Who am I?
Gozirim.
That is my name, or rather, a shortened form of my name. If you might be interested to know, the long form is “Chimgozirim” which means “My God has blessed me”.
Powerful, isn’t it?
A name like that makes you feel like you own the earth, makes you want to do things and try out in so many different areas of life. A name like that makes you confident when you try out a new activity, say for example, writing an application essay; because after all “My God has blessed me” and if God be for me, then who can be against me? Right?
Absolutely true.
There’s more to me than just the name. There’s 23 years of interests, experiences, circumstances around my life and most importantly my background that make up the person that I am…
I was born into a family of three, my birth made us four in number. The second son of an Igbo father and mother, born in a little town hospital in Anambra State, Eastern Nigeria — hence the Igbo name. I don’t remember much from our time there, living in the town of Ojoto; but I do know that six months later, my parents made a decision that would change my life forever. They decided it was time to try out a new city, and move they did.
In early 2001 A.D., my parents, along with my elder brother (born two years before me) packed up whatever belongings we had and made the great voyage to the Western part of the country, settling in an old city called Ibadan. Ibadan, a city in Yorubaland, known for its colourful people, its strict adherence to the Yoruba way of life, and its love for education and enlightenment, heightened by the fact that they have the honour of being hosts to the first university in the country; this is the city that BRED me.
A new city, just like any new experience had its challenges. Firstly, we had to learn the language of the people, Yoruba, as this was widely spoken at all nooks and crannies of the city: from its marketplace, to public areas, and even down to the schools. Secondly, we had to learn about the way of life of the people here, for this was a much different culture than our Igbo culture. Here, there was a big regard for respect. Respecting your parents, teachers, bosses, and even down to the random elderly aged woman you come across walking down the street. You see, no culture in the whole of Nigeria put respect on such a high pedestal as the Yoruba people. They even had certain pronouns that you had to use when referring to your elders; falter and you would be looked upon as scum of the earth. This alone went a long way in shaping who I am, more than I could possibly tell.
Thirdly, we had to learn, make and eat the food of the people. Just as with the way of life and the language, the food was also much different to ours. We had to get used to that, and we did, because when in Rome, you behave like the Romans.
It was in this city where my younger brother and third and last child of my parents was born, five years after we moved here. He was welcomed into the family and show the way of life as both Igbo and Yoruba. For as much as my parents wanted us to be a part of the city and its people, they also wanted us to know where we were from and not forget our Igbo heritage. Thus we had a strict rule of speaking Igbo in the house just so we could learn the language of our people. We also kept close ties with people of Igbo descent who just like us, made the long journey West in search of a new experience. The Igbo people who prided themselves as people with a huge sense of communality, never one to leave the other behind and not help out a brother in need. Industrious, energetic and open-minded we the Igbo people are; never a place on Earth that we haven’t set foot in. Hence the infamous saying, “if you go to a new land and don’t find an Igbo man there, run for your life because it is not fit to live in”, and no statement has ever been truer.
Having this small knit community of Igbos around me while in a strange land did give me the opportunity to see life through the same binoculars, but with different scopes; one Igbo, the other Yoruba. An opportunity I wouldn’t trade for all the money in the world.
It was in this city called Ibadan that I had my first taste of the social experiment that is human life: went to grade and high school here, had my first kiss here, made my first friends here, attended my first parties here, fell in love with movies here, and even got my first taste of the supernatural here.
Beautiful, isn’t it?
Five of us Obinnas; three brothers and two parents making it out here in another man’s land, each day an exhibition of survival. And survive we did, for fourteen years…for it was in the fourteenth year that my parents, repeating a chess move from way back decided that it was time to move, again. And move we did. This time to the southernmost part of the country, a city called Port Harcourt.
Now, Port Harcourt is a much different city that Ibadan is. First, it was in the South and Ibadan was to the West. A city much bigger than Ibadan and more influential, as far as the country is concerned. Ranked third amongst the biggest cities to live in the country, this place was known for its oil money than for anything else. I guess my parents also wanted in on said oil money, a greener pasture, or better put, an oily pasture.
In December 2014, we moved again, all five of us into this big, bustling city, and prepared we were — or maybe not…language here wasn’t a problem, pidgin English was widely spoken here and that was no problem for us Igbo people; the food wasn’t much different from our Igbo food as the people of Port Harcourt have a culture that is akin to that of the Igbos. We should have fit right in just like pieces in a puzzle, right?
No.
What we weren’t prepared for was for the brawniness of the city. This city prided itself in being the center of the hustle culture in the South. You were either a big man, or talked big or did big. One had to always be alert, and rely on some bit of cunning to make it out. Disputes were settled with punches and sharp words than in a court of law. Testosterone levels were high in this city, and so I had to adjust to a new way of life, of living. I had to be streetwise, more efficient and smarter than the next person, as much as I could. It was a big shift from the calm and organized way of life I’d know in Ibadan. This felt like the real world to me, and I knew I had to adjust, and adjust I did, putting my past experiences into use and learning some more. This is the city that MADE me.
It’s been eight years so far, and I’ve settled in nice and easy, made new friends, attended university, and experienced life through another scope on my binoculars. Trinoculars? lol. You get my point. All these I wouldn’t give up for nothing.
Now, living a life like mine has left me a sucker for new experiences, new cultures, and a new way of life. I’m as open minded as I can, having learnt a lot in twenty-three long years on this Earth. It is this pull to try out new experiences that has led me to choose to apply for tertiary education at not just a new school, but in a new country. Your country. Knowing that with all I’ve learnt so far I would do just fine in any place on this Earth. And where else to try out than in the world’s biggest and most influential country, melting pot of all cultures and races: the United States of America. I think — no, I know I will do just fine there. And it is this confidence of knowing that has led me to write this essay and apply to this prestigious college, a chance to further my education, and most importantly, my human experience.
For God has not only blessed me with my talents, family, name or wealth, He has given to me the best gift of them all — the gift of the human experience.
FINIS.
(This write-up was made as part of an application to study filmmaking at some American university — back when I had a glint of hope. But plans changed and I felt this essay is too good to be kept tucked away in my notepad.)