By D. C.  Ekup-Nse

One thing I find very frustrating as a Nigerian writer is having to imagine how readers – first, ‘Major Nigerians’, then, the wider world – will welcome the first word in my essay title, especially when such a word depicts a less populated people in Nigeria – the same as saying, the less-significant Nigerians.

Once every Nigerian graduates from a tertiary institution in any part of the world and not being above 30 years of age, as one so claims, the basic requirement is to embark upon one-year compulsory national service under the National Youth Service Corps (NYSC). It is compulsory; not necessarily a gesture of voluntary patriotism, unless exempted by the scheme itself. This scheme was created in 1973 when Nigeria was under military dictatorship. Under dictatorship, we all know, the only available option is Obey; as NYSC anthem first reads: ‘Youths obey the clarion call’.

So around October 2018, on the 23^rd day precisely, I hit the NYSC orientation camp at Ikot Itie Udung, Nsit Atai LGA Akwa Ibom State. I am from Cross River State, but as prescribed, one is to serve the country in another state – preferably, another geo-political zone. So lucky(?) was I to be assigned the South-South where I not only hail from, but lived all through. We camped for three weeks. In that camp were youths from all over the country. Nigeria is roughly estimated to harbor over 300 distinct ethnic groups. Ethnic is not the word, sorry. In that camp, I saw not less than 300 million cultural groups; yet not as distinct as the 300 ethnic groups are proclaimed to be. Amazingly, these varied cultural groups were united in one funny way: Ignorance of their diversity.

Chizoba was her name; an Igbo lady with so much elegance and a breathtaking smile. We met at Mammy market (as NYSC camp markets are called), and the look on her face sent a shiver right to my marrows. Perfect! I exclaimed in my imperfect mind. I got close, greeted, she responded, and we got gisting like we Nigerians say. Her first question, as expected, was:

Where are you from?

Cross River, I responded.

Oh! Calabar boy.

No, Akamkpa, I objected.

Which tribe is that? She asked shrinking her gaze.

Ejagham.

Is that supposed to be in this Nigeria? She asked with a more damning mood.

Unfortunately, yes! I answered to trigger her more.

I cannot believe that, she pushed back.

My concern was, why not?

As far as I know, there are only three ethnic groups in Nigeria: Igbo, Hausa/Fulani, and Yoruba, she said flipping her eyelids like a rabbit escaping a smoked hole.

But it is taught all over the country that we have over 300 ethnic groups

Yes, but it is only three I know of. The rest do not really exist in this country. Or, do you hear them during presidential elections? She threw back at me. That one na e off me.

Hmm! Well, it is obvious you just scored 3/300 in this national examination. How then were you mobilized for this scheme? I went sarcastic on her.

I mentioned Cross River, you understood Calabar; now I called Ejagham, and we are here debating its Nigerianness. Please tell me, Chizoba, where do we begin this conversation? I asked with verve.

Chizoba summarized the prevailing inter-cultural flavor of that camp. When many other things unfolded to question the relevance of ‘Minority Groups’ in this three-tier Nigeria, I was far from surprised. Chizoba, a ‘Major’ Nigerian, is still teaching me a lot. Everyone who pays keen attention to the varied worrisome themes in that conversation certainly has a lot to ponder about.

Beyond the prevalence of our ignorance about the beauty in our diversity towers a stereotype that we, Africans, see everything white as pure, divine, desirable, and, most consumable. No! That is, as said, a stereotype. Ejagham, as I know so well, would never consume it simply because it is white. I mean, a white snail. Regarding other things – very many other things, such as God being white – well, since I am Ejagham – I cannot pigeonhole everyone into such an ignorant assumption. We do not eat white snails, but we nevertheless have great utility for them. Everything counts, but not to the stomach. I wish we think of the mind this way. Polymorphism is well harnessed, but where beliefs are erected, the cooking pot chooses its own. I had to ask why it is so till this day, and the response I keep getting would never pass in western sciences. This is African science. It is not without myths. I never said sorcery, before others will say we take their own. If we had not ours.

My mother, back then, would never let us pick white snails. Once the surrounding leaves were evening wet, with the moon in full boil, we go hunting around the yard. Counting spoils on return, you need not be told to hide any white snail that sneaked into your picking plate. It was generally seen as a sign of bad luck. At some point, I could recall so well that it was believed that only those possessed by witchcraft could have an appetite for it. Not forgetting those hungry moments when, as little kids, we would rather be witches and wizards than watch the snails waste, as we saw it. Hunger may appear to blind us from colour, as indeed many other things, but it is equally one of the most creative moments in anyone’s life. How would we have known that all roasted snails are united in colour and taste? Once tasted, forget it. But, never say so to mummy, lest she realizes we have been eating the forbidden food. Beliefs are cages and fences at the same time. It limits us; yet shields us. As stubborn kids were thus out of that cage, but still within its fence till this day. How would I be Ejagham without the beliefs of my people?

Reflecting on the above, I wondered in thoughts into the valley of black-white race relations. Sinking deeper I could see the mountain top of many stereotypes that better portray the mind of Blacks as the perfect spot of darkness. Caucasians laid the foundations, Negroes erected the walls themselves. Stereotypes are myths, and myths best undo myths. Even science is a myth. At least to this piece. Beyond Ejagham’s snail, myth lays a counter to the stereotype that Blacks consume whatever is white painted. But no. We do not eat white snails. So we are and so the world needs to know. My mother just smiled hearing me say so; though from the other end.

I searched this topic on Google and I was told it is predominantly a Sub-Saharan African thing. So you see, we are not alone in this. Therefore, we need collectively expand the morals in myths such as this to capture fully our creative capabilities in designating consumable dignity to blackness. Thank you, Guinness! Black is made of more.

Comrades, this is beyond Ejagham’s snail myth, I repeat. This is specifically about modeling our education to expose Africans, specifically Nigerians, to the cultural varieties herein. Nigerians need to know themselves exhaustively. This must be a requisite to certification in our tertiary institutions, whatsoever one studies. We need to probe deeper into our core pristine cultural beliefs with the view of extracting more meaning that can be related to contemporary African experiences. Myths such as this, as imperfect as they may appear, remain our prime identity. Everything is nothing without meaning. Myths are everything to a people.

In Nigeria, true unity is very possible if we teach diversity exhaustively with emphasis on the uniting points in our identities.