THE ACCIDENT OF BIRTH

Before I had a name, I had a country.

Before I understood colour, the world had already named mine.

Before I knew God, someone had already taught me how to say His name.

Before I knew the difference between Muslim, Christian, African, European, Black, White, foreigner, native, I was simply a child.

Breathing.
Crying.
Sleeping.
Reaching for hands that loved me.

Nobody asked me which country I preferred.

Nobody placed a map before me and said, Choose your soil.

Nobody placed religions on a table and asked, Which one would you like?

Nobody asked, What colour would you like your skin to be?

Yet somehow, years later, the things I never chose became evidence people used to decide who I was.

Maybe we should be careful with the things we call identity.

Some of them began before we had a voice.

BEFORE I KNEW MY NAME

There was a time before my name meant anything.

Before my passport.
Before my accent.
Before anybody heard Nigeria in my voice.

Before anybody saw Blackness in my skin.

Before religion became a category.

I was just a child trying to understand the world.

A child does not look at another child and calculate history.

They don't ask, What tribe?
What country?
What religion?
What colour?

They ask, Will you play with me?
Can I have some of that?
Why is the sky blue?
Why does your mother call you that?

Children begin with curiosity.

Adults often teach them certainty.

Perhaps growing older should not mean learning whom to fear.

Perhaps adulthood should mean learning how to question what we were taught.