E Ware Mumene: I'm Going Home

By Kevin Itima

"E Ware Mumnde" (I’m Going Home) is the account of my experience as a young, first generation Nigerian American and my desire to to reconcile my diverse identity, while rejecting my home culture . The book starts off with me cast to country I had visited only once. As a foreigner in my parents' home country, I experienced humiliation, found redemption and a new-found appreciation for my heritage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781626752542

Book preview

me.

Chapter 1

Lagos, Nigeria --- June 15, 2005

Sitting in the airport terminal I had it all figured out and found myself alone and deep in thought. I watched as the planes slowly taxied to their respective terminals, with the tiny men below ushering them to their spots. My mind wandered onto trivial nonsense. If the planes could speak, I wondered if they would consider all other planes landing in this airport their family? Or would they only consider the ones with the same logo family and maybe the rest were just friends? They were silly thoughts but still I had to wonder. At the moment, it seemed like everything rested on me knowing the difference between the two.

Blood is thicker than water, but last time I checked, everyone had blood running through his or her veins. Maybe that was it; maybe it was all a bigger metaphor for saying that we as mankind are family. That thought disappeared as soon as it came. I knew way too many individuals who couldn’t count themselves as associates, much less family.

A woman at the boarding gate was explaining the procedure for boarding the plane while people started to gather their things. Family, friends, enemies, loved ones, backstabbers...it hardly mattered now. I was moving on to take the next steps on my own. I thought about my life and the lesson I was supposed to be learning from all this. My story seemed to only make sense when told all at once. Hell, it seemed like it happened all at once, as if the last few years were instantaneous, and all the hurt, pain, rewards, and letdowns happened without regard for time.

I watched as the passengers began to gather their belongings and head toward the gate, each person with a glint of excitement, or at least anticipation. The airport was a gateway; nobody knew what would be waiting for him or her at the other end, but everyone hoped it would be better than what they were leaving. You could sense that excitement in even the weariest travelers if you looked closely enough. The line in front of the gate began to form, but I didn’t move—I was in no rush. I just meditated on all that I had become, and soon I was wrapped deeply in my thoughts; the memories flooded in like a torrent through my mind’s eye.

Chapter 2

Lagos, Nigeria --- August 8, 2004

A slight nudge awoke me and I saw my Uncle Jolly walk out of the room. I rubbed sleep from my eyes, initially not recognizing where I was. There were few things good about my mornings, but this moment was one of them. For at least three seconds everyday I thought I was home, and I cherished it. My joy was short-lived; it would eventually wear off, just like everything else that made me feel normal in this God-forsaken country.

I was a fifteen-year-old American boy who was trapped in Nigeria. Before my parents exiled me, I had only been out here when I was seven. Their rash decision was not meant to be a punishment; at least that’s what they claimed. It was supposed to be a cultural immersion, a way of connecting with my roots. Why should I care about some roots that I never knew existed? I could barely even tolerate my own family. My friends were my real family...the outsiders I had made connections with were who I cherished, not the people I was forced to tolerate due to blood.

My little brother and I had been here a year, but I was no more connected with Nigeria than when I first got off the plane. My father’s feeble attempt to help me bond with family actually pushed me further away. I did my best not to interact too much with everyone out here. I was just a prisoner, patiently doing his time.

I pushed my little brother who mumbled incoherently about our mom, then rolled over. It was still early so I decided to let him sleep a little while longer. His reference to Mom only made me realize I was hungry. I silently rose to my window and removed the loose board on the sill. The two hundred naira I had hidden there were now gone. I thought back to when I felt shocked and outraged upon discovering that my aunt had stolen my money. Now it just meant I had to be more creative in hiding it. Well, I couldn’t buy breakfast or lunch now, waves of hunger hit me like a heavy weight boxer. I guess these were the cultural lessons I was supposed to be getting. All I had learned was that life was a whole lot scarier than I could have ever imagined. Survival was not promised; it had to be fought for, because any day it could be taken away from you, especially out here. I shrugged off my thoughts and hunger, then headed downstairs for fellowship.

Fellowship used to involve everyone, but my aunt couldn’t handle waking up at 6:00 a.m. and stopped coming downstairs; shortly after so did my Uncle Lima. My brother pounced on the opportunity to indulge in a couple of hours of sleep and stopped coming as well. The driver, Clement, who was my cousin, more or less, wasn’t expected to come to fellowship because he had to wash the car every morning. I guess Lima thought Clement wasn’t worth God’s time. The first part of fellowship was singing followed by silent prayer. I had long since given up on praying to go home; now prayers shifted to survival, which seemed a lot more plausible. After fellowship was the morning’s chore. Justine handled sweeping upstairs, I did the downstairs, and Uncle Jolly washed the dishes.

To understand why things went on the way they did, I first had to understand the hierarchy of the household. At the top of the totem pole was my Uncle Lima and Aunt Vera, neither one my blood relative. Their will was law and their judgment was crude and inconsistent. Beneath them was my Uncle Jolly who was my only blood relative in the house besides my little brother. He was extremely religious, on the verge of being a fanatic. He was the one who always dropped the jewels of knowledge. Most of the time I thought they were useless, but he was a good man, an adjective I would rarely bestow upon anyone out here. Next was Clement, followed by my brother Adrian and I. Clement was assigned the menial task of driving Lima around...not what you would expect, but jobs were extremely hard to come by in Nigeria and he seemed happy. My brother and I were Lima’s claim to keeping my dad in his debt forever. Justine was Lima’s niece and last in line. She was dirt, actually less than dirt according to my aunt. My uncle treated her like an invisible inconvenience, almost like a lost puppy that wandered into his house and was allowed to stay.

Nigeria was full of inconveniences that initially frustrated me to no end. The brooms were one of them. They had long strong straws and no handle. This forced the person sweeping to bend over for long periods of time. I learned that everything in Nigeria conspired to make life difficult, like some sick twisted joke that everybody in the country enjoyed taking part in.

After the chores, it was back upstairs to take a bath. Baths were another anomaly, not the bath itself but the preparation for it. First, there was no hot water, not just in Lima’s house but virtually everywhere. Probably less than five percent of the houses had running hot water. The water was managed by the government, which meant it didn’t always come out of the tap. When this occurred I was forced to find a bucket and get water from the well in the backyard. Initially I boiled water and mixed it with the frigid well water. By now I was used to it, numb to the cold.

By the time I got upstairs my brother was already dressed in his school uniform. I gave him a puzzled look but already knew why he was reluctant to wash away the previous day’s grime. He was sick again and the cold water was too much to bear. It seemed like sickness and joy had traded places since we came here. At home we were rarely sick and frequently happy; in Nigeria it was the other way around.

I bathed, put my uniform on, and then met my brother downstairs. He sat at the bare table with a scowl on his face.

There’s nothing to eat for breakfast, he said. I didn’t respond. I just sat in silence and waited for Clement to take us to school. She took our damn money, he growled. My brother was clearly never going to accept Vera’s clepto-tendencies.

We’ll just get some food on credit from Solomon, I said.

Our tab’s too high, he grumbled.

Clement walked out of his room and headed to the car. I stepped outside and let the Nigerian air fill my nostrils and seep into my lungs. This country definitely had a different smell – not necessarily bad, just different. After a brief stare-down over who would ride shotgun, I got into the back seat. I didn’t want to listen to my brother whine all the way to school. The car started down the street as I looked out the window and I watched the familiar faces open up their shops. The towering skyscrapers and high rises were a shocking contrast to the state in which people lived here. Times like these I would think back to what got me here—it still didn’t seem real. Soon we were on the highway and the blur of cars made my eyelids droop.

Chapter 3

Houston, Texas --- April 23, 2002

Why I gotta climb up there? The dark Houston night was thick with humidity but that wasn’t the reason I was sweating uncontrollably. I imagined this was how most fourteen-year-old boys were spending their night on the southwest side of Houston, Texas. That probably wasn’t far from the truth.

You can climb better than me, plus you stronger, Craig said. We had spotted the bike early that day and made our plan to steal it. We prided ourselves on only choosing the best product. This meant we usually had to climb on balconies. Early on we realized people believed that because bikes were on balconies they didn’t have to lock them up.

I always climb. You need the bike so you need to go up there, I said. By now the bathroom light was on. Our window of opportunity was quickly slipping away.

Fine. I’ll go up there and drop it down to you, then you ride it away. Craig was scaling up the wall before I could protest.

It took him less than a minute to get up to the second floor. By now the lights were on and soon somebody would burst through the door, possibly with a gun. Craig’s legs straddled the fence as he struggled to lift the bike over it. With a heave he threw the bike over, narrowly missing me. The sliding glass door crashed open; Craig took a leap of faith and hit the ground with a thud. I’m sure adrenaline and fear of getting caught allowed him to ignore the pain while he jumped on my bike and sped off.

I swung my legs over the bike and tried to pedal. My legs flew off the pedals and I vaulted off the bike. I hit the ground but barely noticed the pain that coursed through my body. My mind was racing and I was completely confused.

Ima fuck you kids up, the owner of the apartment yelled from somewhere inside the house. I knew he was going to run out the front door and knock my teeth out. Sure wasn’t the way I wanted to go back home. I looked toward the gate, and saw that Craig was heading back toward me in case I had to make a quick getaway on the back of his pegs. The rule, Every man for himself, only came into play when dealing with police.

I looked down at the bike and saw the dilemma. The chain was off track, which was not a difficult thing to fix, but given the circumstances I knew the chances of me ending up with the bike were slim. My fingers slipped on the greasy chain, desperately trying to find the grooves. I wondered why the man hadn’t come out the door yet. I wanted to believe he was having trouble opening the door, but I knew he was looking for a weapon. The chain was little more than halfway on, but the thought of having my head cracked open with a bat made me decide to take the chance. The door swung open, the man came charging out with what looked like a golf club. He could have come out with some flowers and I still would have been terrified. I began peddling, the chain whined in protest but fell into place. Thank God! I sped off down the sidewalk.

Craig was leading the way back to his house; I followed and eventually caught up. We didn’t say much on the ride home. It was past curfew so small talk was not the brightest thing to do. We entered Craig’s garage, parked the bikes and surveyed our prize.

Damn, we got us a throwed-ass bike, Craig grinned. He was right. It was a grey and black BMX bike with chrome pegs on the front and back. It was worth anywhere from 200 to 400 dollars. My mind wandered at the thought of having even a fraction of that money. Craig’s voice snapped me back to reality.

What took you so fucking long? I thought you got caught. I explained what happened while slowly checking my war wounds. A scraped knee and a couple of bloody fingers – not too bad considering what could have happened.

You want to keep it? Craig’s question stunned me for a second.

You were really the one who did all the work. I would have left it. I thought about how awkward it would be when my parents saw me with a brand new bike. The thoughts were dismissed as quickly as they came. I would make something up. Besides, it’s not every day you find a bike like this.

’Preciate that, my nig. Looks like you get old faithful. I gave Craig my bike, dabbed him up, and then rode out of his garage toward my house.

I was getting a feel for my new bike, popping wheelies and hopping curbs. The bike was too valuable to leave in the backyard; I could easily fall victim to some other kid searching for a come-up. I decided to bring it in through the back door and put it in the garage. I was so wrapped up in my delight, I didn’t notice the few lights left on in the house. I pushed open the door and saw my dad’s figure silhouetted in the frame with a belt in his hand, looking like some sort of archangel.

It’s 2 o’clock in the morning. Where have you been?

Chapter 4

Lagos, Nigeria --- August 8, 2004

My eyes were jolted open. Clement swerved, barely missing a car and in the same motion honked his horn a million times, just one more lovely convenience in Nigeria – no stop signs. Hell, there were no traffic signals or laws at all. Ten minutes later we were in front of our school. My brother and I transferred there from different schools at the beginning of the month. I use the word transfer very loosely because the only record you needed was money. Private schools were the trend because government-run schools were held in dilapidated buildings with scores of children and underpaid teachers who couldn’t care less about the improvement of minds.

Nigerians start school about one or two years earlier than Americans, which means they usually graduate at about 16 or 17. For my brother, who was 11, this wasn’t much of a problem. For me, however, it was a stinging blow. I was about a foot taller than everybody else and well into puberty. I was two years behind most in Nigeria, which made me look like a dunce and an instant outcast.

The school system had a hierarchy, too. Of course, the principals and teachers were on top, which is nothing new, but corporal punishment put a wild spin on things. There were whips, paddles, canes, and my personal favorite, the kneel-down. Whenever teachers were too lazy to beat you, they made you kneel down and put your hands up. Sometimes it was out in the sun, but an hour in the shade was just as bad. The final twist was that juniors and seniors could use corporal punishment, too. If they gave you a task, you were expected to do it, anything from washing their clothes to doing their homework. Seventy percent of the time teachers approved; the other thirty percent the younger kids were too scared to say anything.

I had yet to experience any of this, maybe because I was just as big as most of the older guys or maybe because I was a loner. Whatever the reason, I knew my luck would run out soon. I was beginning to hear whispers; a storm was coming my way but there was nothing I could do about it. One thing was for certain, I wasn’t going to let some kid drill me like a sergeant, and they weren’t going to stand for insubordination. It was a train wreck waiting to happen.

The first part of the day was uneventful. I sat in class and feigned interest while waiting for lunch. Finally the teacher let us go and everyone rushed out of the room. I didn’t have money or food, but escaping the stuffy classroom was appealing enough on its own. I was freed from the humid classroom only to get outside to the blistering heat. Most people ate outside because there was no designated lunchroom. It was one of those days when everyone was on edge just because of the heat. I found a patch of shade and concentrated on quieting my rumbling stomach.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a little commotion. Sadek was an overweight idiot who probably was picked on when he was younger. Now he was returning the favor in full. He was shaking down some little guys for everything they had. For a moment my blood boiled but it wasn’t my fight, so I turned my gaze elsewhere. Suddenly a bottle burst, glass littered the court and everyone fell silent. Sadek had just thrown a bottle on the basketball court. Why? Because someone with the I.Q. of chitterlings couldn’t think rationally. The reason didn’t matter, but I knew what was coming next. I got up and started walking away.

You there, boy, clean this up. I knew he was talking to me, but I thought maybe if I ignored him he might find someone else to do it.

Yankee boy, what is your problem? I said clean this up. I turned, looked at the glass, then at