I.
My brothers and I had Nigerian nostalgia around us, all the time. My
parents belonged to an association made up of the Africans who lived
in Montgomery. Ghanaians, Liberians, and Nigerians would gather during
the summer and holidays for parties over platters of food and in tune
to rousing traditional music, and our laughter could be heard several
banquet halls away, both because we were happy, and because west Africans
are notoriously loud. We can't help it.
The room was a kaleidoscope
of color from the stiff kente cloths the women wore in a stunning
array of pinks, purples, and blues. In keeping with Nigerian custom,
the men would set off early in the morning to a nearby farm to kill,
by hand, goats that were later roasted for the feast. The image of my
dad, however, along with the other African dads who were math professors,
accountants, and doctors, running after goats in his tweed blazer never
fails to horrify me.
