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We all have stories to tell. History is not just about the big names. It’s about our everyday lives
“Isn’t that a little premature?” a relative of mine asked when I told him I was writing the story of my life so far in eight essays. For some, my life has been too short to be chronicled. I’ve not reached 30 yet, that age milestone that proves beyond doubt you are now irrevocably an adult. For others, my life has been too uneventful. I’ve watched news of wars, earthquakes and famine ticker past on my TV, safe in my living room. And you might even say my life has been too insignificant. I don’t have a Gettysburg address in my history, nor have I rescued dozens of slaves via the Underground Railroad. Nor have I invented Spanx. And yet, I have a story, as do you.
I was born in 1991 in Lagos, Nigeria, to parents who were both doctors. I grew up under a military regime that was often repressive, although I didn’t notice. My parents worked very hard to shield us from the worst of it. I spent a lot of my childhood watching television and reading Enid Blyton. Even though I lived in a city with millions of others, I felt like I lived in a province. I wanted to be in New York or in London, where real life, according to satellite TV, was happening.
Continue reading...from US news | The Guardian https://ift.tt/2CUdDN4
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