05/26/2026
My father was a carver; my mother was a calabash vine. They told me I was Nigerian, but a hundred years later, I’m still unsure what that truly means.
I imagine Nigeria as the pavilion where I was born, at the British Empire Exhibition. I imagine there would be ballerinas on the streets, chiefs draped in British flags, and colonial soldiers marching with pride—these are the memories etched into my skin.
But in museum storage, I met alusi, àdá Ògún, gẹlẹdẹ masks, and others. They whispered different truths to me: that they are more Nigerian than I because they have experienced the feeling of their body being decorated with patina through decades of ceremonial sacrifice; they listened to songs and chants from community members in their native tongue; and witnessed the warmth of their auntie’s smile. They offered me new perspectives of what it means to be Nigerian.
Now, as I sit in this vitrine, I am still asking: to whose version of Nigeria do I belong?
View this piece in our current exhibition, "Belongings: Changing Hands and Shifting Meanings in African Arts," which seeks to honor the complex narratives embedded within each work on view.
Audu Mai Alijeta (Nigerian, active 1920s); Zungeru (gourd container), c. 1924-25; gourd, pigment; Fowler Museum at UCLA, X65.5232; Gift of the Wellcome Trust
