Being a child of Nigerian parents means living in a beautiful, complicated in between. It is love that is quiet. Pride that can be heavy. Sacrifice you feel in even when no one names it out loud. Although I'll be honest Nigerians really name it out loud.

You grow up knowing what is expected of you from the age of 3. Stability. Excellence. Making the family proud. Carrying the story forward in a way that looks respectable, appeasable, safe, successful. There is nothing wrong with that... It comes from survival I think. From wanting the next generation to stand on solid ground and old age homes aren't really a thing so also sustaining and supporting the family financially, emotionally, mentally and beyond all on your own shoulders and having to wonder if you are doing the right thing by choosing a career choice, avenue, family plan, outfit that your parents never wanted for you at all.

Anyway...the rest is for therapy.

And still…there is a pull toward creativity. Toward asking questions instead of memorizing answers. Toward paths that are not always easy to explain at family gatherings (or you don't explain them at all). Toward art, movement, story, community, imagination. Toward becoming someone you can feel in your chest but cannot always neatly describe.

That space between duty and desire is so very tender. It can feel like you are holding two (more like 7) truths at once. Wanting to honour your lineage fully while also carving out a life that feels pretty aligned to who you are now. Wanting to be grounded in some way and expansive at the same time.

What I love about nights like Black Out Night, and stories like Copperbelt, is that they understand this tension without trying to fix it. They do not rush us to choose one side. They let us sit in the complexity. They reflect back the quiet negotiations so many of us live with daily. Legacy. Success. Silence. Truth. Love. Expectation. Becoming.

For me, staying deeply connected to my ancestral lineage does not mean copying it word for word. I try to listen closely. Letting it guide my values, my care, my resilience, my joy while also being very discerning. It means honoring where I come from while allowing myself to grow beyond the shape? box? itchy clothing? lectures? I was handed.

And as a Black mother, this matters even more.

I want my son to see that questioning is not disobedience. That choosing joy is not abandonment. That creativity is not a detour. It is a continuation. I want him to see Black brilliance on stage. Black tenderness in community. Black laughter in the room. I want him to know that our stories are vast, layered, and alive.

Spaces like Black Out Night offer. They give us room to exhale. To remember. To imagine. To gather without explaining ourselves. They teach our children that culture is not just something we inherit. It is something we actively live, shape, and celebrate. Hell, it gives us room to heal it a little bit.

Anywho with all that to say, if you live close, come to Black Out Night Market, Copperbelt while it's playing and BON Nuit. If you don't live close (I received y'alls e-mail but I promised myself that I'm still on vacation and can't respond back until tomorrow) then please support and show up by share the information from these links/forward last nights e-mail!:

https://nac-cna.ca/en/event/40049

Share my instagram post with everyone you know tonight and tomorrow during the day: https://www.instagram.com/reel/DTdtWR3CafK/?igsh=MWV2NGFsbjZxdzl3Mg==

Thank you for reading my rambles, and thank you for all that you do and everything that you are.

Much love, light snow and pie,
Ro