Class-ic Racism

As most people know, I have an insatiable interest in university life and the academic aura that surrounds it. Feeding this addiction of sorts, I decided to visit the University of California, Berkeley to attend some classes (incognito, of course) before leaving for Lagos. As it would happen, the grad school course I attended was open forum with no professor to mediate, and one of the students had visited Nigeria on several occasions. This student told me something I have contemplated since we arrived: "When you move to Nigeria, you will notice you are white."

What I believe this African-American student meant by her statement is never before have I noticed my race. It has never affected where I go, what I do, or how I do it. In some ways, being white in the United States is the default, the status quo. Opportunities are open to me without hesitation, while the same opportunities may be denied to others simply on the basis of race.

But after living in Nigeria for almost 4 months, I've come to realize that the student at Berkeley was wrong. In Nigeria it is not my race that I notice most...it is my class. Sure, there are small things that make me conscious of my skin color: being called oyibo (which technically means "foreigner" not "white person") or feeling an implicit obligation to say hello when I see another white person walking down the street. But racial identification here seems less essential, less philosophical, and more of a peripheral difference than back home.

On the other hand, it is easy to see and feel the economic divide just walking through my own neighborhood appropriately tagged the "Beverly Hills of Lagos." There are those who build houses and those who live in houses. Those who open gates and those who enter gates. Those who guard homes and those who reside in homes. There is little to no social interaction between these two classes of people, and a person's dress, speech, or pragmatics often reveals to which class they belong.

This "classism" of sorts became poignantly apparent while purchasing plane tickets for our recent vacation to Cape Town. My friend Eko, who also happens to be a driver, took me to the local South African Airlines office to finalize our trip itinerary. After realizing I would have to wait for a bit, I went outside to see if Eko wanted to wait inside with me. Not seeing him right away, the receptionist asked if I was looking for my driver and pointed to a small building in the parking lot. As it turned out, there was a separate place for drivers to wait. In contrast to the comfy couches and airconditioned building where you buy tickets, this building was small, unairconditioned, and furnished with old metal chairs topped by cracked leather cushions. Here, the way you are treated and the opportunities you are afforded seems to be a direct function of your class.

It is thought that art imitates life (and vice versa). I recently saw a performance of "The Divorce" by Nigerian playwright Wale Ogunyemi. Set inside a couple's middle- to upper-class home, the play centers around a Nigerian couple struggling to come to terms with a failing marriage. During the course of the play, the steward was yelled at, ignored, accused, and disregarded as customary interaction with his "master" and "madame." Aside from being a comic relief character, the steward embodies the divide seen all too often in upper-lower class interactions here in Nigeria..

So when I walk through my neighborhood, interacting with those I meet, it is not my oyibo skin that I notice most. It is my earning potential, my education, and the other class-ic advantages my white skin has come to signify.