Culture Crossroads

I am a (grand)father. But long before that, I was a first generation diaspora. I carried not just a suitcase. Instead, I brought a whole continent of stories, customs, fears, and hopes. I carried them across the ocean, from Nigeria to Belgium.

When I arrived in Europe, I knew I was entering a world that spoke a different language. Not just French or Dutch or German. But a language of culture, of history, of what it means to belong. And yet, I stayed. I worked. And we raised a family.

Our sons were born here. Belgium is the only home they have ever truly known. From the time they were old enough to walk, we tried to raise them on two legs. One planted in the orderly cobblestones of Europe, and the other in the red earth of our Igbo heritage. We visited Nigeria reasonably often. Christmas in Lagos, New Year in Ichi, Nnewi. Easter in Abuja, Iwaji and Ifejioku back in our Igbuzo hometown. They drank Zobo. But also Fanta in glass bottles, tongues painted orange, to their delight. And they learned to greet elders in Igbo: Omogwu, Oliofe, Akukalia, Amuapa,…They knew the songs. They danced at Ibunmanya traditional marriages. They buried their fingers in pounded yam and egwusi soup. They sometimes even asked for more jollof rice.

But by the time the older son turned 15, the visits stopped.

Nigeria had started changing. But they also started making their own Easter, summer, and Christmas plans with their friends.

Did Nigeria really change or it revealed more of what it had always been: fragile, violent, neglected? Our homeland still wakes early to call upon the ancestors on our behalf. My own father is now nearing the sunset of his life at 98. Meanwhile, mother’s mother, 101, in Ichi, still remembers the Biafran war like it was yesterday. But today, we can’t even say for certain they are safe.

My son is now a father himself. His son – my grandson – is five. A lively, curious boy with the wild laughter of a hyena cub and the soft curls of his Belgian mother. My son wants him to know Nigeria too like he did. He wants to stop and show him the Atakpo river before entering Igbuzo. He’d like to take him to Okpuzu river and drink from the stream. Maybe even wash his head and face, calling on goddess Oboshi to take charge, fight his battles. He probably wants to take a dive into the river like I did with him. He wants to have his head touched and blessed by the great-grandparents whose blood runs in his veins. But the road home no longer feels like a road. It feels like a battlefield.

“Daddy,” he said to me yesterday over breakfast, voice low, pained. “How do I take my wife and son into a country where churches are bombed? Roads are unsafe, and children are kidnapped from school?” How can I explain to my Belgian wife? She doesn’t understand. It is considered fine when a police officer points an AK47 at you at a traffic checkpoint. The officer’s eyes are deep red and stone-faced. Yes I survived it. It felt cool to me at the time because I had seen it in Nigerian films. Nollywood playing out live. Yes, I saw it often in the Naija movies. You and Mummy watched these films. You got us to watch them too. It served as a partial introduction to our ancestral homeland. They do not have all of that orientation”

I had no answer. I am his father. Fathers are supposed to have answers. Frustrating!

Instead, I gave him what we fathers often give when our strength fails: perspective wrapped in silence. I tried to tell him, gently, that we are not the only ones caught between worlds. Sometimes, we must carry our culture not in our luggage. We carry it in our habits, in our stories, and in how we name our children. I reminded him that we named him Tonna and his brother Chidi. We must carry our culture in what we teach them to love.

Still, I see the ache in his eyes. The guilt of a son who can’t take his own child to see his roots. The fear that something irreplaceable is being lost in translation.

He loves Nigeria as a land and the people in it. He blames Nigeria, its broken politics, its indifferent governance. He even praises Ibrahim Traoré of Burkina Faso. I don’t blame him. Nigeria has failed many of us, repeatedly. Yet I find myself defending the homeland still. Not out of naivety. But out of something older: loyalty, or the stubborn refusal to give up on the soil that birthed me.

My grandson asks, “Nnanna, where is Nigeria?” and I tell him, “It’s where your name Nweke comes from. It’s the reason you dance so well. It’s the energy in you and the loudness of your laughter. It’s the place where your great-grandma sings to the moon and greatgrandpa pours libations to the gods. My mother, your Nnenna of blessed memory, rests there.”

I don’t know if he understands. But I hope one day he will. I also nurse the distant hope that he will someday meet his great-grandparents before they join Nnenna and their ancestors.

This story is not just ours. It belongs to millions like us. African families straddling two continents, trying to stitch together identity with threadbare fabric. Europeans raising children with heritage they barely comprehend. Diaspora parents mourning the loss of what they couldn’t pass on, and children resenting what they never received.

But here’s the truth: culture does not die in silence. It dies in forgetting.

So, we must keep remembering. We must keep telling the stories, even if we can’t visit the places. For now! We must cook the food. We must speak the names. We must light the ancestral candles. We must even pour libations that we do not fully understand or agree with their import. And then, we must hope that one day; when the guns fall silent and the roads are safe; our children and their children can walk back across the bridge we’ve spent our lives trying to build.

The author, Collins Nweke is Belgian of Nigerian roots. A former Green Councillor at Ostend City Council Belgium, he is a husband and active father and grandfather.