sense! Pigeons don’t have visible ears. But then again, my ears were pretty small, so it kind of does make sense. Kids are assholes. Anyway, the only times my birthmark comes to my attention is when people stare at it on public transport, when people ask me if it’s a tattoo of a heart, when my doctor periodically asks me if it has changed shape, bled, or behaved in an otherwise sinister manner, when makeup artists ask me if I want to cover it for TV (nope), or when in the odd photo the angles are off and I look like I’m sporting a goatee. I really notice it then.
I’m not the only reincarnation in my family. When my mother was pregnant with my brother Dele, who came eighteen months after me, my mother’s dead father visited my father in a dream. My father woke up to see the father-in-law he had never met standing by his bed in Prague. My grandfather grilled him on his family name, education, and background. He told my father that he was coming back as their next child, who would be a son, and to call him Bamidele, which means “Follow me home.” It’s a name often given to children born abroad or outside the father’s home state or town. My father then ran to a phone box to call my mother to tell her the news. As a testament to Nigerians’ belief in reincarnation, my mother didn’t ask my dad why his must-be-drunk ass was calling her at 3 a.m. but rejoiced in the news of her father’s imminent return . . . In a time before a baby’s gender could be identified prebirth, this visit came in handy, as my mother did indeed give birth to a son—and Bamidele became his name.
2
Languages Differ, but Coughs Are the Same
My brother Dele arrived eighteen months after I did, but by the time I was born, my dad had finished his master’s and decided he wanted to continue studying to gain a PhD. My mum’s family was furious, wanting him to return to England, get a job, and begin supporting his growing family. My mum, who had been attracted by my dad’s fierce intelligence as well as his good looks, agreed to continue the long-distance marriage and keep financing his academic dreams. Again, this support was in part love and in part an investment in the future of their new family. Another eighteen months after Dele came along, my youngest brother, Sheyi, arrived (as I said, my parents had been getting busy). But somewhere along the line, around Sheyi’s conception, my parents’ marriage began to break down.
When my dad finished his PhD, he was unhappy with the lack of opportunity in England. He was also under increasing pressure from his family to return to Nigeria, where he was reminded he would actually be able to use his prestigious academic qualifications, rather than collect fares on London double-decker buses or sort mail, which were the only jobs available to many Black people, particularly Black men, in England at the time.
As I have heard the story, he received a call from his sister, who told him their mother was ill and he had to come back to Nigeria to look after her, as he was the only son. Apparently, my dad had wanted his new family—Mum, me, Dele, and Sheyi (still floati
ng in a sac of amniotic fluid at that time)—to return to Nigeria as a family unit at some point, though he as yet had no means to support us, or even get us there, and my mum was too heavily pregnant to travel anyway. My mum refused, as this diverged from their initial plan to set up home in England, where her children, who were British, were entitled to all the opportunities the UK had to offer.
My mother implored my father not to leave her alone in England with two toddlers and heavily pregnant with another child. She reasoned that my father’s sister could easily take on the role of looking after his mother. Her pleas seemed to fall on deaf ears, though. My dad probably had it in his head already that his prospects would be much better in Nigeria than in England. He left when I was about two and a half years old, to care for his mother, who didn’t die till ten years later.
Mum never forgave my father for leaving. She gave birth to Sheyi in a hospital, alone, in a foreign country, while all the other mothers had husbands arriving with flowers and gifts for their new babies. It didn’t help that she also began to hear rumors about my father and other women in Nigeria. She closed her heart to him, although she never went through a divorce, as my father still harbored hopes of her returning to Nigeria and refused to give her one. She concentrated on her family and getting by. While I was growing up, she would often rant about how useless he was and how he’d abandoned us. Her anger and feelings of betrayal never abated. I knew not to bring him up for fear of souring her mood on any given day, so I was forced to bury my curiosity. Almost forty years would pass before I saw him again.
* * *
In London, my mum had no extended family anymore and no money, as her wealthy father had died before I was born. He’d had a car accident, and a car door had badly damaged his arm. His doctors told him that he needed to have it amputated, as the arm had an infection that would soon spread throughout his body and kill him. My grandfather basically pulled a Bob Marley: “No, I’m going to heaven with all the limbs I was born with.” He refused to have the arm amputated, the infection spread, and he died. While he was sick, he told my mother’s siblings not to tell her, because he didn’t want her to risk returning to Nigeria, placing herself in danger from his other, still-prone-to-poisoning wives. My mum didn’t find out what had happened to him until after he died. As is the patriarchy in Nigeria, my grandfather’s eldest son from one of his other wives (who had also been sent to England to study but had done nothing of the sort and had only managed to impregnate an English aristocrat’s daughter) returned to Nigeria under a cloud of scandal and took control of their father’s land, property, and money. Although he was feckless, he still had a penis. He squandered the inheritance and left my mum with nothing.
Mum’s bond with her father had been particularly strong and had defied any of the sexist stereotypes many associate with Africa. Throughout the years, her father visited her in London, but by the time of his death, it had been seven years since she’d last seen him, and her final memory of him was weighed down with a bitter load of regret.
I know that behind my mum’s stoic front there is a complex array of emotions that she, like so many of us, processes through seemingly unrelated acts. I’ve rarely seen my mum cry, but I have seen her eat a lot of sweets. When my mum came to England, she partook of all the sugar that was available. She has never been one of those mothers who tell their children they love them, but when I was growing up, sweets were one of the ways she showed us her love. When we were good, or when she felt especially loving towards us, she’d give us sweets. She always carried goodies in her handbag, and whenever we’d hear her purse rustle, we kids became Pavlovian dogs. Our mouths would instantly start to water, and we’d strain our necks towards the rustling sound in anticipation of getting lucky and receiving her handout of treats. Her favorite sweets were once Polo mints—round white mints with a hole in the middle, like Life Savers in the US. My mum became addicted to those. She loved them. While others resort to alcohol or drugs to self-soothe, my mum’s crutch, and now mine, is sugar.
The last time Mum saw her father was at Heathrow Airport. He was on his way back to Nigeria after visiting her, and she was at the airport along with her uncle to see him off. He had stepped away briefly, to get his boarding pass, and while he was gone, my mum thought she’d use the opportunity to find her favorite mints, as she had run out. She told her uncle that she would be right back.
Her uncle tried to reason with her. “Listen, your father’s about to get on a flight, and he’ll be back in a minute—why don’t you wait, say your goodbyes to him, and then you can go get your mints?”
“I’ll be back before,” she promised, and off she went.
Heathrow Airport at the time was not the monolithic shopping mall it is today; it took some time to find a shop that sold the mints she wanted. And as fate would have it, her dad returned before she got back.
“Where’s my daughter?”
“She’s gone to get sweets,” her uncle informed him.
“Well, I have to go. My flight is taking off.”
By the time my mum returned, her father was already in the air. Her uncle also let her know that her father had been annoyed that he didn’t get to see her again before he left. That was the last time she saw him alive. She has been unable to eat those mints ever since.
If life has beaten you severely in the face and your face is swollen, smile and act like a fat man.
After my dad went back to Nigeria, Dele and I were fostered by an old white woman while Mum reorganized her situation and prepared to have her fourth child, again alone and in a strange country. Although I use the word “fostered,” no governmental entities were involved in this arrangement. This was not a case of a negligent mother having her child removed from her by some sort of child protection agency. This was a private arrangement between my mum and this woman in Devon, some 180 miles from London.
To summarize a Guardian article on the subject, when the British departed Nigeria in the ’50s and ’60s, they left behind a foreign political and economic system that they didn’t really bother to teach Nigerians how to run. To put it in Gina’s no-bullshit terms: the Brits came to Nigeria, raped it of all its resources, and, when they’d finished screwing it up, left the country in such a state that a lot of Nigerians chose to follow the Brits back to the UK in order to get access to the education and opportunities no longer available in their own country, with hopes of either staying to raise their families there or returning to Nigeria with newly acquired skills to help fix their country.
But being far from home meant that Nigerians were also far removed from their own social, familial networks, which are often relied upon when raising children. For many Nigerians, the act of raising a child is seen as a collective endeavor—it takes a village. And in placing their children with British families, they reasoned they would ensure their children learned a bit of British culture.
Imagine Nigerians coming to the UK and employing British nannies! Yup, Black kids had white nannies. Let that sink in. Nigerian parents had actual Mary Poppinses . . . I don’t know if you can pluralize Poppins. Okay, they weren’t actual Poppinses, as they didn’t live in stately homes, use umbrellas to fly, or speak like they had just swallowed Richard E. Grant while having crumpets with the queen.
This process of fostering was called “farming,” and while there were some horror stories to come out of it—as in Adewale Akinnouye-Agbaje’s film of the same name—luckily for me and my brother, the experience was way more like a non-magical Disney version.
In general, the nannies hired to look after Nigerian kids tended to be poorer working-class white folks, taking anywhere from one to seven kids from various families and getting paid cash under the table. The time the children spent with these foster families varied, from weeks to months to sometimes years and the children never fully returning to their Nigerian families. The singer Seal was one of these Nigerian children fostered by English parents, as was the aforementioned actor-director Adewale. It was less a sp
oonful of sugar and more cigarette ash in your cornflakes. But for some Nigerian parents, so inculcated by British colonialism, it was a status symbol to have their child taken care of by a white nanny. For most, like my mum, it was a pragmatic solution. They might enter into these private financial arrangements with white families in order to work or study, to get a piece of the colonial pie.
The details of a white fosterer would pass between Nigerians like a good Yelp review, while another fosterer would be found via a discreet newspaper advert. This was like a pre-internet Craigslist but without the stolen bikes. My mum found her woman via the newspaper. They met, cash was exchanged, and Dele and I went to live in a large house in the Devon countryside with an old lady who had white hair and a piano and liked to take us to car washes, where we’d sit inside her car wondrously trying to lick the soapsuds dripping down the car windows. Toddlers are so easy to entertain.
When Mum came to bring us home, I was around three years old and ran towards her excitedly, preceded by my eighteen-month-old brother, Dele. Why he was faster than me, when at that point I was twice his age, is a mystery, but as justice will have it, he fell over and began to cry. I managed to catch up, and my mother attempted to scoop us both up while she held another human in her arms, who turned out to be my newly born youngest brother, Sheyi.
I don’t even know if we turned back to say goodbye to car-wash lady, such was our excitement at being reunited, but I’m sure she understood. The reason for our joy was not the new human but the fact that we had at that point not seen our mum for what felt like years, though it was probably no more than a few months. Before my mum came back for us, the lady in Devon had asked to adopt us permanently, but my mum refused, and back to London we went.
Mum had initially made her living and supported my dad doing office work at an accountancy firm, having taken courses at the Institute of Chartered Secretaries and Administrators, but finding suitable work became challenging being the sole caretaker of three young children. Mum became somewhat of an entrepreneur, selling goods that her friends would bring her from Nigeria, like leather bags and colorful traditional cloth that she would tailor into clothing on her trusty sewing machine. I remember Mum saving for over a year to buy the first computerized sewing machine that could change the type of stitch at the touch of a button. My childhood was full of colorful dresses, wraps, scarves, and meters of material. She allowed her customers to pay for the items on a hire-purchase basis, so they got the goods but were able to pay for them in installments. She kept a ledger with the names of all her customers and their payments, and every weekend she would dress us and we would do the rounds, visiting each of her customers to collect the money owed. We loved those trips. These were the times as kids we got to go to other people’s homes on the estate. The distance was short. None of my mother’s customers was more than a fifteen-minute walk from where we lived. But as sheltered East End kids, that short distance felt like the world. We imagined we were visiting friends, especially since a large part of my out-of-school socializing was playing with the kids of my mum’s debtors while our mothers did business in the kitchen.
