I stared at both passports as they lay on my bed. Blue and a dark green, both were home, both had raised me, both had hurt me to some degree, none were perfect. I had to pick one , and I had to be ashamed of the other. I picked up my Nigerian passport and grazed my finger over the edge…
This piece reminded me a bit of what I am battling with right now. I am not ashamed to love both. Being back in Nigeria right now, I’m pressured every day to remain here. People say it is my duty to Nigeria, to my father, that this is home. And I just think, “But, but … the U.S is my home too.” It’s odd. I get stared at so much here in Nigeria, my birthright gets questioned everyday, “Are you Nigerian?, You’re Igbo??? What are you mixed with? Of course you’re mixed with something, Where are you from? You have actually lived in Nigeria??”
I am home again, but I hate the questioning eyes because I am mixed. Don’t get me wrong, after all the questions, there is always, always acceptance. I just don’t like being in my own house and having someone ask if I live there. I am more accepted in the U.S, there are a lot less questions, but I always feel so out of place. And both places, I call home. Gah! I still have a lot to work out.
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- dreamsinvadingreality said: Very well said. Thank you!
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- yagazieemezi said: Yes. Yes. Yes. Everything I have been looking for to explain … well, THIS.
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