Being African

Imagine the scene: Snuffy is 19, wearing platform chunky wooden heels, torn jean shorts and a tank top, wandering around university with Foucault under her arm. K, a Nigerian who goes to the local poly, asks me to lunch. I accept. I'm from a modest background and am therefore stunned when K tells me stories of crashing Porsches and his dad writing cheques to cover his back. I can't understand it. In the middle of dessert, I'm starting to get a little bored of this rich boy and decide I have to find a way to liven things up a bit.

'Let's go for a walk in the park,' I say, perkily.

K rolls his eyes. 'Can't we take a cab?'

'No, K. That's the whole point. We're meant to go for a walk so that we can smell the flowers and look at the trees.'

K screws up his face, not really understanding, and follows Snuffy to the park begrudgingly.

The following weekend, Snuffy and K are at a party. K tells me about how black people in Britain tend to think that he isn't black.

'You're not black? What do you mean?' I frown.

'Well, you know, because I have a posh voice and lots of money and I don't listen to rap. That means I'm not African.' K laughs. 'And then they say that THEY are more African than I am.'

'More African?'

How can one be more African than someone else? In any case, aren't there white Africans?

We approach two black guys who he knows and they behave exactly as K predicted. While their origins are from the Caribbean, leaping about, they talk of the 'motherland'.

'Yeah man, you know, man, we're all African, man. We're African, far more than you are, man.'

K winces. I smile. K looks at them like they are little insects buzzing in his ear. 'What do you mean to say that I'm not African? I was born in Lagos, Nigeria. I was brought up there. I speak my own language in addition to English. I am very familiar with my religion. I have my entire family, current, and those long gone who live and lived in Nigeria. And as you know, Nigeria is IN Africa.' K smiles in a condescending way. 'What of you, then? What are YOUR connections with AFRICA?'

I look to the guys, grinning slightly, waiting for their response.

They continue to jitter, throwing their arms around as if they are in an MTV video. 'Well, you know what I mean, man. You know what I mean. We is African! Just like you man! Just like you! We is African, brother!'

I note how they've now accepted that K must be African. I wonder whether this will be the end of the conversation. But K isn't letting go.

K draws his eyebrows together. 'You are from AFRICA? Really? I find that hard to believe.' K's posh voice vibrates in the room. He laughs. 'What part of Africa are you from, then?'

The guys leap about even more. One taps his the front of his cap in such a way to demonstrate that we are all part of the 'brotherhood'. 'K man! K! You know what we are saying man! We are AFRICAN! Get me? Get me? Yeah man! You get me?'

K shakes his head. 'No, I don't get you. I'll tell you what...' K takes a step back and holds out his index finger. 'Let's take Africa, and I'll draw a line right down the middle.' He draws his finger through the air. 'There. Now tell me, are you from the WEST side, or from the EAST side...?'

I have to stop myself from doubling over in laughter. The poor guys couldn't give a coherent answer. And even though K was a barrel of laughs, that would be the last time I would see him. Well, that is, until a few years ago, when I ran into K in a street in London.

'Are they still telling you that you're not black?' I ask.

'Yes, of course they are.' K winks at me. 'Any chance of another lunch?'

I shake my head. 'Hey, I'm a teacher now. I don't have time for little luxuries like lunch...' And off I run in the cold, thinking about my kids, how there is no doubt about their blackness, and thinking about how funny that story is, even now.