Crossing Paths

 I stood at the front of the class with a picture of a rickety yellow danfo displayed on my laptop that was perched on a desk to my right. I discussed how I had narrowly escaped being dragged across the road by one of these minibuses on my first meaningful trip back to Nigeria. You can read more about that experience here.  Anyway, I was tasked with giving a speech about a particular experience that shaped me. As I related my three-week Nigerian escapade and the lessons learned, the teacher was assessing my projection, stage presence, and organization. There was no podium, no anchor. I was required to work the stage and use all of the space provided. I think I scored some extra points since my professor happened to be Nigerian, even if she had a slight New York twang to her accent. She could probably identify with my experience in some way, having spent most of her life in the U.S.

*******

    The following semester, in a different class, I was sitting in a straight-backed chair in the cramped office that my professor shared with another faculty member in the Classics department.  Books were crammed into every shelf--books about Greek drama and rhetoric and Soyinka and Africa. I surveyed the scene as he narrated the story of how his sister had succeeded in smuggling Soyinka out of Nigeria by transporting him out of jail dressed as a woman, and putting him on an Okada. I could picture this fiery writer-activist disappearing into the darkness as red dust billowed behind the motorbike,some landing on his beard, as the tendrils of his second hand weave-on whipped in the night breeze and he made his swift getaway while the tails of the wrapper knotted around his chest dragged on the floor. I doubt that this story was true, but it was funny. Especially since office hours were usually meant for discussing the syllabus and mundane class assignments.

 As the semester wore on, we formed a connection. For one, he always nodded to my Nigerian-ness by making all sorts of jokes--subtle references to the rhetoric of Nigerian politicians (we were studying Greek orators and rhetorical techniques), such as that of Patrick Obahiagbon (A.K.A the grammarian), and 419 schemes. Of course, I always contained my laughter. My classmates never understood his jokes. 

This professor wore his culture on his sleeve, most notably on the day he strolled into the hot stuffy classroom wearing his black and white Ankara outfit when the African Student Association hosted Takeover Day. He casually asked me: "where is your own?" To which I replied, "I forgot it at home." It was true, and I wasn't going to hop on two subways to get an outfit. The most striking thing occurred when, in the middle of his heated lecture on craft vs. talent, he paused abruptly to greet one of his superiors in Yoruba. E kaasan Sir, he called out to the man, bending only slightly, as the professor passed by our classroom, since a full-blown nose-flat-on-the-ground prostration would have caused a distraction. Overall, I'm sure he also dashed me a few points at the end of the semester simply because of my background (at least, I'd like to think so) and the cultural exchanges added a splash of color to an otherwise boring class.

*****

 It is 2p.m on a sunny Thursday afternoon. I am sitting in the crowded examination hall. The only thing that cuts through the silence is the flipping of pages and the ticking of the wall clock. I walk to the proctor's desk to return my final exam packet. I expect to place it on his desk, grab my bag, and leave. Instead, he stops me on the way back to my seat. The proctor looks at my name again. 

"Esene...Mm.. Bodiaye?" I am slightly taken aback. For one, I was not expecting a second part to the Algebra exam I had just spent two hours mulling over, and two, most people assumed I was Igbo, if they guessed I was Nigerian at all.  I swiftly reply, Ofure, applying the correct accent for maximum authenticity. 

  I passed the test. He grins. "Ehen... I know my people na. Goodluck on the rest of your exams. Have a nice day." I smile. "Thank you." I say, before exiting.

  I must note that I could have pretended not to understand. I could have, in my Americanism, shrugged my shoulders as if to say "I'm sorry sir..but I don't have any idea what you are getting at."  That would have given him the impression that these American born Nigerians have broken most cultural ties and exist as products of assimilation. Luckily, he didn't forget that we were still in final exam mode and switch gears by attempting to have an extensive conversation with me which would have added to the awkwardness of the situation.  Yet, it was an interesting experience crossing paths with someone from my tribe. Especially since Esan people are generally a minority. Too bad he was not my Algebra professor and would have no part in grading the exam. He had no power to dash me a few extra points as an act of solidarity. Given my relationship with math, that would have been helpful.