I once saw at the top— Those with crisp loins, buttered tongues, and pride sharp as blades, They, who made it seem like my first-generation self would stretch too long to get here.
Hah!
Pintrest
Me? Emmanuella. My name, so long, surprises you I stuck around? I stayed, pushed hard until my knowledge became so palpable, You couldn’t turn a blind eye.
I stuck around for a day like today, Where I wear my grandmother’s name with pride—Affymma, Affiong ete! Affymma, from generations rooted in life and immortality, Sprouting breaths of beauty and vitality.
Me? Affymma, who danced kokoma on bare feet, Swung her waist to the dim dim drums made of leopard skin.
Now, I sit at tables once reserved for those I admired— Bold. Rich. Audacious. Intelligent. I occupy spaces once unwelcoming, And I crush the tables of restriction.
Remember I came home with emotions flagged red from your microaggressions, Questioning myself, doubting if how you treated me was right. I beat myself up for not standing firm, Never see it coming when you pour out your maltreatment. But see me now— Triumphing, one day at a time.
I am the woman who now sits beside you in Ankara dress, Capped in a black bob wig, draped in the richness of my skin. I am Affymma, the risen star. And just like you, I am now at the top.
I became “black” the day I stepped foot in Ala bekee~ UK. It was the winter of 2021. The clouds formed light-grey, thick fluorescent sheets that descended onto the roads, engulfing cars as they drove through. I would soon come to know this phenomenon as fog.
Away from home and everything that had been familiar, I decided to pretend my body was at Obudu Cattle Ranch, a small village in Cross River state-Nigeria where the cold isn’t as freezing as the insides of the beecheve women’s freezers, where their ice fishes lived in deep cold, and their fingers would go numb from sorting through mackerel to sell.
Two weeks after my arrival, I was referred to as “black.” I had met Margaret, a middle-aged British woman who thought leaving home and coming to the UK was the bravest thing anyone could do. I smiled a lot during our conversation because I didn’t know if my presence in the country was truly an intelligent move. I had left home, left my job as a nurse, and abandoned everything familiar. Here I was, starting all over again, alone and feigning bravery.
I cried often, battling to understand my patients, figuring out that sachet was pronounced “sa-shay”, saying “you are alright “ as “U’right?” and learning that when a health assistant said a patient was feeling sick, they meant nauseous. It took a while to understand that “going to spend a penny” meant going to the toilet. Have I ever been bold enough to tell anyone about my struggles with understanding those humans on the other end of a telephone call? Updating patients relative about their loved one on the telephone and I going “could you say that again “ multiple times. Why would someone say I spoke too fast and needed to slow down? In my country, my English was plain—no big words, just simple and clear. But they didn’t understand me, and I didn’t understand them either. But I have spoken English since I started primary school in Nigeria.
Margaret’s email to me sealed the identity shift. It was a friendly message, suggesting how the neighborhood would like to support “the black immigrants like yourself…”. In my country, I am Efik, but I speak Igbo with the same fluidity as my mother tongue. I was not black; I was either Igbo, Hausa, or Yoruba. The consciousness of my skin color was simply about keeping it smooth and layering palettes of Mary Kay on my face.
Now, I found myself far from the large clan of people who shared my skin color and in a land filled with people from all walks of life. It was here I learned that October is Black History Month, where attention is paid to the accomplishments of Black people. Their contributions in various industries are celebrated, and it is an opportunity to foster community, promote diversity and inclusion, and encourage allyship to fight against discrimination and racism.
It was here I learned about the Windrush generation and the Windrush scandal of 2018, more about slavery, a bit more about colonialism, and my roots. A patient once referred to me by a racist slur. Did I cry that night? Yes. I walked home in the cold, sobbing uncontrollably, regretting my choice to migrate for the first time.
But it wasn’t just strangers. I also learned that sometimes, your kind can lead you to the path of sacrifice. I met a fellow nurse with the same skin as mine, but her joy seemed to be in watching me fail. She consistently talked down on me in front of other colleagues. I had heard of the divide-and-rule tactic, where one Black person is used as a tool against others. Do I call her behavior racist? The pain was the same.
The NHS Workforce Race Equality Standard (WRES) reports that Black, Asian, and Minority Ethnic (BAME) staff make up about 24% of the NHS workforce. Yet, we are underrepresented in senior leadership roles. As of recent reports, only about 6.5% of NHS board members come from BAME backgrounds, even though the workforce is much more diverse. As a person of color, I approach job interviews with a fight mentality. I prepare thoroughly—studying broadly, rehearsing every necessary experience relevant to the role, and repeating corporate English in my head multiple times before voicing it out loud. I do informal visits to units, declare a harmless interest in roles, then commit everything to God.
Still, sometimes, just like an interviewer once told me, “You were absolutely amazing. Everyone loved you, but we were hand-tied. We had to give the role to someone already on the team.” That day, I stood in front of the mirror, stared into my own eyes, and wondered how a job was reserved for someone, yet a full panel of interviewers wasted my time. Chineke nna’m!
But I am Black. I am a woman. I am a nurse. And I have a place here.
Who would relate best to that Black patient whose catheter isn’t draining? Who would understand the woman in labor, whose pain is overlooked because she’s seen as strong? Cultural competence is everyone’s responsibility especially in health care but Where you cannot stand, I might be able to.
Black History Month serves as a reminder of both the progress that has been made and the work that remains. It is a time to celebrate the achievements of Black people, not only in the UK but globally, and to recognize the invaluable contributions we make in every industry. Yet, we must also use this time to advocate for systemic changes—more Black nurses in leadership, pay equity, and the eradication of discrimination in healthcare.
Dear Amara, It’s been just four days since your social media break, and I miss you greatly. How is my boy Chibuike and your husband, our Jay? Nne’m, I have gist for you.
My husband, Dr. Obeten, is just an inch away from becoming a pastor. Do you see his head? He scrapes it bald and empties two palmfuls of Soulmate hair cream on it. Then, when he steps on the altar and stands by the chandelier, his skull reflects the ceiling lights and enunciates his facial features boldly. I am forced to think, every dark, tall, and handsome man should go bald.
Dear Amara
By my calculations, he would jump from being a dedicated brethren who works in the tech department, skip deaconship, and go straight to becoming a pastor. He seems to be very serious about it. Last night, we woke up to pray for a brother who’s going through some crisis. It was 3:00 a.m., that time of night when your sleep is drifting into sweetness, your consciousness is gone, and life feels like you have a big pant that you have to secure to your waist with your left hand while you jump about with friends, building mud houses, and playing hide and seek. No regular brethren would sacrifice coupling up with his wife for such intercessory ministry.
Amy, I see myself as a near-future mummy G.O. Okay, maybe not G.O.-G.O., but at least an assistant pastor’s wife. Not like the regular ones I meet at conferences with baggy dresses and a silent love for dull colors and poor color coordination. I want to be the kind that inspires teenagers to righteousness, wears some stilettos, and marches the devil on his head with my heels, with a face beat that speaks of grace, intellect, and strength. Omooooo!
My husband loves the Lord, and his heart is out in service to Him, but he doesn’t see what I see. Our pastor thinks he will do well in shepherding a flock and has asked him to register for the pastoral course. But the man I am married to shies away. He says his ministry is backstage, arranging and setting up for service, and interceding for the church, the brethren, and our pastors. I see him ready in a blazing suit to take on nations and slay kingdoms with me on his side. My koi-koi shoes and pleated skirts are ready for the day he answers the call. I think my ministry is to become a mummy G.O., a wife to the pastor, a mother to the brethren, and a great support to teen girls and boys alike.
Until then, I will keep serving in the choir and honing my skills for the day the office of mummy G.O. becomes available to me.
Don’t laugh too much when you read this, and don’t bother advising me, nne. Give all my love to Chibuike, and roll some remnants on you and our Jay.
That afternoon when you swiped your finger through the myriad of suggestions goggle presented, nothing in Nsukka prepared your fragile mind for the reality you would come to experience 24 hours later.
AI generated photo.
First, it was the dancing headaches that pushed from the left to the right side of your head, beating drums that made you hold your head in a salute. You gulped some paracetamol, pleaded the blood of Jesus three times and rubbed the anointing oil your mama bought at a crusade ground on your forehead.
Somehow the pain in your head managed to escape the anointing oil, it fell into your stomach and your belly began to burn. Goggle tagged this symptom preeclampsia.
You have been pregnant for 20 weeks, you now spend more time in the shower, rubbing soap lather on your bump and imagining Ebube’s kind of shiny skull on the baby. You screamed a loud “tufiakwa” then followed by “ my baby will have plenty hair, biko!”. Ebube, the child next door was born without a strand of hair, her mother now rubs palm oil on her head to appease her deceased relatives she may have offended.
Your husband, you call him “di”, he kisses your bump very often and tells you about the “pregnancy nose” and how soon God would increase the width and height of your nose to allow you breathe in more oxygen for you and Chizaram, the baby in your womb.
You are happy, your “di” is happy too but the rising hotness in your belly has defiled the many cups of cold water you drank.
You ring the hospital because your mind is unstable, goggle says its a lot of things but you hope that the Angels your mama commands to follow you goes ahead and makes everything right.
You are now on the hospital couch, face up and your left hand is cupped by your “di”. He runs his palms over yours and warmth rushes over you. You turn your head towards where he’s sat and he gives you the “I gotcha baby” look.
The sonographer presses her equipment on your belly, looks into your eyes and says the most chilling words you have ever heard, “ I am so sorry but there’s no heartbeat”.
Life pauses at that instance. You are blank. Your mind tells you it’s a dream so you shut your eyes and yell into reality. You open your eyes and it’s still you on the couch with the lady still in your face but this time your “di” holds you down from running mad.
A few days later, your baby disintegrates into your pad. Large clots of blood sit on your panties. You somehow recognise the body parts that are in the pool of blood. The head, then something that looks like the placenta, the back or the tiny toes that would have been wriggling at you if you had ended up a mother.
An oyibo man called me “my darling”; it wasn’t just once but several times as he spoke to me.
His sentences were punctuated by the endearment before he took a break to swallow saliva. It felt like he had cooked his words like a pot of okra soup and emptied a big sachet of “darling” into it.
“It’s okay, my darling, you just have to write your name at the end of the text over there, darling.”
I have never met him, never seen him. I woke up that morning and showed up at his office, and that was it.
My Nigerianess thinks it’s because of the red lipstick I splayed on my lips. I didn’t bother to layer the bottom part with a black eye pencil to tone down how bold it turned out.
My gap teeth, coupled with the shimmering red lips, must have been too conspicuous to ignore. Is he liking me in an ungodly way? I thought.
He comes again, this time wearing a smile. “Hey, darling, would you like a cup of tea or coffee? Milk or no milk, sugar or no sugar. Tell me how you like it, darling.”
I wanted to scream an Igbo exclamation, but I muttered under my breath, “Which kind of Wahala be this.” I smiled and told him I was okay and he needn’t bother.
“You sure, my love?” I smiled even more and nodded in affirmation.
I am in this office for an interview, and this man whose name I didn’t catch during our introduction seems to be the nicest person yet. He did say his name, but my ears let the word slide, and I was too anxious to ask him to repeat it. I was 20 minutes late for the interview because navigating through the new city was still a challenge.
A darling.
“Darling, I have just spoken to the manager, and you will be called in shortly. Let me know if you need anything at all. Alright, my darling?” He walked away with a file carried like a Nigerian university undergraduate in his first year.
A few minutes later, I had my interview and was ready to go home. The sinner at the mischievous part of my brain thought he would ask for my number so that I could tell him that I have a man whom I am committed to, but he looks me in the eye and says something that sounds like an over-rehearsed line. “I wish you all the best, my darling. Goodbye.”
I waved him goodbye, and best believe, he is the kindest receptionist I had met. Mr. Darling.
Notes By Emmanuella 