The ideas of identity, belonging and home are central subjects that echo in the minds of many young people like me. Who am I? Where do I come from? Where am I going? The aching desire to fit in, the stubborn determination to stand out; they are two sides of the same coin. Underneath it all is a simple truth. Community. We all desire a community, no matter how much we like to pretend otherwise. Somewhere we can call ours and that feels like home. However, for some people, when you have two countries that call out your name, it can be incredibly difficult trying to live life straddling the line between the two of them.
I was born and raised in Ireland and have been Irish since birth, with my parents having emigrated from Nigeria before I was born. My father has lived here for 23 years and has been a citizen for over half of that time, so we have always considered ourselves an Irish family. Despite this, I also have Nigerian citizenship. Although I would never say I’m from Nigeria (given I have never lived there), it would be disingenuous to say that I am not, in fact, Nigerian, because that’s the blood that runs within me.
In theory, when you belong to two nations, there should be two cultures available to call home. Two cultures to admire. Two places where you will not only be accepted, but also embraced. However, what you end up discovering is that although belonging can be multiple, it is never absolute or guaranteed. It’s this dichotomy that has been a source of confusion throughout my life. I’ve always felt like I never truly fit in with my Nigerian peers. I was always the outsider who couldn’t speak their parents’ native language. Yes, English is Nigeria’s official language, but tribal languages carry weight beyond practicality. They carry memory, intimacy, history, and hold a special meaning as languages once spoken by fearless ancestors. But even if you do speak it, those of you who have heritage from other parts of the world will know that there are always different things you missed. Cultural rites of passage you never had, childhood games you never knew, historical moments you never learned. None of this is anyone’s fault. Not your parents, not yourself. Life gets in the way, and it is arguably more important to learn about the biology of the human body than it is to know about a war that was fought nearly a hundred years ago. At the same time, however, it’s these missed moments, these unlived memories, that create a sense of distance. They widen the cracks between you and your heritage and disconnect you from the culture of a land that your ancestors once tilled.
On the other hand, when you are in the country that you live in, the only country that you have ever lived in, there are still questions that linger. You are not entirely one of them either. It’s the rudimentary “Where are you really from?” instead of a genuine interest in your background. It’s the discreet double takes when you chime in about studying Irish in school. It’s the automatic assumption that you must be less familiar with something because “it’s a really Irish thing”. This doesn’t happen a lot, but it happens enough to plant the seeds of doubt and to rethink how people see you. How does the only nation you’ve ever known completely see you? Do they even see you? Then, with even less certainty, you continue to walk within the third space, not entirely of one world, not fully of the other.
There is also the pressure. In my case, it’s not from parents, but I understand that it is for so many children of immigrants. For me, I burden myself with a filial duty to excel. There can be so much pressure to do well, to make something of yourself, not to let them down. You have to make it work. It can’t have been for nothing. You stare at the smiling faces in the picture frames on your living room wall and think, “these people didn’t travel halfway across the world for me not to make something of myself, something to be proud of”. You want to make them proud, but it isn’t just about that. It’s really about proving to yourself that their journey mattered because it gave you the ability to build the life you’ve always wanted, and they couldn’t have.
So, all this ends up becoming an incredibly complicated 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle that never quite fits together. As you find one piece, another seems to go missing right before your very eyes. You’re trying to find yourself, but you feel like you are actually losing yourself, and then you end up becoming a caricature of all the stereotypes you swore so hard that you would never be. You’re not Indian enough, or American enough, or Mexican enough, or Irish enough, and then you’re just not enough. You don’t fit in anywhere, and it’s only within the constricting walls of your body that you feel at home.
But somehow, with a lot of reflection, I’ve come to the realisation that maybe that’s okay. Perhaps you don’t have to know everything. You don’t have to tiptoe along the blurred line between those two worlds. You can just be. You don’t need to master every cultural code of conduct, or know every song, or recite every bit of history to prove that you belong. You already do. These nations are a part of you, but you own them. Regardless of whether you hold their passport or not, nobody can erase their part in your history. Nobody can take away your ability to make the best Kimchi-jjigae known to man. No one can take away the love you have for the Shah Rukh Khan films you used to watch as a child. No one can take away the smile you get when you hear “go n-éirí leat” on the bus. This is all culture. This is all community. This is all home, and it’s a home that only you get to create. The foundation of the new home you’re building isn’t made of history or language, but instead from the memories you’ve created, one piece after another: the summer holiday you spent in Lagos, the Irish dancing classes you took that you were terrible at. Piece by piece, they merge, but this time, instead of looking for the pieces to fit together to make a perfect jigsaw, you move them around and realise that the fragments create a beautiful mosaic instead. They don’t have to fit precisely together. The importance is in arranging them with their imperfections, and that’s exactly how it’s meant to be.
So yes, my blood runs like my flags: green, white and orange, with an extra bit of green. I think that to hold two passports is to speak in two languages, even if only one of them dances on your tongue. It’s to feel the pull of two cuisines, two societies, two ways of measuring life, even if you don’t know how they work together. I often ask myself, does that make me proud? Am I proud to have this as my background? The truth is that I can’t answer that. I don’t think I can be proud of anything I haven’t earned. But I am proud of my parents for making that sacrifice and abandoning everything they knew to give me the best chance in the world. You may feel that you do not belong fully in any community, but I implore you to look inward and find out who you really are. I think I have. I’m the quiet rebellion to belonging everywhere and nowhere at once. To carry two homes in your chest and find out that there is enough room for both to live there. Knowing that is enough for me.