A month ago, during a conversation with a friend, I discovered that my home country Nigeria derived its name from the British colonial authorities’ amalgamation of the words ‘nigger’ and ‘area’. A product of the casual Victorian racism that established blackness as inferior, the name ‘Nigeria’ is a harsh reminder of the dark colonial history that is behind the country’s current political state. In the last month, millions of Nigerians have been bravely protesting the police brutality committed by the Special Anti-Robbery Squad (SARS), a government-funded organisation with decades worth of unlawful theft, kidnappings and murders under its belt. Thousands of Nigerians have fallen victim to the ruthlessness of corrupt SARS officers, who have been known to steal civilians’ iPhones, laptops and money, or even coerce them into wiping out their bank account at ATM machines. The incident that shocked the world most, however, was the tragedy at Lekki Toll Gate, Lagos, where at least 56 innocent Nigerians were shot to death whilst proudly singing their country’s national anthem in protest of SARS police brutality. The lights at the toll gate were turned off, yet the camera phones of young Nigerians were turned on, and the whole world witnessed the atrocity that took place in Lekki that day. With millions of our countrymen risking not only their lives, but also their livelihoods to fight for a better Nigeria, British Nigerians, and Nigerians all over the diaspora, have been forced to reflect on our role in the wider political conversation.

It goes without saying, British Nigerians are indirectly benefiting from the very same colonial system that broke down our homeland. When the British authorities mapped out what we now know as present-day Nigeria in the 19th century ‘Scramble for Africa’, they mapped out the blueprint for a damned state, poverty-stricken and rife with a crabs-in-a-bucket mentality and colonial anxieties and complexes. By establishing itself as Nigeria’s ‘protectorate’, Great Britain set the tone for rest of Nigeria’s narrative, exploiting Nigerian soil and resources and then forcing its citizens to pay for their independence through a lifetime of colonial debt. In other words, Britain’s gain is Nigeria’s loss, and British Nigerians are at the crossroads in this parasitic relationship between the coloniser and the colonised. I can’t help but lament about the fact that our people back home are enduring political corruption, poverty, poor living conditions, and even senseless police brutality, whilst we enjoy higher living standards, access to employment opportunities and democracy on this side of the Pacific, in the very country that devastated our motherland. As a hybridised product of a toxic colonial relationship, British Nigerians have a responsibility to speak up against poor governance with our fellow Nigerians. We have a duty to join the conversation.

To add to the ongoing global conversation about corruption in Nigeria, we must first initiate our own little conversations, right? With this in mind, after an ‘End SARS’ Protest held by Black Lives Matter Leeds and Leeds Nigerian Students Society, I decided to interview a few British Nigerian students on their views on police brutality and corruption in Nigeria. When asked about the importance of Black British individuals getting involved in the #EndSARS dialogue, many of the students responded with statements about British Nigerians “checking our privilege” as Westerners, “picking up the slack” for our less fortunate brothers and sisters and preparing a “future home for our children”. Although miles away from home, British Nigerian youth have much to add to the conversation, maintaining a hopeful vision for a better Nigeria, where their children can live without being “seen as a minority”.

The power of the Black British voice is unquestionable. British Nigerians possess certain privileges, which our fellow Nigerians have been deprived of: the political freedom to protest without getting killed, the financial security to take time off work for a protest, and lastly, the peace of mind to speak up freely without fear of oppression. Although our voice may not seem to have much political influence on the status quo in Nigeria, with miles of ocean in between us, our contribution to the conversation is worth something. Conversations mean consideration, consideration means presence, and presence is solidarity. If we cannot be physically present with our brothers and sisters in Nigeria, we can at least be present with them in spirit.