Interstice
An Igby Prize essay on identity, belonging, social alienation, and the dilemma of cultural identification that plague third culture individuals by Namrata Singh
The last time I was in India, I vacillated between disgust and awe. In Mumbai and Delhi, people spit on the streets and even on you, albeit mistakenly. Delhi is a palimpsest of the times — old temples are juxtaposed with high-rise buildings, and multi-lane roads are punctuated with weather-beaten traders peddling everything from water to fake phone chargers. On one end is a panipuri¹ or moong ke pakode² trader, and though the seller never says the eaters should leave, everyone gobbles down the snack with the look of someone who has taken something a little too hot for the palate and now has to force it down with haste. On the other end, coffee shops, pizzerias, taquerias, banks, cinemas, and tall office buildings occupy the same street lane whose walls are covered with rust-coloured paan³ stains.
Homes are not impenetrable to the chaos and incessant noise of traffic that typifies Delhi. An afternoon nap is often interrupted by the screams of artisans announcing their services, the most frequent call being that of the cobbler, Moochi⁴, who elongates and enunciates every syllable in “Moochi” so that it bursts through dreams with the “Mooooooo-” and leaves one scrambling awake with the “-chiiiiiiii”. Living near a market can be particularly treacherous for aliens in India who, unaccustomed to the blaring horns, might find their brains imploding from a splitting headache.
But it was only after a few days that it dawned on me. I was in Lagos. Only this time, instead of Nigerians, there were Indians everywhere. Everything was reminiscent of Lagos, including the signs, roads, gutters, and bridges — even that horrid under-the-bridge stink. Yet differences abounded. I could go to the market and buy regular middle-class items without getting the usual “how can a whole oyibo⁵ like you buy these kinds of things?” It felt good to know that I wasn’t being cheated because traders thought that being oyibo meant I had lots of money to throw around. Having fair skin and long straight hair was my greatest bane in Nigeria. I could not walk the streets without being ambuscaded with catcalls. There always seemed to be loafers on the street, and no matter the paths I took to avoid them, there would always be someone tugging at me, touching me, telling me how “I was their colour”, and of course, the ubiquitous “oyibo” in Ibadan and Lagos, and “onye ocha⁶” in Enugu. In more civilised settings, my alienation was subtler and nuanced, but present, nonetheless. I saw the huddled looks and whispers when I walked by, I heard the wild tales about me, and I intimately understood what it meant to be trophy-hunted.
Over time, I was whittled into a hermit who avoided the outside like an agoraphobic. I learned to be austere, to walk in rapid steps, straight-backed with pursed lips and pulled back hair, eyes lowered, and ears plugged. But even that was not enough to fit in and I was called out for having airs. I got the message loud and clear. It didn’t matter that I was born in Nigeria. It didn’t matter that all my friends were Nigerians. Society reiterated over and over that I did not belong.
So, I left. I travelled back ‘home’.
In India, surrounded by people who look like me, I begun to experience the same psychic staring effect. Men would ogle and stare till it moved past uncomfortable into actual fear territory. In Nigeria, show a bit of skin and you’re guaranteed to get ogled, but in India, even if you wore a salwar kameez with long dupattas⁸, you would still get ogled. But at least, there were no catcalls. It was liberating to walk without my nemesis, oyibo. I could come out on my balcony and no eyes would drive me back into the confines of the house, at least, not for the same reason. It felt good to try on sandals from a shop that would have been considered below my ‘class’, yet traders heard the accent in my Hindi and elevated their prices accordingly. All my life I was focused on returning to this place that I thought I’d belong, but India rejected me like a bad organ transplant. And I rejected her too. I was wary of the people, the customs and cultures remained inscrutable, the practices utterly abhorrent, the food unpalatable, the air unbreathable, and the system impenetrable. I longed for yam and suya⁹ and steaming jollof rice¹⁰. I mourned when I discovered that my Igbo, falling into disuse, had begun to atrophy. I missed the clean still air of Enugu and the calls of okpa¹¹ sellers. And I missed my friends.
On my passport, I have the names of two countries that never wholly accepted me. But countries are not meant to accept, people are, and people did. Even though hordes of people alienated me, little groups from both nationalities opened their hearts to me, invited me into their lives, and held me as their own. I’ll always straddle this in-between place where belonging is an elusive dream, but maybe community isn’t.
- Panipuri — Indian street food of fried puff-pastry balls filled with spiced mashed potato, spiced water, and tamarind juice.
2. Moong ke pakode — Deep fried Indian snack made from a paste of small yellow lentils.
3. Paan — Betel leaf preparations, often containing tobacco, and used as a stimulant.
4. Moochi — Cobbler
5. Oyibo — (Yoruba) White person
6. Onye ocha — (Igbo) White person
7. Salwar Kameez — Traditional dress worn by women in South and Central Asia. Salwar: loose trousers, Kameez: long shirts or tunics.
8. Dupatta — Long scarf or shawl often worn with the salwar kameez.
9. Suya — West African street food of spicy skewered meat.
10. Jollof — One-pot rice dish made in West Africa.
11. Okpa — Eastern Nigerian dish made from Bambara bean.
Namrata Singh is a writer masquerading as a public health professional. She is an Indian, who was born in Nigeria and spent over two decades in Enugu, Ibadan, Lagos and Abuja. She has previously been published at Klorofyl. You can see more of her work here on Medium @3frenchens and follow her on Twitter @3frenchens.
