I am not your token

I went through most of my schooling years in the UK not quite knowing where I fit in with friends. I remember coming into year 6, as the new girl, long box braids and a thick West-African accent. My teacher announced me to the class saying ‘this is Ninette and she is from Nigeria,’ fear gripped me instantly. I assumed a timid stance trying my best to shrink myself from the multiple white gazes. Then it came to the point of introducing me to my new ‘friends’, my teacher placed me with ‘the popular’ group of girls, so they could help me ‘transition’ into English schooling. Unfortunately, what ensued was a mixture of displacement, isolation and tokenism. These girls were less concerned with me fitting into school as they were fascinated with a Black African girl, often raking their fingers through my braids in wonderment, asking seriously stupid questions about living in Africa ‘do you guys live in like huts?’ ‘do you eat snakes?’ and the more insidious ones ‘Do you know anyone with AIDS?’

Now completely disregarding the dehumanisation of my 10 year old body, I realised I really didn’t like these girls. They often paraded me around like a trophy, so as to say ‘hey everyone here’s my African friend, oh make her talk she sounds really funny!’ I had no bond, no attachment with my so-called ‘friends’, who made a point of abandoning me when the novelty wore off. I eventually stopped looking for them during break and lunch times, I stopped asking to be paired with them during class activities, I increasingly felt like I was a burden. Fast forward to the next phase of British schooling, secondary school. I had fully established myself as a bookworm, a smart girl, a nerd. I joined the ‘brainy bunch’ and for a while it seemed like I had found a space where I fit, where my sense of being wasn’t constantly under attack and I was visible. Inevitably, the serenity gradually faded away. I realised that these white kids weren’t different from those I had encountered in primary school. They still tokenised me. They had that same infatuation with my blackness, my Africanness, my hair, my body. They used me as a benchmark of just how not-racist they were, often using my presence to justify throwing around the word ‘nigger’ and other racially inflammatory words. Again I found myself othered, feeling a notion of incompleteness in such a familiar but alien space. This trajectory persisted, I never really felt a sense of belonging in these ultra-white spaces no matter how nice my ‘friends’ were to me. None of them ever wanted to discuss issues that were sensitive or peculiar to me, racism wasn’t on the agenda and my discomfort certainly wasn’t a priority. I often wondered if I was asking too much of them that they consider my humanity.

I found myself battling questions of self-worth alone, trying to navigate the opaqueness of true friendship. I realised that I wanted to be seen as Black, I wanted my ‘friends’ to see colour rather than pretend. I wanted them to stand up for me when other kids would taunt me with casually-racist bullying, I wanted to be worth defending.

In fact I can truly say that being at university and finding individuals who were not only like-minded but also what I would term ‘race-minded,’ was the only time I made true friends. For the first time I used the word friendship without questioning the legitimacy of its application. My university experience also allowed me to reflect and come to terms with what I had been through at school. The full realisation that I was token hit me like a ton of bricks. I mean I always had a sense of discomfort around my peers and their behaviour towards me in school, but I didn’t have the language to appropriately describe it. I also realised that I wasn’t to blame for being tokenised, I was unfortunately placed in an environment that didn’t cater for me or have my best interest at heart.

But, I am glad that I had safe-spaces and routes of escape through the library and books. It was often therapeutic to lose myself in a good read for a moment or two. I strongly hope that Black and Brown children who are injected into similar spaces, where they are constantly exceptionalised and bombarded with intrigue and speculation, also find a healthy safe-space to explore their identities and navigate the more blurry parts of life.

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