Excerpts from the Auto-Biography of a Former Nigerian
“The United Nations General Assembly formally acknowledges the dissolution of the Federal Republic of Nigeria, recognising the sovereign states of The Lower Niger Republic (LNR), The Western Federation, The Niger Delta Union (NDU) and The Central Sahel Republic (CSR). A spokespers on cited ‘the permanent cessation of viable state functions’ as the primary factor.”
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I read this three times. Not for the weight of it, that had already fallen years ago. I read it for the word ''formally''.
Formality is a luxury. The debates are done, but the jokes just got amped. The think pieces have dried up. It means the mapmakers in Geneva can finally redraw the lines without hesitation, confident no one is going to argue about it next week.
Nigeria did not end in a moment. It ended in installments. In headlines that stopped surprising people. In panel discussions where experts spoke about it in the past tense while it was still happening.
By the time it became formal, it had already become… embarrassing.
I stared at the headline in my bedroom in Toronto. My thumb hovered over the share button before I remembered.
I don’t share things like this.
A former Nigerian doesn’t have a nostalgia folder. A former Nigerian has a sense for what is useful...and what is not.
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Item 2: A clip from a morning show in London, shared on Twitter.Host: “...and the term ‘Nigerian,’ we’re told, has taken on a… different meaning in diaspora communities?”
Advocate: “Personally, I wouldn’t say it is offensive. Not exactly. It’s just...unfortunate...However,I know people who consider it a slur now. The truth is, you don’t use it if you can avoid it. It signals too much. Instability. Chaos. You call a kid in a London housing estate a ‘Nigerian,’ you’re not asking about his heritage. You’re calling him a failure... someone whose homeland failed so spectacularly that he is, by definition, morally bankrupt. So, yes. We don’t use the word anymore.”
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The first time I heard it used that way was in a stairwell. 2029. I was carrying a box of lab equipment.
Two guys were coming down, laughing about something.
One of them said, “Don’t do it like that, you’ll mess it up. Don’t be Nigerian about it.”
He didn’t mean anything by it. That was the point.
It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t hatred.
It was...casual.
I didn’t react. My face stayed the same. But something adjusted internally. A quiet recalibration.
The word had shifted.
It was no longer a place. It was a shorthand. A summary. A conclusion people had already reached.
And once a word becomes a conclusion, you stop offering it.
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Item 3: A screenshot of a WhatsApp status from an acquaintance, “Dele,” who now goes by “Dale.”“Got the deed done. It’s official. New name, new life.”
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Dale wasn’t running from anything. That’s what people misunderstand.
He was optimising.
He said clients would see his full name and pause, not reject him, just… hesitate. And hesitation, in his
line of work was enough.
He didn’t make a speech about it. He just adjusted.
I understood him. There is a logic to these things. You remove friction where you can.
Me...I didn’t change my name. I just stopped offering it first.
I became “the black guy with the data.” Neutral. Functional. Easy to place.
My accent softened over time. Not deliberately. Just… efficiently. You learn which edges slow
conversations down. You file them off.
My mother used to call it njiri mara anyi. Identity.
Now I call it… baggage.
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Item 4: A short-form video, trending under the audio “Birds of a Feather.”It’s a montage. Old footage of a crowded market in Lagos. Grainy. Almost archival. Then a headline: “The Last Flight.” Then a person boarding a plane, back to the camera.
Caption: “My father left in ’25. He never looked back. Neither will I.”
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The comments are not angry. That’s what makes them unsettling.
“Sharp man.”“Timing is everything.”
“This one is akin to Lot's wife. Can't be me caught on camera.”
“Your father is a smart man.”
There is a tone people use when referencing Nigeria now. Not harsh. Just dismissive. Like discussing a
failed startup that everyone saw coming in hindsight.
I watched the video twenty-three times.
The phrase that stayed with me was never looked back.
It has become a kind of discipline. A sign that you understand how the world works.
Looking back suggests attachment. Attachment suggests misjudgment.
And misjudgment is expensive.
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Item 5: A note from a policy brief, circulating quietly among development circles.“Post-dissolution identity patterns indicate a rapid decline in ‘Nigerian’ self-identification across both domestic and diaspora populations. Emerging states have shown a preference for pre-federal or newly constructed national identities. Diaspora populations demonstrate increased adoption of neutral or host-country identifiers.”
The Lower Niger Republic (LNR), The Western Federation, The Niger Delta Union (NDU), and The Central Sahel Republic (CSR)
Names with direction. With intention.
They leaned into older borders, older histories, older languages, older definitions. Nigeria became
something you referenced in textbooks, not in conversation.
It is easier there. You can become something else in the company of others doing the same.
Out here, it is different.
There is no collective shift. No shared script.
Just individual decisions. Quiet ones.
You listen carefully. You adjust how you introduce yourself. You choose which details to include, which to leave out.
You learn that the less explanation required, the smoother your life becomes.
You learn not to be the butt of jokes in a gathering where you have to smile away the jabs.
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Item 6: A private message on a dating app, received last night.Her: “You’ve got really great bone structure. What’s your background?”
Me: “I’m from Toronto.”
Her: “No, like originally. Your profile says you speak Igbo. That’s so cool. Is that like… Nigerian?”
I haven’t replied.
I’m deciding how much information is necessary.
Option A: “Igbo is a West African language.” Clean. Sufficient.Option B: “I am from a place that used to exist under a name people no longer use unless they have to.” Attracts questions.
I will probably go with Option A.
It keeps things moving.
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Item 7: Greatest Ikatites Alumni ’09 (Old Students Group Chat)
Susan:
Guys… random question.
Are we still doing Alumni Reunion this year?
Ada:
Doing what exactly?
Susan:
Our reunion na 😅 Like we used to.
Bayo:
For which school?
Susan:
Lol stop it. You people should not start.
Ada:
I’m serious. What school are we even repping now?
Umaru:
😂😂 valid question
Susan:
You people are mad. You know what I mean.
Othuke:
No but think about it.
The school is now in the Western Federation.
Some of us are not even “from there” anymore.
Ada:
Exactly.
Susan:
So we just… stop?
Bayo:
We already stopped.
(typing… stops)
Marvellous:
Nobody wants to organise something that ties them back to a country that failed that loudly.
Susan:
It’s not about the country.
It’s about us.
Marvellous:
It was always about the country. You just didn’t realise.
Ada:
Lowkey… if we do it, what do we even call it?
Tunde:
Exactly.
“Nigerian Reunion”?
You want people to start avoiding the event? 😂
Iyke:
Or correcting us.
“Actually, I’m Deltan now.”
“Actually, I’m from the Lower Niger Republic.”
Susan:
But we were classmates before all this.
Marvellous:
That’s memory. Not identity.
(a few seconds pass)
Umaru:
I miss it.
The noise. The food. The stupid awards we used to give ourselves.
Ada:
Same.
But it feels… off now.
Tunde:
Because nothing is anchoring it anymore.
Susan:
We are the anchor.
Marvellous:
No. We were.
(message seen by all)
Item 8: Private Chat from Susan
You didn’t say anything in the group.
Nnamdi:
Didn’t feel like it.
Susan:
You’re coming if we do it?
Nnamdi:
Do what?
Susan:
Alumni reunion.
Nnamdi:
That name alone is a problem now.
Susan:
It’s just our reunion.
Nnamdi:
It’s not “just” anything anymore.
Everything has context now.
Susan:
So that’s it? We just scatter?
Nnamdi:
I wouldn't call it scattering.
We adapted.
Susan:
By pretending we’re not from the same place?
Nnamdi:
By not forcing a connection we all ached to sever when we were together. IMHO, there's no need for nostalgia now that the world has erased Nigeria.
Nnamdi:
I have.
(An hour later)
Nnamdi:
You should, too.
The strangest thing about being a former Nigerian is not what you lose.
It’s what you stop reaching for.
There are no reunions. No attempts to preserve. No urgency to gather.
Not because we don’t remember, but because remembering has no function anymore.
A diaspora organises when there is something to hold onto.
A future. A pride. A shared direction.
We have none of those.
So we let the group chats go quiet.
One message at a time.
We did not disappear.
We just stopped insisting.
I have accepted that I am a former Nigerian.
I am yet to apply for my passport and national ID with the Lower Niger Republic.
I do not know if I ever will, but I will continue to observe them from afar.
I survived Nigeria...barely... and I’m not sure if that’s a tragedy or a victory.
Perhaps it is what it is: just survival.
And survival, I’ve learned, doesn’t leave room for looking back.
It only leaves room for the next news alert, the next careful response, the next step forward.
The mapmakers in Geneva have already moved on.
So have I.
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