America has always been reserved on the highest pedestal. That tradition hovered over my childhood in Lagos, the thriving metropolis and former capital city of Nigeria.
My parents came to the States in the early seventies to pursue their college education and create a family. While some of their peers opted to escape the notorious reputation of bribery and corruption, my mother and father were wedded to their patriotism almost to a fault, which prompted the need to return to their homeland with two young kids in tow.
All through the waves of national hysteria and polarizing dysfunction borne out of numerous military coups that heightened the power of murderous dictators, I was lovingly reassured that my future would be bright, thanks to the invaluable gift of my American citizenship.
Fast forward to the present, and while I can’t necessarily downplay the viable currency of my Americanness based how British colonizers criminally defaced the primal valves of Africa’s most populous nation, thereby setting off the chain reaction that makes Nigeria barely survivable, I also won’t pretend that being an American isn’t a bipolar disorder.
The American president loves to boast about the country he loves like no other. The land of the free and home of the brave is revered for its abundance of wealth, and the…
