Last July, I attended a ceremony in parliament where ten
black students were ranked according to their achievements
by a judging panel of four. To my delight and confusion, I
was pronounced number one. What followed was a rather
surreal hour of hand shaking, photograph taking and profuse
congratulation from all and sundry. Later that evening, my
friends and I went to the nearest Nandos to celebrate and
returned to normalcy amidst peri‑peri chicken and roasted
corn. Over the next few weeks, there was some press coverage
for the event, a nice article in the Guardian and some other
publications and then everyone moved on, until the next rising
stars were crowned. That was fantastic and that was that, I
thought to myself.
In October that year, I flew to Port Harcourt, Nigeria for the
Garden City Literary Festival. It was my first time in this major
city that has grown rich off the oil exploration in the region. The
festival was state sponsored, paid for by stable crude prices
and, as Nigerian literary festivals go, it was quite big. There
were journalists from all the large national newspapers; there
were cameras filming and there were audiences of young
Nigerians who were passionate and interested in books. In
attendance were Nobel Laureate Wole Soyinka, Veronique
Tadjo, Doreen Baingana and me, a.k.a ‘The Number One
Black Student in the U.K.’
The first time I was introduced as this, I smiled. What did it
really mean for a Nigerian to be the number one black student
in this far‑off United Kingdom, one time colonial master and
now number one shopping destination for the Nigerian élite?
Nigeria for the most part is racially homogenous. Black does
not exist as a category. The most common divisions are along
ethnic lines: Igbo, Yoruba, Hausa, Efik, Ibibio, Gwari, Kanuri
etcetera. Surely, my award would mean little in such a country.
During my six day stay in Port Harcourt, I would discover just
how wrong my supposition was.
This last one, I think, was from my assistant during the week,
a recent graduate jobseeker like me with big dreams. The
Rare Awards came up in the interviews I gave; many side
conversations I had; chance meetings in the restroom. Some
had not heard about the award until the Festival but this did not
make their excitement and congratulations any less effusive.
Nigerians feel battered by the international media. Terrorist
groups, internet scams, drug mules, prostitution: it is assumed
that this is all is known of our country overseas. Thus, any good
news for a compatriot abroad is good news for the nation. My
book, my Commonwealth Prize short listing, my Rare Rising
Stars Award, these were not individual successes. These were
for the group.
I’ve been back to Nigeria three times since last July and I still
get congratulated on my award. I doubt the organisers of the
Rare Rising Stars know it but they’ve given quite a few young
Nigerians that ephemeral feeling on the wings of which a half
Kenyan, half American man flew into the White House: hope.