If you had met me ten years ago, you would have met a girl who knew how to tie a gele perfectly, who looked forward to Eid celebrations with the neighbourhood, and whose tongue was more familiar with the greetings of “Ẹ kúulé o” than “Nnọọ.”
My name is Ihuoma, and I am an Igbo girl.
For the longest time, that was just a fact, like my height or my blood type. It wasn’t a lived experience. My parents are Igbo, but my childhood was a vibrant mix of different colors, sounds, and flavors, none of which were from Southeastern Nigeria. I grew up surrounded by the rich and beautiful culture of the Yoruba people, as well as the peaceful, communal rhythms of Muslim life. My memories are filled with the taste of amala and gbegiri, the sound of talking drums at owambes, and the shared plates of salah meat.
My Igbo-ness was just a whisper in the background—a name, a few words my parents spoke when they didn’t want me to understand, a vague idea of a “village” I’d never seen.
Then, university happened.
For the first time in my life, I moved to Southeastern Nigeria. And let me tell you, it was like landing on a new planet that was supposedly my home. It was a beautiful, overwhelming, and eye-opening culture shock.
Suddenly, the things that were just whispers became a roar. I was surrounded by the language, the food, the music, the energy. I heard my own last name spoken with a familiarity I’d never known.
I tasted ofe onugbu and abacha for the first time and wondered, “Where has this been all my life?!”
It was like finding a room in your own house you never knew existed.
My reconnection wasn’t a sudden flash. It’s been a slow, joyful blossoming. It started with food (doesn’t it always?). Then it moved to music—I found myself falling in love with the high-energy pulse of highlife and the deep soul of Oja (flute) music. I started asking my Mama questions, and her face would light up as she told me stories about her own childhood. I started learning the language, and every new phrase I master feels like a small victory, a little piece of myself clicking into place.
What I love most about this journey is that I’m not replacing who I was. I’m adding to her.
I am still the girl who loves the warmth of a Yoruba greeting. I am still the girl who deeply respects the traditions of my Muslim friends and neighbours. But now, I am also the girl who is learning to feel the pride of the Isiagu (traditional lion-head shirt), who is fascinated by the history of Uli art, and who is finally, finally understanding the jokes in my own native tongue.
My identity isn’t a single, solid thing. It’s a mosaic—a beautiful, intricate pattern made of different, vibrant pieces. I am a product of all the cultures that have held me.
I’m truly enjoying this phase of my life, just soaking it all in. This journey of cultural exploration hasn’t just connected me to my own past; it’s made me infinitely more curious about the world.
My reconnection with my Igbo heritage is just the first step. I can’t wait to travel, to see more, to taste more, and to understand more. If I could find this much richness in a part of my own identity that was hidden, imagine what the rest of the world holds.
This is just the beginning.
I’d love to hear from you! Are you also on a journey of cultural reconnection? Have you ever felt like you were a mix of different worlds? Share your stories in the comments below!
Leave a Reply