With the popularity of Black Panther, The Lion King and afrobeats, the African culture is on fire right now. I love that African-Americans are embracing their roots, but where was this energy when I was growing up?

My mom stayed wearing tradition clothes. We were met with stares and people looking confused at her colorful “dashiki.” By the way, please research what a dashiki is. It is not a generic term for anyone wearing clothing that came from Africa.

My dad always had a deep Nigerian voice. The only reference they had to another African voice was Mufasa the lion or James Earl Jones in Coming to America. (Slight confession: I’ve watched bits and pieces of that movie, but I haven’t seen the whole thing. Come at me, bro!)

And while people were pronouncing Swarovski and Nowitzki with no issues, a two-syllable Nigerian name would end up being butchered.

African kids knew the struggle. We had to interrupt new teachers every time they got to our name on the attendance roll to correct a mistake we knew would happen.

“Rebecca O…O…Okeeks?”

“It’s Okeke (Oh-keh-keh)…just like it looks.”

“Okay. And John B….”

“It’s Babatunde.”

“Wow! You kids are giving my tongue quite the workout today!”

And don’t forget the name-calling. Everything associated with Africa was so bush. People would make click sounds, pretend to spit pellets out of a straw, and called us African booty scratchers. (As if no other people have ever in history scratched an itch on their backside.) Where did that term come from anyways?

The perception of Africans was grossly skewed based on those Feed the Children ads on television, and I would get asked the most ignorant things when people found out I was Nigerian.

“Do you have lions as pets?” Nope. I had a chimp, wise guy.

“Were you shocked to see running water here?” Never mind the fact that I was born in the U.S.

“Do you speak African?” That’s not a language. And while we’re at it, Africa is not a country.

Fast forward a few years to a film about a fictional nation in Africa, and then everyone suddenly was connected to the Motherland. Wakanda forever! 🙅🏾‍♀️

The cost of African clothing skyrocketed. Participation in African dance classes increased. People finally wanted to know where they came from.

“Guess what, Hope? I did an ancestry test and found out that I’m 3 percent Nigerian, so we’re basically cousins!”

I’m glad that Africa is finally being embraced. It’s about time. I knew it was hot—figuratively and literally.

It’s just ironic thinking about the extreme things African kids years ago would have to do to assimilate to the American culture and fit in.

For example, there was this one kid in high school who would rush to answer his home phone when his friends called because he didn’t want any one to hear his parent’s accent. One time when his mom did answer, he told the caller that his mom was actually the Jamaican maid. (Because Caribbean/reggae-style things were seen as way cooler at the time.)

I know of other kids who would water down their name so much to sound more American. Names like “Onyeka” (pronounced oin-YEH-kah) would be said as “Oh-neeka”—Neeka for short.

By the time I was in college, there were organizations like the African Student Organization (ASO), so that helped things a bit. I still kind of felt on the outside, though.

It was like being in a culture of your own—a true African-American, except the Americans don’t get your culture, and the Africans think you’re whitewashed. 🤷🏾‍♀️

So here’s to the second-generation Africans who had a fully American experience in society with a fully African experience inside the home. It took a while for our African culture to get the recognition it deserves, but we made it! 🙌🏾

How long that will last and what that means for our next generation is yet to be determined. Can’t wait to discuss this further with you all in this week’s podcast… Igbo Kwenu! ✊🏾