by Okey Ndibe
I hadn’t quite figured out how to relate to Americans, that strange tribe that went around with guns and—I believed—would shoot you for looking them in the eye.
The Africans were from different places. Most were Nigerians, but there were also Togolese, Ghanaians, Liberians, South Africans, Senegalese, and so on. Whatever their nationality, they were—like me—arrivistes of one sort or another. To some degree—or so I presumed—they and I shared a few social experiences as well as cultural traits and habits. In their company, I could let my guard down, find a measure of tranquility, share rich, spicy food, tell jokes, and crackle with loud, careless laughter. I developed an instinct for detecting Africans merely by sight. Sometimes I got it wrong, but I was oftener right.
One day, I stood outside the entrance to Amherst Books looking at a display of clearance books. Glancing up, I noticed that a bronze-skinned man with a groomed look stood next to me. He, too, was examining the racks filled with used books. I conjectured that he was African.
I was about to speak to him when he met my gaze, nodded, and smiled broadly. I offered a warm smile of my own.
He extended his hand. “Ike Peloewetse,” he said.
“Okey,” I said, taking his hand. “Okey Ndibe.”
He began to laugh.
“It’s really my name,” I assured him, believing he found my name hard to believe.
My assurance only made him roar with greater laughter. He continued to laugh as I stood, watching him, mildly amused by his reaction.
Among the Igbo of Nigeria, Okey—which is short for Okechukwu—is a fairly common name. It is pronounced like the word “okay,” but with a slightly longer stretch of the second syllable. During my years in Nigeria, there was never one instant when my name was considered odd or funny. By contrast, in America my name provoked incredulity and hilarity. I, too, adopted the spirit, often using my name to play pranks on people.
Ike laughed for several minutes, bent over. At first, I was puzzled. Then I began to laugh too, a reaction that seemed to fuel him even more.
“Man, you won’t believe what happened yesterday,” he said, after he composed himself and wiped tear-filled eyes with the back of his hand.
“I can’t wait to hear it,” I said eagerly, even though it was clear he didn’t need spurring.
He had gone grocery shopping at the Stop & Shop located on Route 9. As he pushed his cart down an aisle, a white woman approached from the opposite direction. As they passed each other, their eyes met. It was a brief encounter. Yet, he recalled a certain intense interest in her eyes, encouraging the impression that, somehow, something meaningful had passed between them. He smiled at her. She returned a smile rendered radiant by her searching eyes. Rather than go on her merry shopping way, she paused, compelling him to reciprocate.
“How do you like the snow?” she asked, sweeping her arm in the direction of the parking lot.
A succession of snowstorms had blanketed the streets with whiteness, deposited banks of snow everywhere, conscripting much of the grocery store’s parking lot.
“I hate snowstorms,” he protested. “I like it warm and dry.”
“You have an accent. Where’re you from?”
“Botswana.”
“Is that in Africa?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
The woman seemed inclined to tarry even longer. As other shoppers maneuvered around them, Ike said, he and the woman stood there, like long friends, talking. The woman asked about his impressions of America. And she asked a few questions about Africa. As he spoke, he discerned in her demeanor something akin to absorption. He felt flattered by her attentiveness.
They had talked for at least fifteen minutes when the woman said, “Wow, I can’t believe you’re okay.”
He was taken aback. “Is there anything about me that suggests I’m not okay?” he asked.
“No,” the woman assured. “But it’s just that I’ve heard several stories about you.”
“You have?” he asked, bewildered.
“Yes,” the woman said with a confident smile.
“Like what story?”
“I know you’re in town to set up an international magazine.”
The whole thing seemed to him farcical. “That’s not true,” he said, a little too hotly. “I’m here as a graduate student.”
“But you said you were okay,” the woman said in a tone that approached remonstration.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
The woman covered her face with two hands in a gesture of shame. Then, shaking her head from side to side, she said, “Oh my gosh, I’m so, so sorry. There’s a guy in town whose name is Okey. He’s in Amherst to edit a magazine. When I asked if you were Okey, I meant his name—not ‘okay.’ I’m so sorry, but I thought I was speaking to this guy, Okey.”
It was an awkward turn, and for him ridiculous and extremely irritating. As he and the apologetic woman went their separate ways, he seethed with fury. He replayed the entire encounter in his mind. Its import was clear to him. No question, the woman had initially intended to pick him up. He was willing to be picked up. But—so he surmised—the woman had changed her mind midway through the rite of seduction. And she had come up with some yarn, an infantile one at that, about an editor named Okey, pronounced “okay.”
Ike had thought: What a pathetic liar!
Then the day after that weird encounter with his would-be seducer, Ike and I met outside a bookstore. Once I introduced myself, everything came together for him. He realized that I was a flesh-and-blood proper noun named Okey. The woman at Stop & Shop had not, after all, invented some ruse to enable her to find an escape route from the object of a desire gone suddenly cold.
We became instant pals, our friendship forged by the story of a day when my name created a double illusion. He was a single father of two daughters and a son. He was an excellent cook and often invited me to join his family at meals. Often, in the middle of a chat or a meal, he would roll out in laughter. Afterward, he would retell the whole uproarious story.
One day, Ike and I were strolling just outside the main library at UMass when he saw an African American woman, a fellow graduate student who was in the same course.
Ike introduced the woman to me. Then he said to her, “He’s Okey.”
She flipped her head back and then gave him a sharp, scolding look. “Why you telling me that?” she asked.
“He’s Okey,” Ike repeated, feigning obliviousness to her bellicose attitude.
One hand on her hip, the woman swayed her head from side to side. “You hardly know me. And I’m not even looking. Where do you come off telling me a guy I never met before is okay?” she asked.
I was on the verge of guffawing but reined it in. Ike was a master of the art of facial plasticity.
“He’s really Okey,” he said in a strong, insistent tone, motioning in my direction.
The woman had heard enough. She rebuked Ike for his bad manners, announced she felt disrespected that he would declare a guy she was just meeting okay for her. And she spiced the message with a liberal dose of curses.
Seeing her worked up, Ike smiled. “I wasn’t playing romantic matchmaker,” he said. “I introduced you to the guy. I thought you’d like to know him as well. His name is Okey. It’s spelled O-k-e-y.”
The woman looked at me with a doubtful expression. I nodded.
“No,” she said, eyes darting from Ike to me, as if trying to figure out whether we were tag-team pranksters. “He’s bullshitting, right?”
“Actually that’s my name.”
“I don’t believe it for a minute.”
I gave an affirming smile. “Trust me; it’s true.”
“I need to see your driver’s license.”
I produced my license. As she inspected it, disbe
lief eased away from her face. She covered her face, exclaiming, “Oh my God! Oh my God!” Ike broke out into laughter. I joined in. And then the woman followed suit.
Soon, still overcome with laughter, she clasped me in an embrace. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “You got you a unique name. And here I was thinking the brother was telling me you were okay for me!”
A Norwegian “Okay” Interlude
In late September 2009, I traveled to Trondheim, Norway, to attend the Nordic Africa Days conference. The Nordic Africa Institute, based in Uppsala, Sweden, was my sponsor. In December 2006, the institute had invited me to Uppsala, where I joined several African and European writers at a symposium tagged “Creative Writers’ Workshop on War and Peace in Africa.” Soon after the symposium, the institute commissioned the Zimbabwean writer Chenjerai Hove and me to edit the presentations for publication. The resultant book, Writers Writing on Conflicts and Wars in Africa, was published in 2009. It was to be officially launched at the Nordic Africa Days conference, which was why the institute was flying me to Norway. My flight itinerary, on Icelandair, went from New York City to Reykjavík, the capital of Iceland, to the Norwegian capital, Oslo, and then on a one-hour shuttle to Trondheim.
A week before my trip, I received an email from Nina Klinge-Nygård of the Nordic Africa Institute. Her own flight would arrive in Trondheim thirty minutes ahead of mine, Nina wrote. Then she added: I will be there waiting for you . . . I figure we might as well go together on the bus to the hotel.
But just in case her schedule or mine went awry, she sent me another email with the following instruction: The airport is a 30–40-minute drive from the town center and the conference hotels. The easiest way to reach your hotel is by the airport express bus, which corresponds with every arrival at Trondheim Airport Værnes. The bus stand is to your right when you exit the terminal building. A one-way ticket costs NOK 90, and you may pay by credit card on the bus. When you reach the town center, the stops will be announced.
The shuttle aircraft from Oslo arrived in Trondheim, as scheduled, at 4:35 p.m. on September 30, 2009. During the flight into Trondheim, it dawned on me that Nina and I had never met each other. I couldn’t tell her apart in a room of several white women. For that matter, but for the fact that I was black, she too would have a hard time identifying me. She had not attended the workshops during my 2006 visit to Uppsala. I feared that she and I might miss each other.
The fear went away as the plane approached the runway. Looking out the window, I saw the airport building, relatively small. The odds were slim that we would miss each other in such a space.
The baggage-claim belt was next to a small lounge where a smattering of people, men and women, sat, perhaps waiting for arriving passengers. My suitcase rolled out quickly. I grabbed it and then made a round of the lounge, making sure that every woman in the lounge made eye contact with me. None of them sprang up to welcome me. I concluded that Nina’s flight from Sweden must be late.
I exited the airport, looked to my right, and saw an idling bus. I paid ninety Norwegian kroner and settled in a seat just behind the driver, but on the other side of the aisle. I got down when the driver announced the stop for Rica Nidelven Hotel. At the hotel’s front desk, I gave my name and was courteously checked in.
Later that evening, I met Nina at the ballroom where the book I coedited was officially launched. The hall was parked with conference participants. Our interaction was brief, but her charisma and jocularity were on display. She apologized for missing me at the airport, but offered no explanation. There was little time.
It rained incessantly during the three days I spent in Trondheim. Despite the wetness, the book presentation was glitch-free. Chenjerai and I reignited an intense, bantering friendship that started on our first meeting in Uppsala. I went out drinking, eating, and sightseeing with several African and European scholars. I attended a few conference sessions and heard a marvelous keynote speech by the eminent Swedish novelist Henning Mankell. I met Disa Hastad, a heavyset Swedish journalist of magisterial bearing whose passion for Africa was as strong as her writing on the continent was penetrating. I was flattered to learn that she followed my newspaper columns. We spent some time discussing Nigeria’s prospects and its confounding ways.
The second day of the conference, Hastad coaxed me into forgoing a panel I had planned to attend. “Do you know about the Nidaros Cathedral?” she asked. “It’s quite impressive, a major monument here. I’m going to see it. Come with me.”
We took a bus that stopped a short distance from the majestic cathedral. The moment we alighted, a heavy downpour descended on us. Disa walked with a cane, her bad leg forcing her to keep to a plodding pace. I expected her to suggest that we duck under the bus-stop shelter or some building until the rain ceased. Instead, as she walked with a pronounced limp, she turned to look at me. She laughed, apparently amused by my bunched body, bowed head, and grimace. In a stentorian air that carried over the clatter, she declaimed, “Rain is not going to kill us.” I was too drenched, too helpless, to argue the point.
I had a marvelous time in Trondheim, savored the rich harvest of contacts made, insights gained, sights beheld. On October 3, 2009, I boarded a flight and left rainy Norway.
On January 11, 2010, I received an intriguing email from Nina. She wrote: I do have a report to give you on what happened in Trondheim, something I was too ashamed to tell when there. Email doesn’t do justice to my story, better to do it over the phone. Please let me know when I can call you (it’ll have to be afternoon here) and to which number.
Several days later, I emailed her my mobile number. On January 18, 2010, she wrote: Nemas problemas! I’ll call you tomorrow, Tuesday . . . Don’t expect too much.
Here’s the story she told.
She had indeed been waiting at the airport in Trondheim when my flight arrived. Once my flight’s arrival was announced, she ran to the bathroom to spruce up. By the time she reemerged to look for me, I had already made the rounds of the lounge—and then left on the bus, headed for the hotel.
She didn’t imagine I could have picked up my luggage and left so quickly; she conjectured I had missed my connecting flight from Oslo. Since another connecting flight was due in about an hour, she elected to wait for it.
There was a lone black man on the next flight that arrived from Oslo. She approached him, smiled, and asked, “Are you Okey?”
“Yes,” the man replied.
“Did you miss your connecting flight from Oslo?”
“I did, yes.”
“So sorry,” she told him. “Get your luggage, let’s go.”
He grabbed his luggage and walked out with her to the bus. She paid the fare for both of them, and they sat next to each other. During the bus ride to the city, she kept trying to draw the man out into conversing. He was taciturn and seemed somewhat uncomfortable, even a tad pained, by her attention. This confused her a bit; her colleagues who had met me in Uppsala in 2006 had portrayed me as a gregarious person with a penchant for telling stories. She put the man’s sour mien down to a long, torturous flight and the fact he had missed one connecting flight.
The bus stopped at a location near the hotel, and she bid the man follow her. At the front desk, she introduced herself in Norwegian and was duly checked in. Then, motioning in the direction of the man who stood behind her, she asked the hotel clerk to check in “Okey Ndibe.”
The clerk peered into the computer and announced, “Okey Ndibe already checked in.”
“Not possible,” she said testily. “He’s right here with me.”
The clerk was adamant that I had checked in.
Nina demanded to talk to the manager. She complained that his front-desk clerk was refusing to check me in. The manager dithered, peered at a computer screen, brows furrowed as he clicked. Then he gave her a suspicious look. “Madam, our records show that Okey Ndibe is already our guest,” he said in the tone of a
man burdened with driving home a point to an irrationally incredulous person.
Vexed both by that tone and what she took as some irritating computer glitch, she turned to the man behind her and ordered, “Please tell them your name is Okey Ndibe.”
The man shrugged. “That’s not my name.”
“What?” she uttered. “I asked you at the airport whether you were Okey and you said yes,”
“You asked if I was okay, and I said yes, I was,” the man responded, in turn regarding her with an expression of suspicion.
Suddenly, the absurdity of her error hit her. She couldn’t decide whether to laugh or to cry. She began to explain the mix-up both to the hotel staff, in Norwegian, and the man she had ensnared from the airport, in English. Everybody felt a measure of awkwardness but also great relief.
The man she had mistaken for me turned out to be a Ghanaian scholar, in Trondheim for the same “Nordic Africa Days” conference. Of course, he had not expected to be picked up at the airport. When Nina had asked him at the airport to follow her, he had been surprised but pleased. He’d taken it as an act of Norwegian hospitality.
Nina said she’d not told me the story in Trondheim for fear that I would be upset. Back in Uppsala, her colleagues at the Nordic Africa Institute pressed her to share the story with me. She demurred, even though her colleagues assured her I would be thrilled. It took a while before she came round and then decided to send me that email asking for my phone number.
I told Nina how grateful I was for the gift of another “Okay” story, a Scandinavian angle on a familiar experience with my name.
On a Croc’s Back, America-Bound
I often went to visit Professor Bart Nnaji either at his office at the University of Massachusetts Amherst or at his robotics lab, just outside the engineering department building. On one visit, I met Chris, a graduate student of engineering who seemed endlessly curious about Nigeria and Africa. On seeing me, Chris would exclaim “Okey!” and invariably take a break from his work to chat. He had a sense of humor and would often commence laughing at his own joke even before he had finished making it. He also had a way of standing with one hand on his hip, his body tipped slightly forward, head cocked toward me, leaving the impression of intense interest in my responses to his barrage of questions.
