Ties That Tether

by Jane Igharo

To God, for every narrow, crooked road you straightened to bring me here.

Canadian. It’s a title that is both empowering and demanding as it requires me to give up portions of my Nigerian culture so I can fit into my Western setting. And I’ve been doing that for years—compromising, losing bits and pieces of my original identity in an attempt to reinvent myself. However, the one thing I can’t compromise on is the ethnicity of my future husband.

Despite thirteen years in Canada, her Nigerian accent is still thick. Sometimes, it’s like her accent is calling out to mine, saying: “Hey, authentic Nigerian Azere, come out and play.” And that’s when the accent, the one I tried hard to hide after my move to Canada, forces its way out. This happens whenever I’m at home with my family, when I don’t feel the complete pressure of being wedged between two worlds, when I’m not a Nigerian Canadian. When I’m just Nigerian. Then I speak freely, mixing pidgin English with Edo or simply speaking fluent English but with a Nigerian intonation, altering the rhythm of each word.

“My parents are the hardest-working people I know,” Rafael says. “I think it’s an immigrant thing—the pressure to succeed as the other in their new home coupled with the fear of disappointing their family back at home.”

Immigrants chase success differently because we have something to prove to the people we left behind and the people who note our differences—our accent, our appearance, our religion, our culture—every day. The fact that Rafael understands this makes me gain a new appreciation for him.

“Whenever I tell people I grew up in a village in Africa, they imagine mud huts and a safari in my backyard. They imagine a society stricken with poverty and disease and incomprehensible people.” I roll my eyes. “The truth is, my village was far from being a metropolis. Sure, it was quiet, rural, and simple. But our ancient customs and the simplicity of our lifestyle didn’t make us uncivilized. We were a community of teachers and doctors and farmers and vivacious marketwomen whose sharp wits and quick tongues could easily rival many university graduates. My mother was one of those women.” Rafael’s blue eyes seem to urge me to continue. “And yes, we lacked a few things the Western world couldn’t do without, but that still didn’t make us uncivilized. We had streams and water wells instead of running faucets.

It’s the perfect opportunity to tell him the truth, but once I do, there will be no going back. My already chaotic world will blow up in shards. There will be nothing left—no version of normalcy to hold on to, no possibility of a happily ever after to hope for. There will be nothing left to salvage. And I don’t think I’m ready for that.

His hold tightens, and we lay in the dark, fostering a connection so deep, it’s as if a needle and thread are stitching our hearts together.

In my complex story, there isn’t a sentimental speech. There’s just a man grooming my mother’s lawn. It’s a simple act—understated in every sense, and yet, I am floored. This man labored in the smothering heat so I would be spared any discomfort. Someone watching might not understand the significance of this gesture or see how grand it truly is. I, though, see it clearly.

For six months after his death, she wore these clothes—put them on every day like they were her uniform. We weren’t permitted to laugh briefly or live momentarily without the reminder of our loss. Even as we prepared to leave Nigeria, she packed variations of black clothes in her suitcase because it was what our tradition demanded of a widow—to never forget, to honor her husband in the most tragic form, to wear her misery like it was her sole identity.

“When your uncle said he would bring us to Canada, your father was happy. He could die peacefully, knowing we would be taken care of. But even so, he was scared.” Finally, she turns around. “Your father was an intelligent man. He knew Canada was a world apart from ours. He was scared you and your sister would become so integrated in its ways, you would forget our ways. “He was scared our culture and heritage would become diluted and you would lose yourself. And maybe in a sense, lose him. That was why he asked you to make that promise. A promise you have broken.”

hear it.” She never did understand or care to understand what it was like for Efe and me to move to Canada. Efe was ten. I was twelve. In Nigeria, I had already established a clear understanding of who I was. There was never any question or doubt until I moved to Canada. When I first entered my sixth-grade class, at a school where the majority were Caucasians, the difference between myself and my peers became apparent. There was a clear definition of normal, and I didn’t fit it. The kids wore T-shirts, jeans, and sneakers. I wore my favorite dashiki dress and brown strappy sandals. The kids spoke fast; their Canadian accent and slang made me feel inferior. At lunch, they ate sandwiches cut in neat triangles. My lunch of yam pottage made eyebrows raise and noses scrunch. The kids were cruel. And the only way to stop their cruelty was to conform. It was a survival mechanism—alter the way I speak, so I don’t stand out; ask for a turkey sandwich for lunch, so the smell of Nigerian food doesn’t attract attention and notify people of my difference; wear Levi’s jeans and an American Apparel T-shirt, so I fit in with the group of girls who are finally starting to like me. My mother didn’t understand the struggle of trying to reconcile my heritage with my new environment at such a young age. She didn’t understand I had to survive middle school and high school, not as a Nigerian but as a Canadian. To her, I compromised and lost parts of my identity. To myself, I made room in my life...

“You choose him.” She lifts her chin and looks down at me. The disdain in her dark eyes is so vile, she almost doesn’t look like my mother. “You imagine a future with him. Okay. Fine. But ask yourself this: How much more of yourself, of your culture will you lose to accommodate him in your life?”

It’s here again—that feeling, the one that tingles my insides and makes me less aware of everything else and utterly enthralled by him. Will it ever go away? Will time eventually dilute it, make it less potent? I’m scared of what will happen then. Will I still stand by my choice when the sweetest phase of our relationship—the newness and awe—becomes dulled by routine and the consequences of choosing him are no longer possible to ignore? And in that case, will I still consider him the right choice or a mistake? It’s a lot to consider—too much to consider right now, so I don’t.

“Do you want to hear my theory?” I watch her intently as if trying to navigate the blueprint of her mind. “I think you only want to be with Elijah because of your parents.” The two people she’s been conditioned to obey. “Azere, for years, you’ve been restricted by them—dictated to by one and haunted by the other. You’ve put their desires ahead of yours. If you keep living like that, you’ll never be happy. You’ll be miserable. All your life.”

“We’ve been together for years. It’s only normal we learn about each other’s culture—I take on some of his, and he takes on some of mine. Doing that doesn’t mean he’s any less of an Italian and I’m any less of a Nigerian. It just means our world expanded, became richer.” Perhaps that was Rafael’s intention, and I was too scared and naive to envision it. “I was excited to learn about Frank’s culture because I loved him. Azere, do you love Rafael?” My lips are sealed, confining the answer like it’s the content in Pandora’s box. “You’re scared to admit how you feel because the consequences are grave—be with him, lose your mom. I get it. But if you really love him, you shouldn’t let anything get in the way. Especially your mother’s voice.”

“Azere, your father has been dead for thirteen years. I mourned him. I respected his memory and took care of his children.” Tears fill her red eyes. “Until your uncle, I refrained from having a relationship with any man. Zere, I have done everything I can, but he is dead. Your father is dead, and I am alive. I cannot live my life for him.” “But you’ve made me live mine for him.” And this is it—the life-altering moment of realization. For years, I clung to something that didn’t exist—a phantom made of blood, flesh, and bones. My father, dead, was very much alive in my head. The strong, resourceful farmer who cultivated lands and used its harvest to provide for his family. The proud Edo man who passed on stories of his ancestors and hundreds of years’ worth of tradition to his children. The patriarch who, on his deathbed, bound his eldest daughter to a promise that gave him ease but imprisoned her. For years, that man lived in my head. I struggled to obey him, to please him—to please a man who was long gone, a man unable to speak, a man not entitled to opinion. I lived for him. And now, the realization dawns. “Baba is dead, and I am alive.” I nod at this simple logic that has somehow evaded me for thirteen years. “He was a good father with good intentions, but he is dead. And for thirteen years, I’ve been obeying a dead man, striving to keep a promise I ignorantly made. And you have been holding that promise over my head.”

“When we were growing up, Efe was stubborn. She never obeyed instructions. I was determined to be better, to be an example for her, to make you and Baba proud by any means. “So I was obedient—a good daughter. But you took advantage of my willing compliance. You governed parts of my life you had no right over. And I foolishly allowed you because I didn’t know how to be anything else but the obedient daughter.” “Azere,” she says. “You are a good daughter.” “Of course. But only when I do what you want. Right? I’m a good daughter only when you can control me.”

“Ending your relationship with him was for the best. You cannot be with him. I cannot allow it. Don’t you see that being with a man who isn’t Nigerian threatens our culture—puts it at risk of being diluted? Azere, don’t you see that?” “You know, if you wanted me to marry a Nigerian, you should have left me in Nigeria. I mean, the odds of marrying a Nigerian in Nigeria are incredibly high. And if this country is such a threat to our culture, you shouldn’t have brought me here. But you did. “You brought me to a country that has a culture of its own, a country that’s also home to people from all around the world, and you’ve expected me to ignore these facts for years.” I groan and ruffle my hair. “Do you have any idea how crazy that is?”

“Rafael was meant to enter my life. He was meant to interrupt it—to disrupt the plans I had made because if he hadn’t, I would still be under your thumb. And I would have remained there my whole life.”

It’s as if the ends of one string are lassoed around our hearts—mine to one end and his to the other—and we can’t part from each other. Rather, we are pulled to each other.

“You can’t know what’s best for me when you don’t even know me. You know the daughter who obeys your every command, who bites her tongue, and bends to fit your will. You don’t know the daughter who’s in front of you.” Maybe it’s time you show this part of yourself to your mother. Maybe it’s time she sees the daughter who has been hiding from her.

“The daughter in front of you is proudly Nigerian and proudly Canadian. She isn’t choosing one over the other. She’s both. And it’s okay.”