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At the Admin Block, where I had to pay some fees and do some paperwork, something instructive happened. I came before a Registration Officer, who was in high spirits. He greeted me in Igbo but I answered in English. He looked at me from head to toe, and asked in Igbo what my name was. “I don’t understand Igbo.” “You don’t understand Igbo!?” he thundered. “You jus dey enter school, yanga don already start!?
“What nonsense! You’re ashamed to speak your mother tongue; shame on you!” Though a rascally laugh welled up in my stomach, I kept a straight face. When he simmered, he said, “Oyinbo, what’s your name?” “Babatunde Odesola.” His forehead creased in a frown. He asked, “Isi gini? What did you say?” I repeated, “Babatunde Odesola.” “You’re Yoruba?” I said yes. He jumped up from his seat in excitement and asked me, “Why did you queue up?” “You must never queue up in this school again. Anytime there’s a queue, you just go to the front and introduce yourself as Yoruba, they will attend to you first. Igbo are highly accommodative of strangers.”
Within the twinkle of an eye, he got my papers signed, and kept looking at me as if I was newly orphaned, telling his colleagues, “See, see nwa Yoruba from Lagos! He has come here to school!” His colleagues, who were in separate cubicles, looked up, but weren’t convinced because, according to them, I looked Igbo.
So, they bombarded me with questions and assertions, “Are you from Lagos?” Ngwa nu, speak Yoruba make we hear. Why did you not choose UNILAG or Ife? Me, I have brothers in FESTAC, Mile 2 and Amuwo. Do you dance to Ebenezer Obey and Sunny Ade songs? Ha, Yoruba sabi enjoy party o!…”
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