The importance of community. by Lelosa

The importance of community. by Lelosa - November 2023 Scholarship Essay

As a young girl in Nigeria, the one thing I cherished most was family time, especially our pepper
soup dinners. From my dad’s loud laugh, to my siblings’ playful bickering, to my mom’s corny
jokes that would always illicit awkward pauses. I can still remember that feeling that would zap
inside of me when my mother would call out “zo kitaba Ene” for me to have the first taste. I
remember how the spices would transport me into a heartwarming state.
All those blissful memories had decimated in an instant, June of 2014. I had just come back from
school to a deafening silence, not a whiff of ‘uziza’ in the air. I should have known; I should
have known my life was going to change from what I once knew. That day, all I came to meet
was my frantic Aunty CeCe. She tried to act like all was well. It wasn’t. My dad had gone to the
ATM in front of Diamond Bank, while my mom waited in the car. He realized his wallet was in
the car and turned back to retrieve it. It was a split-second decision, but fate had a cruel sense of
timing. The bomb detonated behind him, leaving my parents in the hospital, my dad in a more
critical condition. As a child, I had been living in a bubble, unaware of the threat of terrorism
that creeped around me.
I had always heard about Boko Haram, but never truly regarded them. I thought that I would
never be affected. I was too safe, too protected. To see my parents lying there tore me apart. How
quickly it all happened. I couldn’t fathom it. I just remember being left in such shock. A month
later, my mom announced our moving to America. I was excited. Being an avid fan of the
Disney channel, I assumed I was going to have my own slice of this magical world. However,
my excitement quickly faded as we arrived at the airport. I noticed that my father had no bags,
and promised he would join us later. The realization hit me that we were leaving behind a life I
had known for one I couldn't yet understand.
After landing in the U.S., America was a far cry from Disney’s picture-perfect ‘suit life on deck’. I
felt like a fish out of water, from my accent to bizarre hairstyles. My once cherished
'patewo and base' hairstyle was mistaken for a dreaded Mohawk. I was the outsider, unable to
relate to my peers and their ideas of normalcy.
Back in Nigeria, we were a tight-knit community. Our society was built on mutual support and a
shared sense of purpose. But in America, the spirit of competition was overpowering. Negative
affirmations and self-doubt became my constant companions.
At home, the demand on my mother's time due to her teaching job -slowly caused a strain in our
bond as a family. Family dinners, especially our Pepper soup nights became distant memories. I
longed for the bond that had once defined my life.
As I grew older, I realized the number of young Enes that were severed from the lives they once
knew. I found a way to bond myself to the home I missed, with the opportunities America
provided. From my mother’s call of “zo kitaba Ene”, I am now calling out to the young girls who
are missing that same sense of heartwarming. I created an outreach to help women and children
that were displaced by Boko Haram.
I provide essential aid to young victims of the Nigerian insurgency. From the Wuse 2 bombing to
finding my community and launching my project, my journey embodies transformation. From
overcoming my imposter syndrome, finding an unexpected family, and turning my experiences
into a mission for change my story is a testament to the power of community and the strength in
its support.