The Welcome

September 2003

It doesn't look very different. Zibby thoughfully examined the passing landscape as he and Uncle Nobu cruised towards the latter's North London home, Nobu's red Mercedes gleaming in the evening sun. The streets looked strangely familiar. He had of course seen a lot of London already, thanks to the twin wonders of digital television and the internet, so he was not suprised by the absence of American-style skyscrapers. Still, the streets looked suprisingly similar to the better parts of Lagos, and he had to continually remind himself that he was in a different country.

He and Uncle Nobu chatted all the way from the airport, as calm, soothing 90's tunes wafted out from the radio. Zibby made a mental note to check out that radio station again. So far they had not played a single song he didn't like!

Before long, they were pulling up to the house on Balthazar Lane. Zibby was brimming with excitement. As the door opened, Uncle Nobu called out that they were home, and out rushed the girls. Zibby quickly scanned the room for the only one he had met before, but she was not there. It was his three younger cousins, and they were meeting for the first time!

"Hello!" said Nikki cheerfully, as she came forward to give him a quick hug. She was his Uncle's third child, and the second oldest of those present. The others followed suite in rapid succession.

"Hello!" Zibby replied, beaming. He was not sure what to expect, and was glad for the warm welcome. "It's great to finally meet you all!"

"Oh my God, have you lived in America?!" asked Nikki. Zibby rolled his eyes and smiled. "No, I haven't" he said. "Lived in Lagos all my life!" "But you sound American!" she insisted. Zibby shrugged his shoulders and smiled again.

Just then, his aunt Ify stepped out from the kitchen. "Zibby, you're welcome" she said. Zibby looked into her eyes and felt suddenly uneasy. He couldn't place his finger on it, and perhaps it was his imagination. But it just seemed as if Aunt Ify did not feel quite as warmly towards him as she was letting on. As he scanned the faces of his 3 cousins, he slowly saw the same look creep in their eyes, and he began to worry.

Shrugging off his over-active imagination, he allowed them to take his things as he was ushered to the living room. The 3 sisters promptly returned to whatever it was they had been doing and Zibby was left to chat for a while with Auny Nikki and Uncle Nobu. It was really strange. He could sense the genuine warmth from his Uncle, but Aunty Nikki seemed to smile with her lips but shoot daggers with her eyes. Slowly but surely, Zibby began to feel homesick.

"Roooar!" Little Chuki ran down from wherever he had been playing and burst like a tornado into the living room. "Do you know who this is?" asked Uncle Nobu. "Yup!" said Chuki. "It's Zibby!" His five-year-old gap toothed smile was adorable! Zibby ruffled his hair with his standard greeting for little tornadoes. "Hello, young man!" Chuki grinned even wider. "Mum, dad, can I show Zibby around?" Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed Zibby by the arm and proceeded to drag Zibby him round the 5 - bedroom house, giving him the grand tour.

By the end of it all, Chuki looked up at Zibby and asked "So, are you my big brother now?"

Zibby smiled. Perhaps his initial misgivings were misplaced after all. He was still in this happy mood when cousin Ama came in from work. Ama had spent some time with Zibby and his folks in Lagos, almost 10 years earlier. They had all got on pretty well at the time, but had not seen or spoken since then.

As Ama's eyes met his, she shrieked, "Zibby!" and ran over to meet him. She hugged him tightly as Zibby laughed. "Ama!" he said, "Wow, it's been forever!"

"I know!" she said. "I'm so glad you're here." She didn't let go. And then she broke down. Slowly, then violently her body shook with sobs as she clung to Zibby tightly and cried. "I'm so glad you're here" she repeated.

Zibby was touched, but slightly puzzled. "It's great to be here" he said, albeit a little awkwardly. After a while, Ama composed herself and went upstairs to change.

It would not be long before Zibby would fully understand the reason for her tears.

Liar Liar

1985 - 5/6 years old

"Were you born in America?" Raphael asked Zibby, as they played on the clean white sand of their catholic school playground. Zibby's brow furrowed. He'd heard this too many times for his liking.

"No." he curtly replied.
"Liar!" you were born in America! Raphael persisted. Zibby sighed and ran over to the slides. Perhaps he'd try to slide down while standing up this time...
"Why are you lying, now?" Raphael wasn't going to let this one go.
"I'm not lying. I wasn't born in America!" Zibby insisted.
"Then why do you speak like an American?"

Zibby shrugged his shoulders, in the same way he would for many years to come. You see, Zibby's keen ear and zeal for learning had seen him devote himself to the mastery of the English Language. The real shame of it was that he did this to the total detriment of every other language including his mother-tongue, Igbo. Not that this was all his fault, of course. After all, even when his parents argued, they argued in English! His Igbo was restricted to such basic words as bia (come), efere (plate), and mmiri (water).

By the time his parents would realize their mistake, it would be too late. On occasions, Zibby's mum would abruptly cease from speaking English and communicate with him in whole paragraphs of Igbo. He would furrow his brow in what was to become his trademark scowl and curtly say, in English, "Please stop speaking that nonsense to me." Eventually, she did.

So where did the "American" accent come from? It wasn't really American, of course. Just different. Later in life Zibby would explain it to himself this way: it was a mix of pronunciations and intonations gleaned from watching hours and hours of British and American television. This was coupled with constant direction from his parents, which Zibby was all too eager to imbibe.

"Don't say 'dis', say 'this'."
"Don't drop the 'h'. It's your 'hand', not your 'and'!"

Through it all, Zibby was vaguely aware that not everyone spoke as he was learning to speak. However, he wasn't too interested in what others were saying. He only wanted to know, "what's the 'right way' to say it?"

Over time Zibby began to speak in a curious blend of Received Pronunciation (otherwise known as 'the Queen's English' mixed with a healthy dose of American vowels and phrases and garnished with a sprinkling of Yoruba intonations. To the young children without a keen discernment for accents, he spoke like an American.

By the second year of school, Zibby's childhood conversations would proceed more like this:

"Zibby, were you born in America?"
"No"
"Liar! So why do you speak like that? You were, weren't you?"
(sigh) "Yes. Let's go to the slides."

Arrival

September 2003

Zibby sat impatiently in the Murtala Mohammed Airport waiting lounge. An hour earlier, he had said goodbye to his parents at the outer departure gates. The image of his mum quietly crying through her smiles remained imprinted in his mind, as did her words earlier. "Goodbye, son. Hold on to Jesus!"

At long last, he was on his way to London. Zibby had secured a place at King's College to study for a Master of Laws degree and he knew exactly what he wanted. He would work so hard that his lecturers wouldn't fail to notice him. He'd be retained by the University upon graduation as a member of staff and would thus take his place among the academic elite of the world. No, Zibby did not think his expectations were unrealistic. Far from it. Rejections from Harvard and Cambridge earlier that year had brought him down to earth with a massive thud. He knew the going would be tough but he had faith that all would be well in the end.

As the flight boarded and for its entire duration, Zibby felt a sense of excitement slowly rising in his chest. All too soon, the plane touched down at Heathrow.

"Passport please." The immigration officer stretched out his hand to recieve Zibby's passport. He probably didn't notice the beads of sweat slowly forming on the edge of his brow. Not that anything was amiss, of course. Zibby just had a nagging feeling that if anything were to go monumentally wrong, it would be now.

"Why have you come to the UK?" the officer asked. "To study" Zibby confidently replied. "What will you be studying?" Zibby restrained himself from rolling his eyes. This was the visa interview all over again! "I'll be studying for an LLM - Master of Laws, at King's College London." "Can I see your offer letter please?"

Looking back at the long queue behind him, Zibby was very grateful for his parent's advice to keep his admission documents handy. He had a mental picture of himself explaining how he did have admission documents, but they were at the bottom his yet uncollected suitcase. The picture was not pretty. "Enjoy your stay" the officer said, stamping his passport emphatically.

Next, Zibby proceeded to the medical room for his compulsory X-ray screening. There, he bumped into one of his mates from Law School! "Hey, what're you doing here?" asked the friend cheerily. "I've come for a Masters!" Zibby replied. "I'll be studying at King's! How about you?" "Same thing, but I'll be at UCL!" "Great," Zibby replied. "We should meet up sometime."

Zibby never saw him again. Thus he would learn one of the first things you learn about London. It eats your friends. They disappear down a long dark hole of "busyness" and you'll be lucky to get a phone call once a month reminding you that they're still alive. In time, Zibby too would be so eaten. But that's a tale for another day.

As he completed his medical exam and went down the escalators to retrieve his baggage, Zibby noticed that he felt considerably lighter. His briefcase! He had taken it onto the plane as hand luggage and it contained all his certificates, course-related documents and 4500 pounds being the first deposit for his fees! He was beside himself with fear and worry. It had happened. He knew it was all going too smoothly, that something would have to happen somewhere to mess everything up.

Zibby dashed back up the escalators and headed for the immigration desk. "Please! I think I've left a briefcase on the plane! Can I go back through?"

The immigration officer looked bewildered but not in the least bit sympathetic. "Once you've come through, you can't go back again."

Zibby was on the verge of tears. He quickly considered his options. The medical exam. He could not recall taking the case there, but it was worth a try. "Can I go back to the medical room?" he asked hopefully. The immigration officer looked back at him and nodded. He was off like a shot, heading straight for the medical reception desk. "Excuse me, please, I don't know if you can help me, but I think I might have forgotten a grey briefcase..."

The lady at the desk smiled and said, "Ah, yes... Jill! That briefcase you found..." Zibby's heart was pounding so hard he was sure it was audible. Another lady appeared from another room with the missing case and he almost melted with joy. "Thank you sooo much! That would've been a major problem! My entire life is in that case!" he gushed, as the ladies handed the case over to him.

Okay, he thought, that's done now. That's the drama. Everything's going to be fine now. He clutched his beloved case and headed out to get the rest of his luggage and to meet his uncle who had been patiently waiting for hours. He was in London, and he was going to enjoy himself!

Tell me about London

1985

The five-year old sat cross-legged at his mother's feet. He liked to sit there. He loved listening to her stories, especially in candlelight, in the regular absence of electric power. NEPA, they called it then - National Electric Power Authority, though the locals preferred Never Expect Power Always.

Anyway, we stray from our main subject. Little Zibby loved sitting at his mummy's feet. She would tell stories of the tortoise and the hare, of the wicked stepmother and magical rivers, greedy children and wise old men. Her versions of stories passed down from generation to generation. But Zibby liked one story above others. "Tell me about London" he would say. "Mamma, tell me about London".

You see, Zibby's parents had spent 13 years in London before returning to Lagos in the late 70's. His elder brother had been born there, but Zibby missed out on the priviledge of dual nationality by one month. Somehow or other, he grew up with a facination about the city he had never known. He would dream about the snow, about his brother being played with by the facinated white neighbourhood kids, about the child minder whose name he had heard innumerable times, about the little house on Stanlake Road, the huge afros and bell-bottomed trousers. His "memories" of London were comprised of his mother's stories and the extensive collection of pictures sitting in the shelf under the television. As the stories were repeated over several nights and several months and years, he would imagine himself there, a happy dream which filled him with warmth and simple child-like happiness.

Were the seeds for his eventual relocation sowed during those tropical evening story sessions? Perhaps. What Zibby's young head could not have known was that the reality of London differed greatly from the city of his infantile dreams.