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Everything changed when she heard her parents speaking again in a language she could not understand. They had done that several times and often did so after raising their voices at each other in English. She had just come from Africa, where she believed she belonged even with the cut-eyes people showed her. They denied that she’s African because she had light skin and long hair, while everyone around her age was very dark and had low-cropped and abrasive hair. They did not know when she came to Africa because they started seeing her out of the blue, and she grew among them. Yet, they even coined the most mournful idea that anyone seen in the dark was not from Africa; and to that, they added that they did not know whom she looked like. Majority of them claimed she must look like her mother since they have never seen her and always pointed at the sizes of her eyes, nose, lips, and feet. At times, they wondered about what they said about her because she spoke their language very well, even with a flair. She could sing the folk songs and sort out the riddles. In their mind, though, they believed she was beautiful and dreamed of being like her. But they did not tell her. Her grandma, however, called her openly “Enenebe ejeghi olu”—so beautiful that you distract people from their duties. Many men had come to arrange for their sons to marry her when she would be old enough, but her grandma always refused and told them that the destiny of the child was not marriage. She was remembered not to be friendly with the men who came with such interest, especially because they did not know a single thing about her grandchild. They saw only beauty, the color of her skin. They also saw the relative opulence that surrounded her.
“That must be my mother’s language, Chinese,” she thought and did not bother to ask because her parents would very easily switch to English that became the father-tongue in the family. Her English had some originality with how she pronounced words, and that was seductive because it made English sound like a beautiful song. Yet, the mystery of what her parents said in that language perturbed her; more so because they did so whenever her mother was excited about something and angry; and they always ended with an embrace. It felt to her often like a devilish intrusion.
“What language is that, Papa?” She asked that day, after they had stopped. “It is your language,” her mother answered in haste.
“It is, my daughter; it is Chinese. We are Chinese,” her father added.
“You cannot be Chinese, papa,” she sought to affirm. “What of the language grandma taught me, the language I spoke at home in the village with my friends at home?” She asked.
“That’s your language, too,” her father said. “Even English.” “But, I don’t know this one.”
“You will.”
“Wǒ mě ilì de nǚ ‘ér!” Her mother said, pinching her dimples. She continued, “You will learn.
You are here now; your father did not speak it when he arrived the first time. He learned.” Her mother made a funny face at her father.
“Can you tell me how you met? Papa, you are African, right? And mama is Chinese. What am I? Grandma always told me that I am a special child. There was a way they looked at me in school too.”
They looked at each other in silence. Their faces lost all traces of certainty about what to say.
“That’s long ago,” her father said. “Where do you want me to begin? From the connection in Tanzania, Zanzibar, or the British connection, or from where?”
She replied, “Begin wherever you want? All I know is what grandma said, nothing much about mama. All she said was that you are in China, that I was born there. She would show me pictures, but they did not make sense to me.”
“No! Begin from the beginning,” her mother joined in, quite eager to hear the story again. “Tell her what you told me that attracted you to me, or better still, what attracted me to you, how I reminded you of the end of the world.”
“Where is the beginning? My attraction to you was not the beginning. The beginning was my father.” He thought and dimmed his eyes a bit, of course, sorting the trajectory of his story.
“Start with what you said about the African chicken you saw,” the mother said. “But that is not the beginning,” he replied.
Oh! African chicken was not the only gastronomic curiosity at that time, but I did not know how they arrived in China. Perhaps smuggled, or carried along with the slaves aboard the Portuguese ship, or they were farmed here. Seeing them when I came out of the airport was a pleasant surprise and wonder. Not too big, and yet not too small, it chirped on the corner of the airport road, spotting black and reddish feathers. It did not crow even though it was twelve in the afternoon. Not too far from it were several ducks jerking to the nearby pond; it followed with a trot, almost rhythmic to the quacks of the ducks that varied in tone and depth.
But I was rather alone where I was, standing close to my one luggage, the only thing I had in the world then. A few clothes, some books I have read several times and another one written in Chinese. My father gave it to me and said, “Read this when you learn how to speak Chinese. My Chinese friend I met in Tanzania gave it to me.” I knew the Chinese Friend. He called me “my son.” So, it was precious to me then. It’s called liáo zhāi zhì yì. I learned that later, of course, and the Chinese characters then were a somersault to me. 聊斋志异. Written by Pu Songling. He pointed out one story in the collection, 黑鬼: Hēi guǐ. I later carried it around like the badge of my tribe, but realized later not to let anyone see it because I would be accused of being an intellectual.
I still do not understand how and why I was allowed to come. I was told about the Cultural Revolution, how Maoism was the breath of life, the spread of division, and the biblical proportion of fighting. I was naïve, only preoccupied with the need to study. It was not easy to enter China then. I came as a self-supporting student, with no clear personal network, and that made it really very hard. I had pulled out my papers. I should say I pulled what the border officers left of my papers, trying to find what they called “资本主义的智慧” and “资产阶级”. /“Zī bě n zhǚ yì de zhì huì” and “zī chǎ n jiě jí”. “Intelligence of capitalism and bourgeoisie.”
Outside the airport, the streets were not busy, but lots of people riding bicycles; cadres of young people moving with agility across the streets. They looked like a brigade of boys, but I learned later that they were girls, brandishing what looked like a small bible and blaring a loudspeaker in Chinese. I saw a streetlight that jarred my brain with real confusion; cars, not a lot at the time, stopped when the light was green, and they moved when it turned red. I was somewhat lost until I entered a bus. The driver said something.
来自非洲的工农兄弟？Láizì fě izhǒ u de gǒ ngnóng xiǒ ngdì?/ Worker-peasant brother from Africa?
I gave him my papers, pointing vigorously at the address. He became calm once he knew that I did not speak Mandarin; he drove in silence and spoke only when he was cheering the people marching on the street. Then, he stopped when a young woman dressed in military uniform stopped him. She looked like a man, with no makeup. He repeated the same thing he said to me, Lá izì fě i zhǒ u de gǒ ng nóng xiǒ ng dì. Beneath her eyes was a resolve filled with pain.
She appeared elegant and fierce at the same time. There was a certain kind of coolness on her face that was material for temptation. Radiating, incandescent eyes that hid well the fury in her soul but showed rather a stream of clairvoyance, sword, and flame.
I wondered why I came, leaving independent Nigeria, but it was consumed by war. I was even smuggled out by my father to avoid conscription into a weaponless battalion. Thanks to the British Oil worker who worked with my father in Port Harcourt after he returned from Tanzania. He would take me to London and then send me to China from there. Now, I understand the dangers he warned my father about; yet, leaving felt like a salvation to me. The nemesis of Kwashiorkor was hellish, and it killed more than billions of fired bullets and thrown bombs. Although my town, Achina, was not affected by the war, the reverberation of bombs and gunshots and distant cries permeated every fiber of my life, coupled with my father’s transistor radio that stayed on forever. We hobbled around it most of the time to listen to the war stories. My mother always told us to turn it off.
“Why do you always hunt for sad stories?” she would say, busy with chores.
“Nne m! It is not a sad story. We want to know when they are coming to us. Ọ ike nkwǚ cha. Getting ready, Nne m,” my father would reply.
He continued, “I was telling you last time how the Nigerian army came into Enugu, what they did in Eha Amufu and the rest. It is from the radio.”
“I don’t want to know so I can sleep at night,” she responded.
I did not know if I was in a better place, but my father believed what he read about African students going to China, about China being pro-Biafra. He was not fully aware of the cultural revolution, that China was Biafra of some kind. What he knew was what he pieced together as Maoism, reciting his poems like the native songs of heroism. At times, he referred to Mao’s speech about China’s need to learn about Africa.
“An institute of Africa should be established, studying African history, geography and the socio-economic situation. We don’t have a clear understanding of African history, geography and the present situation, so a concise book is badly needed,” he would quote and sought to quell my fear.
“You will be part of the introduction. Go, my son,” he would add.
The bus driver stopped. I came down, hugging my luggage. I looked into the space and felt the anxiety of a bodiless spirit. The university was closed. I met your mother in that university later. Her education was aborted by the cultural revolution. She knew nothing about Africa except what was dished to her on a platter of false stories, a single brush stroke of color; but there was this solidarity spirit in the air. Your mother was one of those assigned to study foreign languages because there was a shortage of people trained in other languages. I remember her course in France’s African colonies. Magnificent experience! Quite a testament of newness to me, then! But my arrival was an attractive opposition. Turmoil here. Violence there. Tiger bench over there. I saw a bonfire of books and wondered about what I would learn after all. I could dwell on that experience for a long time, and I would tell you about the five categories and the nine categories. The left, the right. Your wellbeing depended on where your lot fell.
It is my destiny to meet your mother, for the upheavals of life then were next to suicides and tortures. Your gentility was intoxicating amidst that, though. It was a glimmer of hope in mayhem. You know! The linger of the good that will come; she was always silent even though she speaks quite a great deal now. And her silence was mysterious, though, because there was always a smile scattered all over your face whenever I saw you. A little bit of unspoken invitation. Yet, you were feisty when you wanted to be. Speaking to you, I faltered on my Chinese so many times.
Yes, I remember. Tell her. I was rather a spectacular girl. You know. Beautiful. I remember my score of rituals: dabbing my face with a little ounce of powder, brushing my lips with red lipstick and accentuating them. In secret, of course. I did not want the anxieties of the Red Guards. I must say now that the Red Guards were not all violent in their exaltation of the working class. But, my beauty! That’s what attracted your father to me, and he started perching around me like a moth to a fire. You were not sent home; African students were being sent home, then. Say the truth. I became fond of him, though. He was equally gentle and had a meaningful life, but I was a bit afraid because he’s African. He often reminded me that he was Biafran. We “talked love”— tán liàn’ài. In secret. Yes, we talk love before we fall in love. I was stirred by the rush of so much suppressed emotions. Unimaginable. Quite empowering to a degree. Talk of the secret of joy. I was like a new person around him. With knowledge that was hidden from me. At times, I was confused by his closeness. His male body. I fell in forbidden love. Do I dare say now that my secret rebellion was justified?
“She is a girl.” That was what he said, or that’s what I heard. My body was weak from the labor, and I was coming in and out of my senses in the labor room. I remember seeing smiles on his face when he said that. His ebony flesh was radiating. He was my Mona Lisa like that. “She is a girl,” I heard him say it again, then I dozed off.
“Here is the baby,” the nurse said, giving me the baby in a swaddling cloth. I struggled to open my eyes. I could only see the face of the baby. I saw myself in the baby, skin like the color of the moon.
“She is a girl!” I heard that before the voice of my parents rushed me, castigating me in Chinese.
“This is what you have done in darkness,” my father said with a lace of anger in his tone. “You brought me shame, with a black child in my lineage. I told you to abort the child.”
“She is not going to be black like that,” my mother joined.
“How else can you be black?” My father asked. He pulled out the volume by Zhang Ji that he had been asking me to read since he saw me close with your father. It is not like he did not like him; he was the child of his brother who worked in Tanzania; that’s how my uncle described him. Wǒ de érzi. His fury, nonetheless, had a crescendo, and he was shaking the volume with his right hand raised in the air like those Christian protestant pastors bent on converting their congregation.
“And now he gave birth to a girl,” he said finally with a subdued voice. “How can I sustain them with my job in the State factory? I work 6 days. Where will they live? This space is not even enough for us.”
“They will not live with us. She will go with the man; she will live with him,” my mother said almost silently.
“How can someone give birth in this time and to a girl? We shall worry again about raising her and begin again to scream ‘Time to wake up, time to go to school.’ This is hard. This is hard.”
“Why does what should bring joy bring so much sorrow?” My mother added without actually directing the question to my father.
“What is that which should bring joy?” My father responded even without invitation. “The childbirth. The new child.”
“The black child?”
“This is the time I want to call on God,” my mother added.
“God? God does not exist. We have Mao. Now, we have a black child,” my father added with some kind of resignation.
“See the child as a blessing in disguise.”
“Do not forget the purification of China. China cannot mix with anything.” “I have a change of mind. I see something in the life of the child.”
I did not really hear my parents say those things; they are gone now. No trace. But people like you were seen as unimaginable pollution. To cut the story short, that’s why we sent you to live in Africa, to live with your father’s mother, your grandmother. I was afraid; I did not know if you would be branded “Red,” or “Black,” or “Gray.” I did not know where you were going. I regret that now, for whenever I remember that you were taken to Africa, I see myself no better than the women in the Long March who dreaded pregnancy, who aborted their babies, who gave up their children, hid them, or left them behind. Yes, I did not go through their tribulation. I was in love with your father. In secret. I should have kept you with me and called you Yafei. I still shake from that decision. Trembling. Talk of trauma! I filled myself with an abundance of fear. That’s why I fight your father. All the time. You are here now. Nothing is secret now.
“What is Long March?” she asked.
“You brought it up. Answer now!” Her father said. Smiles were littered on his face as he looked on.
“Agghhh!” She gasped. “It is a long story. Untold story, I mean. I will tell you another time. If I tell it now, I will sanitize it. I will tell you another time about lost children. We shall use it to bond. You are with me now, and I am with you. No one else can claim you now, or even share you with me.”
“Then tell me. What are those things you say to each other when you fight?” She asked them.
They looked at each other with embarrassment scribbled all over their faces, while a tinge of a smile lingered on the corners of their lips.
“Adult bickering,” her father said while her mother remained silent. “Can you say them in English?” she asked.
“What did we say? I don’t even remember. Do you remember, my dear?”
“Let’s tell her in Chinese. Yes, I remember. Everything,” her mother joined in now. “And then we can explain them in English. Nī shì zhǒ ngguó rén, hànyǚ shì nī de yǚ yán; You are Chinese; Chinese is your language.”
She continued and began to write, “Here is what we said in Chinese characters; you will get used to them soon; it is magical; it is logograph. It is Hanzi. Your father learned it.”
“Here is Pinyin –alphabets—and the English. We were not hiding anything; just recovering from your absence,” she said, and tears dropped from her eyes.
Nī bǎ tǎ biàn chéngle fě izhǒ u rén; tǎ shì wǒ de nǚ ‘ér./ You have turned her into African; she is my daughter.
It is all right; she is here now. Everything will be all right./Méiguǎnxì; tǎ xiànzài zài zhèlī . Yī qiè doǚ huì hǎ o qī lái de.
“That’s it,” they almost said at the same time.
“That’s what we were saying,” her father said with a little air of comfort.
She laughed. “I have many mother tongues now,” she said, and her eyes brightened.
“Do not cry, Mama. I am here now. Mei. . . Méiguānxì!” She continued, looking at her mother directly.
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*This piece has been awarded Honourable Mention in the category of fiction in the Second Global China-Africa Writing Competition (2026) held by CASIN (China-Africa Shanghai International Network). The competition is managed by Dr. Flair Donglai Shi (Shanghai Jiao Tong University), under the directorship of Dr. Jodie Yuzhou Sun (Fudan University). The judging panel of 2026 consisted of Dr. Lifang Zhang (Tsinghua University), Dr. Kaiyang Xu (China Foreign Affairs University), and Mr. Eric Mupona (Zhejiang University). The piece was originally written in English. The Elephant has permission from both CASIN and the author to publish it first. For more details about the competition and CASIN, contact us at casinwriting@gmail.com.
