The Tea Party

At the tea party, they ask me who I am.

I blink a little bit lost, who do I tell them I am?

Do I tell them I’m Nigerian? Nigerian and South African? 

But what if they ask me to speak my language? I only know English.

What’s my South African tribe? I couldn’t even tell you the city my dad is from.

But then again, I could speak pidgin to you, how body?(how are you?).

I could also tell you that my South African tribe doesn’t click, so no I’m not Xhosa.

Filled with fear, I run away into the garden and now I’m lost walking aimlessly.

I fall into a hole, my body and mind spiraling:

I wonder if I could claim a connection to an experience I’ve never had,

Would they accept me? Am I worthy to be accepted?

I keep on dropping until I freeze in the air.

Stuck midair, a mirror appears in front of me, and I see my reflection

In the reflection, I see a girl with eyes that crinkles into a slit when she smiles just like her father 

A face the same length and width, a carbon copy of her mother.

In front of me is a girl, a combination of two cultures, different but both hers.

I realize I’m everything given to me:

Nigerian from the blood of my mother, South African from the blood of my father.

No longer falling, I drop onto the ground, and I walk out of the door in front of me.

There they are at the table, awaiting my answer.

And so I answer them: 

“I am not one thing, I am much more. I am the combination of two cultures; I am Nigerian and I am South African and everything my experiences have made me and I am proud.” 

They clap, smile and I take a seat,

At the table where I had nothing to prove but to be me.