the failings of a surgically healed heart | a collection

5 | the failure of the immigrant dream

a concept.

i am seventeen years old,

months away from leaving home, for good

stood in front of a mirror:

staring back.

the two halves who made me, whole 

my parents.

//

the truth as it stands:

my mother and father who have been in this country 

as long as many years as i've been alive;

will be apart from me

for the very first time this year

as i abandon home for university

//

yet,

i have nothing to show for it

which is in many ways an admission;

i do not know the adults who raised me.

//

have me an unlearned language,

no first-hand knowledge of their motherland

and black hands unable to make okra soup.

//

i am an imposter of an immigrant child.

my very existence cultural appropriation

//

after all, my parents have been here

as long as me and yet so much of themselves 

belong to the land of their genesis.

a land i have no interest in visiting despite 

how much of their souls reside there

//

this is the dilemma of a second generation immigrant child,

what separates them from their first generation immigrant parents

//

i feel this pull of roots

to the country my parents conceived me,

but at heart i am westernised,

off to study "english" 

of all things.

//

love me british comedians and  inappropriate jokes, 

fish and chips and mushy peas

//

but also,

at times, wonder if as i child i dreamed in the language

i grew up with

know i don't 'dream' at all anymore

//

translation;

this country will make a cynic of an immigrants child,

ask you to trade in your authentic nigerian accent

for a stereotype

tell your mum to call school

and ask them to refer to you by your christian name

(instead of your igbo one)

wonder if every time a boy rejects you

it's because you are crafted from foreign soil

//

first generation immigrants are (american) dreamers,

think the west to be land of prosperity and opportunity,

meanwhile, second generation immigrants,

that includes myself, disconnected

from our culture; and hence our parents,

are realists and uncle tom's

know, there is no such thing as a "melting pot,"

there are only citizens and aliens

//

and still, there are times,

i yearn to be a dreamer once more, 

to be able pass on my starry eyed gaze

to my kids if i have them,

to know my parents better.

most especially my mama, whom i love more than i can breathe

//

but i must be honest:

it is unlikely i will ever visit nigeria. 

for she and i share nothing in common --

other than my parents

//

but in the event i do, the dream is this:

to return to the places my parents grew up:

my father's village; my mother's city

learn how to make:
okra,
egusi,
and pepper soup, 

relearn parts of the language i forgot, 

meet the few uncles and aunts of mine who

didn't move to america or britain to become doctors, or laywers, or engineers

...or dissapointments.

and at the end of this pilgrimage to

my parents homeland.

//

feel at last,

this place,

is also my own.

- and what a lovely dream that would be