Growing up, Nigerian parties were the bane of my existence.
Almost every month, I found myself squeezed into colorful, itchy fabrics surrounded by loud music and more people than I cared to be around. Before the guests arrived, I was helping my parents set out tables and chairs and clearing furniture and sweeping the floor and restocking the bathrooms. At ten years old, I was helping prepare for celebrations that always seemed to require an extraordinary amount of everything.Â
Nigerian parties are not exactly known for their restraint. There were DJs, enormous pans of food, lots of talking, money being sprayed on people as they danced and danced, and kids laughing as they huddled in one area. Nothing about a Nigerian party was ever particularly understated.
And my parents, who hosted these parties, were always moving. As the child of the hosts, my siblings and I almost worked as GPSs.
“Go and find your mother.”
Where was she? Great question. I hated these moments because I would have to spend five minutes searching for her latest whereabouts. She and my dad jumped from one place to another, checking on guests and ensuring that everyone was having a good time. As a child, I didn’t understand why they couldn’t just sit down and enjoy the party themselves.
Years later, as a college senior throwing parties of my own, I have made a horrifying discovery: I am becoming my parents.
Of course, my parties look nothing like the celebrations I grew up attending. There are no enormous trays of jollof rice and stew, no hired DJs, no elaborate outfits that require an entire afternoon to get into. The bar for throwing a college party is, in some respects, refreshingly low. Sometimes, making sure the bathroom has toilet paper is the biggest operational task of the night. And yet, somewhere between buying snacks, rearranging furniture, and making rounds to talk and see everyone, I have found myself adopting the same habits I once found so exhausting in my parents. I have become a party person. More specifically, I’ve become a host.Â
At some point, I stopped being the person who resented the preparations and became the person making the preparations. The child who used to be sent to find her parents has become the person everyone is trying to find. And the most embarrassing part? I enjoy it.
When I throw a party, I have a hard time simply standing in one place and letting things happen. I find myself moving between groups, checking on people, making sure everyone has something to drink, and trying to gauge the general mood. I used to watch my parents do this and wonder why they couldn’t relax. Now I understand that making sure everyone else is having a good time is part of what makes the experience enjoyable for them too.Â
There is something deeply satisfying about hearing someone tell you that you threw a good party. Recently, after hosting an event, I woke up the next morning to messages from people telling me how much fun they had. I was so pleased with myself that I called my mom.
“Is this why you did it?” I asked her. “Am I turning into you?”
She just laughed.
And while Nigerian parties and American college parties might look like entirely different species, the instinct behind hosting them isn’t so different. The food may be simpler, the guest list smaller, and the music coming from a portable speaker instead of a DJ booth. But the underlying question is the same: are people having a good time?
As a Nigerian American, I have spent much of my life carrying pieces of my parents’ culture into spaces that look very different from the ones I grew up in. I don’t need to recreate the celebrations of my childhood to carry their influence with me, but I do find myself taking bits of the strong culture my immigrant parents raised me in and sprinkling them into my own life. My parties will probably never involve giant pans of stew and meat and fish and shawarma and money being sprayed across a dance floor, but I am more than happy to leave the itchy outfits in the past.
I have, however, inherited something from my parents that has followed me from those crowded Nigerian celebrations to my much smaller college gatherings: the urge to get up, move around, and make sure everyone is having a good time. I’ve inherited the art of throwing a good party.
Hey, maybe this stuff is genetic.