The Dilemma of an African Father

By Sam Iwu

An African man takes two steps forward toward the European man's ways of life with the hope and desire to better his African life; he suddenly finds himself four steps backward from where he started.

The Dilemma of an African Father is a story of the universal experience of African immigrants in the Western world with a particular

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arinze the book
• Release date: Dec 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986004631

Sam Iwu

Sam Iwu was born and raised in the village of Umuokrika in Ahiazu Local Government in the Eastern part of Nigeria, where he attended primary and secondary education. For four years after secondary education, he worked for Union Bank of Nigeria PLC before traveling to the United States of America for further studies. He obtained a Bachelor of Science degree from Rowan University in New Jersey. Sam Iwu is also the author of a fictional story, Arinze: An African Man's Marriage Lessons in America. Any questions or comments for the author and his work can be directed to his email [e-mail].

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PREFACE

When I began to write this book in 1992 in a taxi line in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, it was to keep my mind and soul out of the total resignation, frustration, and hopelessness in my life at the time. It started with documenting the bleakness of my daily activities. I felt lost in all directions.

I had left my job as a banker in Nigeria eleven years back and headed to America anticipating that I would acquire higher education, which was the primary reason for coming to America, and then return to Nigeria and find my place in society.

Instead, I found myself stuck in the United States of America.

I became like a man who embarked on a journey and lost his bearing, but knew that returning to his take-off point would be disastrous having bet all on the trip, and going forward was futile.

It was like wandering aimlessly in an endless darkness. I had abandoned my quest for education, or may I say, education had abandoned me. There was no family to call my own, and no assets to show for the years spent in host country America.

I was at a crossroads.

Historically, to be a Black man in America is to be at the bottom of society’s ladder. To be Black and African could be a double jeopardy.

This book is meant to provide helpful navigation tools for young men and women who may find themselves in America in circumstances similar to mine.

My goal is not to debunk the fact that America is a land of opportunity. It is to explain that life is easier in this country if you are White. Africans have made it here, but it is a stiff climb for many.

When your relation who left for that glorious land many years ago does not come home for his mother’s burial, it is likely to be because things have not been as rosy for him as billed.

CHAPTER 1

THE DILEMMA OF AN

AFRICAN FATHER

My burning desire for higher education, which had proved elusive since my graduation from secondary school, was finally realized when I gained admission into an American college.

My family and I firmly believed that after obtaining the golden fleece, I would return to Nigeria with the keys to a heavenly existence on earth forever.

Days preceding my travel, the mood in my family was of excitement and expectation, mixed with anxiety. The unease was my imagination running riot about what awaited me in America, the richest nation on earth; God’s own country.

America, a nation by a mere mention of her, one became mesmerized and passionately excited.

My mind and that of my family were focused solely on what gains my travel would bring. We never for once contemplated losses, if any; the mission would toss our way. It was not necessary to imagine that going to America would incur any cost.

Decades have come and gone since my departure.

My life in America, which has taken twists and turns, is here presented to you, the reader. I feel impelled to tell my story and the impact America has had on me. I want to take stock of those dreams my family and I harbored that brought me here in the first place, and what I have made of them so far.

But so far, I am left scratching my head, weighing and questioning what it is worth.

In hindsight, I wonder if history hasn’t repeated itself when I compare and contrast my experiences with those of my father who traveled the same road fifty years before me, a journey he took with White European missionaries and colonial masters in his youth.

Looking back, I see what he lost and what he gained. What his own father gained and lost by him embracing the White man’s ways as he tossed away his African ways.

Yes, at this time as I write this book, I see what my father has lost by my leaving Nigeria and sojourning in America. Also, I have seen what I myself have gained and lost as an African man residing in America. All these losses and minimal gains for the African man, poses a dilemma, as you will discover as you read on.

CHAPTER 2

THE AMERICAN VISA

I walked out of the American embassy in Lagos in the summer of 1981 with a visa to the United States to further my education which had stalled for three years after secondary school. The exhilaration and excitement, not to mention the hope this brought, was overwhelming.

My desperate quest for a higher institution of learning was fulfilled at last. This was the dream of many youths of my generation who graduated in large numbers from secondary school each academic year seeking admission into Nigeria’s saturated campuses of higher education.

The only route to accomplish this desire was to scale the hurdles of the Joint Admissions and Matriculation Board (JAMB) that administered the complicated transition from secondary school to university life.

Many parents and their wards alike developed high blood pressure each year JAMB released the results of fortunate students accepted into the universities.

In many cases, those not accepted, who were more in number, would not even be accorded the simple respect of receiving the obituary letter of rejection as we referred to it.

Higher education was vital in gaining good employment in government establishments and in businesses springing up all over Nigeria from the 1970s.

Good education was also a certificate to social recognition and its accompanying good life.

If one’s certificate came from one of the universities in Nigeria such as Nsukka, Ile-Ife, Lagos, Kano, or Ibadan, it was regarded as the best from Nigeria.

If one’s certificate came from the West, especially from the United Kingdom or the U.S., one could outscore his Nigerian counterparts.

Nigerians viewed Western-educated citizens the same way Americans view imported cars—durable, reliable, classy.

A few days before I handed in my resignation letter at the bank where I had worked for three years while waiting to gain admission into university, I traveled to Lagos for a week and stayed at an uncle’s home on Victoria Island.

There, I met George, an old friend and primary schoolmate from my village. He worked for the Nigerian Postal Service in Kaduna and was in Lagos spending part of his annual leave at the home of my uncle who also happened to be his uncle.

I was happy when George accepted to accompany me to the American embassy for my visa interview. He offered me the moral support I most needed.

We stayed up late the night before my visit to the embassy rehearsing the dos and don’ts, based on the tales out there on the street of why the American embassy could refuse one’s visa application even when one’s documents were in order.

There were so many frightening stories of those who had gone to the embassy and returned empty-handed. George reminded me over and over that dressing was very important to the Americans.

Based on our all-night discussion, I chose an impeccably ironed white Van Heusen shirt. Lines left by the iron both in the front and back of my black trousers were as artistically straight as they could be. My black Italian shoes were polished and black socks worn to impress.

Another thing we discussed was that before entering the embassy compound, one was never to be seen nervous. Many, George said, had been refused visa because their nervousness was construed as having forged documents in their possession.

He warned that the embassy was getting strict because many Nigerians had been able to pass through their scrutiny with fake documents.

The Queen’s English must be used at all times within the confines of the embassy. Any slang word or broken English is taboo and should be avoided at all costs, he also warned.

WAS I HEARING THINGS?

When morning arrived, we set out for the embassy. At the gate, George was not allowed to enter, so he handed me the big brown envelope that contained my documents, which he had been carrying along as if he was the one applying for visa.

At the gate, the guard asked me to put my papers on the counter and raise my hands up. He ran a metal bar over my body. I held my breath. I was totally unprepared for this.

I thought he was measuring my heart rate. This created more tension in me and almost destabilized me. It became a source of laughter when I later realized that the instrument was nothing other than a metal detector. He waved me through into the embassy compound.

In the waiting hall, I filled out the forms and handed in my documents. I was asked to sit down and wait for my name to be called. It was the longest wait I had ever had. It felt like a day of waiting for a verdict in a court. The longer I waited, the greater the tension I felt.

A streak of cold sweat suddenly broke out on my forehead. I glanced around to see if anyone was watching. To take the pressure off, I opened the Daily Times newspaper George bought from a vendor on our way down here. But it did not help. My hands began to tremble feverishly.

I wanted to get up and pace around, but I remembered that this was not part of my rehearsal with George last night, and if I paced, how would the officials interpret it? So, I pulled myself together. This mussing took about twenty-five to thirty minutes, and then, suddenly, I heard my name called at the far-left end of the booths.

Was I hearing things?

I heard the female voice call out my name again.

I drifted out of my daze and walked toward the window where the call was coming from, still trembling.

Yes? I said, almost choking.

Have a nice stay in the United States.

She handed me my passport and an envelope addressed to the school.

My mouth was completely dry. Looking at her face while she handed me the passport, I noticed that she was smiling, and her smile seemed genuine.

Was she wishing me good, a nice stay in the United States? She was as Black as I am, but her accent and the way she spoke sounded nothing like mine or any of the girls I knew.

She must be a Black American.

Ha ba!

Is this happening in Nigeria?

A visa, a smile, and a good wish. That was more than I had applied for.

In Nigeria, it is quite unusual for a civil servant to be nice to a fellow citizen, despite paying gratification for a service, for which the government also pays salary to the official.

Is this polite treatment what to expect over there in America? This act alone began to butter my already toasted mindset on the U.S.

Outside the embassy gate, I joined George, who noticed the joy dripping and warming my sweaty cheeks as I walked out the gate. He hugged me, and burst into a cry of joy as we tagged along the marina, walking and talking about our dreams for tomorrow, about our families, and for our nation.

George’s future plan was to be in aviation. He wanted to be a pilot and was already enrolled in the Nigerian Military Aviation School in Kaduna, waiting for the time to commence training.

At this time, for Nigerian youths, many things were quite possible—if one had a godfather or a father who had resources and connections in high places, one could aim at the skies. And that was where our minds were pointing to, up in the skies.

We walked and wandered so as to have time to talk and savor the joy of the day.

When we began to get tired, we hailed a taxi and headed back to my uncle’s residence on Victoria Island. George was exhausted. But the visa gave me a shot of fresh energy and I could not contain my excitement and my triumph.

I thought of heading home immediately to break the news to my family. Road was the main means of travel. It was 1:00 p.m. and I told George that if I could catch a Peugeot 504 sedan taxi, I would get to the East before 9:00 p.m. He vehemently objected, telling me it was quite unsafe.

Besides, he argued, my uncle was still at work, and if he came home and heard that I got my visa and left for the East without seeing him, it would be construed as rude and disrespectful. I agreed with him, and that doused my excitement. I was grateful to George for bringing me to my senses.

A RARE BREED

My uncle arrived home at about 7:00 p.m. and exactly one hour later, he sent for me through one of his servants, who led me into an expansive dining area where he sat at dinner. Part of the dining table was crowded with Nigerian daily newspapers and some foreign magazines.

My uncle was a big man and was politically well connected. He was American educated and a rare breed. He was the first person in my entire village to go to the White man’s land to study. This was long before I was born.

It was said that he was so brilliant that the White priest, who was his teacher, told his father—my maternal uncle—to do all he could to enable his son to realize all his potential. His father told the priest that since teaching was the main employment for most educated people in our village, he did not envision anything different.

Graduating from high school, my uncle was among those on top of his peers in the entire Eastern Region. The White priest returned to his father demanding he be sent to Great Britain or America to harness his potential.

My uncle’s father took the matter to the entire village where the elders agreed that it would be a disgrace and defeat if the village should miss this kind of opportunity. An order was given that all cash crops, especially palm fruits, would for one year be communal property.

Men and women rallied and raised the money for him to sail to Penn State University in Pennsylvania in the United States. After his undergraduate and graduate studies, he headed to Ivy league Harvard and majored in economics.

He returned to Nigeria in 1959 with a doctorate degree in economics. Nigeria was then thirsty for educated men and women as it prepared for independence from Britain the following year, 1960.

The day he returned to our village after the long years of study overseas, the entire town and village declared a two-day holiday. Throngs of spectators lined the dusty road leading to the market square with fresh palm leaves in jubilation in the hot sun to catch a glimpse of him or even touch him.

Abigbo Men’s Cultural Dance Group, Agbachia Ekurunwa Women’s Dance Group, Atilokwu Nmawu, and all sorts of other dance groups waited at the village square to welcome home a native son who associated and dined with the White man.

It was, indeed, a glorious day for the people of Umuokrika village.

He was still eating when I entered the dining room. He waved me to a chair across from him.

I understand that you got your visa to go abroad today . . . he said.

Yes, sir.

I know my sister Anna will be happy to hear the news.

Yes, sir.

He became silent.

In our society, it is not appropriate for a lad to speak unsolicited when in conversation with an older or important person. By itself, such person’s silence speaks volume.

Then he cleared his throat and continued . . .

"When you get to the United States, you must mind your studies above everything else. The quest for education, you know, is to better oneself and our poor families and community.

"You have to return home as soon as you finish your education to the level that you are able.

If it is within my power or if it is left for me to say, I would have suggested you remain in Nigeria to get your education, because overexposure in America is unhealthy for an African young man.

Overexposure?

What is he talking about? I wondered.

Frankly, I had no clue, and I did not ask.

After all, he was in America for many years and obtained his education. His position in Nigeria and in our community was mountainous. I could not see any visible adverse effect his long exposure in America had on him; all I saw was nothing but glory and affluence.

He made a lengthy speech, much of which was lost on me because my mind was roaming with a whole lot of thoughts about my good fortune. After the advice, he handed me fifty naira for my transport fare back to the village. I thanked him and promised to follow his footsteps in the U.S.A.

I took the first Ekene Dili Chukwu luxury bus out of Lagos early the next morning to Onitsha. George was there to see me off. Though he promised to come back to the East in two weeks’ time for my sendoff party, he hugged and held me so tight like a sort of final goodbye.

As the bus taxied out of the motor park, I saw George out of my window seat waving frantically, his young smooth face creaming with tears. I leaned back on my seat and looked away, avoiding further eye contact with him.

It took more than 12 hours to cover a journey of 250 miles (400 kilometers). The bus did not make frequent stops but had to slow down or even come to a complete halt to swerve to avoid numerous potholes filled with muddy water throughout the journey.

FULL OF THOUGHTS

Throughout the twelve hours, I was preoccupied picturing in my mind how my mother would comport herself upon hearing the news.

She would fling away whatever she had in hand or was doing, and stretch her hands upward to God in heaven. Then she would stand up from her chair, retie her wrapper, and burst into songs and dance.

Her yell and outbursts would attract the attention of all the other neighborhood women, young and old alike, who, without asking what the joyful song was about, would hasten to the direction of the song to share