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.
Notes By Emmanuella 