RACISM, THE RACIST AND THE RACIALLY PREJUDICED.

It is Sunday, very early in the cold winter morning and my phone alarm begins to ring out that deafening tone I deliberately set on it. Without opening my eyes, I fish for my phone and snooze the alarm. I can't get up from the bed. Groaning out, I feel so drained down to my bones but that is the problem with winter and -12 degrees. It leaves me cold, lonely, lazy, tired, unnecessarily weak and drained emotionally, physically, socially and psychologically. Having met face to face with depression and frost bite at -21 degrees, I have vowed that I will always appreciate -12 degrees and accept it fully as a warm winter. I do not have a choice. I have fully accepted it. I am living it and surviving it because I am a strong survivor. This day will be a bright and promising one for me, I vaguely speak into my inner self as I am about to drift away into an unconscious state. I have also come to embrace the power of self speech long ago as a way of uplifting myself. Oh yes, I will be strong for myself and the for people who still believe in me.

The alarm rings again ten minutes later and this time, I open my eyes to turn it off and squint at the bright light bulb on the ceiling. Sometimes, I find it appalling that I am hopelessly lygophobic, but I have no apologies for that because everyone has a phobia for something. On this particular Sunday, I wished it was a Saturday. I would give anything, arm and leg inclusive, to sleep in on that soft, comfy bed and not have anything or anyone come between sleep and I. I feel extremely pooped from burning my midnight candle and the thought of getting up to go out in the freezing cold brings this certain wave of paranoia and laziness I just cannot comprehend. Something in me pulls me up against my volition and then I deliberately rise up from my bed. The first thing I remember is that I have to fulfill the Sunday obligation. Because I was raised by a staunch Catholic man within the confined walls of an even stauncher Roman Catholic Church, I was bound to live by the catechisms of the church instructed by God which have been inscribed into my brain since the days of old. Sundays had an obligation and fulfilling that obligation became a necessity since I am neither a saint nor the holiest of holy people, but a firm believer in the existence of God in heaven. Eventually, that thing that pulled me up from the bed pulls me again and then I am headed straight to the bathroom.

Two hours later - an hour of preparation and another one for the Mass - I am glad that I have accomplished one mission if anything today. Phew, that was done faster than I thought. It was always striking to realize that the white people have no patience for long masses as opposed to the 2 hours plus of lengthy masses in Nigeria enriched with project Sundays, harvest and bazaars, sowing of seeds, second and third collections for this and that, thanksgivings and all what not. Even the homilies were so short and straight to the point like a double edged sword. There were no comedies infused, no charismatic approaches to prayers - the kabashing, casting and binding were just not there. Sometimes they did not even wait for a final blessing before they began to shuffle their feet in exasperation and begin to depart the church when it was 1 hour up, an act which I find questionable but I am in no position to judge because it is not my jurisdiction. The fact remained that the impatience had no chill whatsoever.

The Padre (Priest) in charge is a black man. There were only a handful of black people surrounded by a gathering of white faithfuls in that church. I am thrilled that Padre is an Igbo man from Eastern Nigeria, thrilled because it is the very same tribe I was born out of. I have met him a number of times before and he is always very happy to see me. There is always, always a certain kind of acknowledgement when Nigerians meet themselves up in a foreign land.There is this sense of understanding I get whenever I walk up to him because I know that I have found someone whom I can easily relate to strictly on spiritual matters of faith and more importantly, someone to speak Igbo with. I am always relieved to speak Igbo to someone and anyone who understands because I do not want my native language to die in me because I came to chase a life goal on Western soil. In that situation, I am grateful that I do not have to force myself to slur my speech with I-wanna-gonna just because some of the whites don't understand the Nigerian intonations in the English language. For example, I have once been put off when I walked up to a stranger and asked, "Please, I am looking for Londonderry. How do I get there?", and after she looked at me all confused like I spoke Chinese, I forced myself to rephrase my question as, "Errm... I'm tryina ge-dah Lehn-dehn-deh-rry. Which way amma gonna go-dah get there?"

The mass has come to an end and Padre who is last in recessional procession heads to the foyer while the train of the altar servers proceeds into the sacristy. I make my way to the foyer after genuflecting before the altar to where Padre conducts a meet-and-greet session with a well-plastered grin on his face. Honestly, I have come to assume that he might actually have had to stand in front of a mirror to practice how to grin and laugh unnecessarily to the dry jokes dished out whilst shaking hands with people. As I approach him, his face lights up with a smile and by the time I smile back and say, "Padre, Ututu oma, good morning," he speaks to me in Igbo by first melodramatically calling out my name as, "Nkiruka nwa Anekwe! Kee kwanu?!" Then he proceeds by asking about my general welfare and how I am doing with my hustle. I reply back in the same language.

Few seconds into the brief talk, a white couple strings along with their son who could not be more than six years of age. They exchange pleasantries with Padre and I have my well practiced thin smile on my face, readily waiting should they bother to look at me. Sure enough, they do smile back after I manage to say "Hello". I look at the little boy and begin to gush about how cute he looks. I am still smiling when I stretch my hand to shake the little boy but the boy draws a step back as if he was shot with an arrow, puts his hands behind him and looks up at me with a straight face.

"Your skin looks dirty! Why are you not white? Why does your skin look dirty? You are not white so why should I shake you? You and Padre?" The boy says to me, looking defiant as he speaks. Both parents chuckle out in utter embarrassment as a form of response.

This time, the smile vanishes from my face as I stare at this child, aghast and astonished. My brain is electrified in a 3D shock that transmits a brief paralysis to the rest of my body as I stare at this brazen boy. I can not believe my eyes and ears. This is someone I could actually birth talking with so much audacity and fearlessness. In my country, a child could not be so audacious to speak like this because the typical Nigerian parent did not mind smacking him right in the face, right there in the public eye, and then going back home to flog the devil out of him with a "koboko". But then I remember again that I am not in my beloved country and he is not my son, so I bite my tongue to stop myself from speaking out and reprimanding him.

"Oh.... it's because God wanted us to be like this. He is not stupid, you know. He just did not want to have white people as the only ones in the planet when he created men. That can never be possible. But we are all still human beings and He is happy he created people in different skins. I do not see why that should be a problem for a small boy like you," I reply to the boy with my plastered smile back on my face. I cannot help it nor keep mute to such mannerisms or the lack thereof because I am strongly allergic to rudeness of any kind. The parents begin to dish out apologies for the rudeness and hastily depart.

After a few more minutes, I leave Padre to the other faithfuls and make my way home. The thoughts of the legacies of Martin Luther King Jr, Frederick Douglass and Rosa Parks begin to flood my mind. As empathic as I couId be, I know how painful it must have been for them fighting the war of race and human rights. Albeit the years that have gone by and the legacies of these human rights activists which black humans in this jet age live on, there is no gain-saying about it. There is still a long way to go in dealing with racial disparity and prejudice. The length of that road is indefinite and will remain as that in so far as people continue to see themselves as racially superior to others in this 21st century. Racism will always be there when a warped mentality is born and bred out of the desire to esteem oneself on the basis of skin colour rather than seeing oneself as equal human before God. Just like Martin Luther King Jr, I hope and pray for a day when black people will be judged by the content of their character rather than the colour of their skins.

Inspite of how bleak it may seem, without apologies or regrets, I am still proud of the colour of my skin, of how innocent and unbleached it is every time I look at myself in the mirror. I am still proud of how very much of an African woman that I am. With all my flaws, commas and imperfections, I still love myself and where I come from. I am beautiful in my own skin. I am unique. I am so deep, like that.