Oma

When Oma asked me what “Xiao Hei” meant, I must admit—I felt guilty.

*

I was interning at a large Chinese enterprise operating in Africa. Most of my colleagues were Chinese, but if you were to calculate the exact percentage, it would be hard to say. That’s because many jobs such as drivers, security guards, janitors, receptionists were done by Nigerians. Oma was one of the few local employees I knew who held a relatively important position—she worked as a translator for the company.

I met Oma at a casting session during my business trip to the regional office. We were filming a short promotional video for the company, and we needed a female lead who could speak Chinese. My Chinese colleague arranged for two candidates: Oma, and another girl, Hope. I was to decide who was more suitable for the role.

Oma and Hope were vastly different in both appearance and personality. Hope was petite, with long braided hair. Perhaps because she had studied in China, she was more confident speaking Chinese with me. Oma, on the other hand, was taller—about 5 feet 7 inches, with a darker complexion. She wore a sleek, shoulder-length wig and was more reserved, always adding, “My Chinese isn’t very good,” whenever she spoke.

Obviously, Hope was initially chosen as the lead role. But somehow, when it came to the actual rehearsals, she would get nervous and freeze up, unable to deliver her lines. In the end, Oma’s performance turned out to be more natural and relaxed in front of the camera. That’s how I started working more closely with Oma, and through our interactions during breaks, we got to know each other better.

On the first day of filming, we worked non-stop until two o’clock in the afternoon. A colleague warmly invited me to a meal at the canteen within the project’s construction site, thanking me for promoting the project. I naturally assumed the whole film crew was invited and was just about to ask Oma to join me.

Noticing this, my colleague hesitated and quickly said, “The gathering is for Chinese employees.”

Oma heard and understood she wasn’t included, but she pretended not to and quietly got into the car back to the dorm.

*

Life in Nigeria was, in many ways, far easier than I had imagined. The company provided weekly living supplies, I had a luxurious dorm with a private balcony, and the canteen served such delicious Chinese food that I easily gained ten pounds. Transportation was taken care of—drivers shuttled us everywhere, and in less secure areas, armed escorts were provided. Compared to my struggling intern life in Beijing—renting a tiny apartment and barely making ends meet—it felt almost indulgent.

But there were still moments when work and emotions overwhelmed me. I remember one time, sitting in a car, watching the roadside scenes pass by: Nigerians sprawled on the grass, supporting their heads with their hands, motionless under the scorching sun; others perched on utility poles, staring blankly at the sky; some sat on tree roots or stone blocks.

I couldn’t see their eyes, but I felt they were like me.

Gripping the car’s grab handle tightly, I leaned against the window as the vehicle jolted along the road. I wanted to meet their gaze and ask: What are you thinking about? Do you ever contemplate the vastness of the universe and the emptiness of life? Or is it just the immediate pain and confusion, the kind of sorrow that makes you want to tear everything apart?

But I knew it wasn’t the same, because I was inside the car, while they were touching the earth.

*

Oma and I are of the same age, both born in 1998. She is Igbo and Christian. Her parents are university teachers – quite a decent job in Nigeria considering the high unemployment rate. She has four younger sisters and often posts pictures of them on her Instagram and WeChat Moments. When we were together, she would tell me how beautiful they are, but she rarely took pictures of herself.

I had never used the term Xiao Hei (little black) myself, and it always made me uncomfortable. But any impulse to question it would quickly fade, buried under the weight of workplace etiquette and social norms.

Our happiest moments were when we sneaked out during filming breaks to buy mint chocolate ice cream. Sometimes, I would visit her dorm, a tiny room filled with the scent of Jollof rice, where we would practice the local language together.

We would talk about our unresolved inferiority complex, the pressures of marriage expectations that we were slowly breaking free from, and our dreams of traveling the world. I was amazed to discover that, despite differences in nationality, race, and ethnicity, as women we shared so many similar struggles, doubts, and outlooks about life.

Interestingly, as a former Chinese language student at the Confucius Institute, Oma’s real passion was Korean dramas—she could talk endlessly about K-pop culture. When I asked her, “What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think of China?” she hesitated, unable to answer.

Oma also introduced me to Lanlan—the only Chinese child in the whole company who came to Nigeria as a family member. Six years old with starry eyes, dimples, and a sweet smile, she spoke with an adorable Hunanese accent. Since Oma could speak Chinese, Lanlan always liked to play with her. Her mum and dad were happy to see that, and they appreciated the fact that someone could take care of her when they were working.

During this business trip, the three of us—Oma, Lanlan, and I—would often take evening strolls in the compound after work, then squeeze together at a desk to play coloring games.

Three figures—different skin tones, different builds—laughing together. We became a unique sight in the compound.

*

After returning to headquarters, Oma and I chatted on WeChat almost every day, mostly about Nigerian customs and current affairs.

Then one day, she sent me a message:

—”Do you know what ‘Xiao Hei’ means?”

(note: literally “little black” or “Blackie” in Chinese)

I felt a sudden panic, worried that someone might be reading over my shoulder. It was as if I could see her eyes through the screen—detached, weary, and quietly accusing, making me feel utterly ashamed.

—”Don’t take it to heart. They probably don’t mean any harm. It’s like how Chinese people call foreigners ‘Lao Wai’.”

It was more like convincing myself than convincing her.

The phrase Xiao Hei was as common in daily work conversations as the words “let’s grab something to eat.”

“Just let Xiao Hei fix it.”

“Go tell the director and ask some Xiao Hei to come and help.”

“Why isn’t that Xiao Hei here yet?”

I had never used the term Xiao Hei myself, and it always made me uncomfortable. But any impulse to question it would quickly fade, buried under the weight of workplace etiquette and social norms.

*

I thought of her and Lanlan again.

On Christmas Eve, the compound was lit with colorful fairy lights. Lanlan, full of excitement, ran and jumped, reaching for the decorations. Oma watched her, smiling, then turned to answer a question I asked her seconds ago.

“Because we’re both lonely.”

That was why they became friends.

But later, I came to understand—the real reason they bonded was that, from the very beginning, worldly labels were never a thing between them.

Oma was not just “Xiao Hei”, as my colleagues called her.

Nor was she merely a window through which I glimpsed Nigeria.

She is an ordinary person with anger, sadness, confusion and joy. A concrete person.

–

This piece has been awarded First Prize in the category of non-fiction in the First Global China-Africa Writing Competition (2024) held by CASIN (China-Africa Shanghai International Network). The piece was originally written in Chinese and has been published on the Chinese media platform Dandu, and this English version was provided by the author and edited by Flair. The Elephant is granted rights to publish this translation first by both CASIN and the author herself. For more details about the competition and CASIN, contact us at casinwriting@gmail.com.