‘WE DO NOT HAVE TO BE THE SAME TO BELONG’

Culture thrives on diversity, not on animosity, argues K BOLANLE ATI-JOHN. Communities who could mutually benefit from one another often distance themselves due to suspicion. Despite residing in close proximity, trading in the same markets, or attending the same schools, they remain divided by inherited narratives about trustworthiness and fear.

The tragedy isn't their differences; instead, it emerges when such distinctions are misconstrued as threats, when history is confined within prisons, and when belonging is defined by exclusion. One doesn't need to share a language or customs to acknowledge one as part of a collective home. The innate yearning for belonging provides strength through shared names, languages, foods, faiths, and rituals.

A Yoruba child learning proverbs from elders, an Igbo apprentice understanding the responsibilities of enterprise, an Hausa girl mastering craft passed down generations, or an Ijaw boy familiarizing himself with river stories all form part of a lineage of memory transcending a single lifetime. However, belonging turns perilous when it necessitates denouncing outsiders, when love for one's community hinges on disdain for another.

Affection for one's ancestral home need not entail contempt for a neighbor's. Culture necessitates successors, not adversaries. Many of Nigeria's perceived fears about one another are not discovered through direct interaction but are inherited through storytelling. Children first encounter other people through the words used around them: jokes about accents, warnings about surnames, tales repeatedly told, before any personal experience transpires.

Someone's misdeed is then ascribed to an entire people, whereas the same behavior exhibited by someone from their own community is deemed an isolated incident. By the time the child meets the supposed stranger, imagination has already rendered a verdict. No child is born with preconceived notions of which Nigerian name to fear; fear must first be instilled.

This prejudice isn't solely passed down through whispers; it can also be amplified publicly whenever communal grievances are transformed into rivalries and belonging into a claim that one people must forfeit for another's gain. Designations of "indigene" and "settler," commonly employed to ascertain true belonging and eligibility for education, employment, or opportunities, illustrate how an ancestral lineage can be irrevocably branded.

True grievances warrant acknowledgment. Yet, when grievances solidify into an unyielding directive to mistrust, they no longer contribute to justice. Not every ancestral fear is unfounded. Nigerian communities bear memories of civil war, massacres, displacement, and instances where neighbors failed to safeguard one another. These memories should be preserved; they maintain truth and caution against the resurgence of cruelty.

However, if memory fails to distinguish between individual and collective responsibility, it transforms into a weapon of perpetual guilt. A child does not enter the world culpable for crimes committed before their birth; future generations bear the responsibility to comprehend the past and remedy what is within their reach. Yet, this responsibility does not equate to inherited guilt.

Healing is not forgetting; it is the refusal to allow yesterday's injury to dictate tomorrow's relationships. Nigeria is not isolated in this predicament. From Rwanda to South Africa, African societies have had to confront whether memory will function as an educator or prison. There is no nobility in cherishing one's heritage by declaring another inferior.

Healthy pride preserves language, craftsmanship, rituals, and moral memory. The bronze traditions of Benin, the indigo dyeing of Kano, the uli artistry of the Igbo, and the boatbuilding expertise of riverine communities do not vie for superiority; each enriches the collective. Oppression, conversely, creates a hierarchy with a select few at the top.

Cultures that are secure do not fear interaction; insecure ones erect barriers and label them as purity. Pride asserts, "This is what we contribute." Supremacy proclaims, "Only what we contribute holds value." Africa's history, alongside that of Europe and Asia, underscores that no civilization remains impervious to this inclination.

No singular group in Nigeria possesses the entirety of human wisdom or beauty. Our cuisines reflect a history of migration, our music transcends linguistic boundaries, and our cities are constructed by hands originating from across regions. Everyday life contradicts the narrative of disconnection: a patient in Ibadan trusts her doctor from Borno, a trader in Kano relies on goods from Aba, and an engineer from Enugu collaborates with a technician from Sokoto.

Everyday labor reveals what stereotypes obscure; a stranger identified solely by an accent becomes a colleague, neighbor, and friend. Harmonious coexistence demands more than the begrudging acceptance of those perceived as incomprehensible. Tolerance entails more than enduring another's presence; it necessitates curiosity, mutual respect, and the determination to uphold another community's dignity.

It accommodates disagreement without dehumanization, cultural assurance without dominance, and remembrance without collective condemnation. A Nigerian demonstrates loyalty to a community by speaking up when one of its members wrongs another. Coexistence becomes meaningful when the safety of another people matters to us, even when our own security remains untouched.

Each generation inherits an identity, yet it must determine which aspects deserve preservation. Cultural transmission occurs through language, names, ceremonies, and memory, and we choose whether our children inherit unresolved suspicions. A child should appreciate the beauty of an ancestral language without learning to disparage another accent.

A family can preserve the memory of past suffering without labeling a child not yet conceived as an adversary. The pinnacle of ancestral devotion is to safeguard what bestows life while refusing to hand down unresolved grievances.