“Later in life I came to understand what it meant, separate to being ‘Black’ or ‘Black culture’ (if there is such a homogenous thing), to be associated with Nigeria in particular. It was always a Nigerian con artist claiming to be royalty to get you to wire him funds. It was the awkwardness of experiencing one of my bosses discussing Nigeria with an oil and gas client at work: ‘Oh God, not Nigeria – avoid that shithole if you can.’ Clearly not knowing I, sat there as a junior, taking a note of the meeting, was a Nigerian myself. I ground my teeth, gripped the pen tighter until its shape carved grooves into my palm, and said nothing. This person did not know me or my family. He did not know, and would never understand, the beauty of our cultural practices, the elegance of my grandfather’s house. What he knew – the chaos of a part of Lagos to which I had never been, the dusty outskirts of an oil production facility – they did not encompass my Nigeria. But I did not have the courage to try to explain it to him.”