The Fault in Our Eyes

Dear Fellow,

Is it my fault?

Is it my fault that I thought she was Muslim? Is it my fault that I thought he was—Muslim? Yes, maybe. Maybe not. Blame it on the fault in our eyes.

I went to this friend’s office. He wasn’t around, so I was asked to wait a little while for his return.

She wore a long, bright and colourful dress. Over the dress, she wore a hijab. She spoke well and her accent wasn’t Hausa. The cheerful welcome was quite unusual; though, Miriam had welcomed me that way one time. I would give a handshake, a sign of welcome. But not this time. The house owner should offer it first. But when she doesn’t, the guest should? Well, I didn’t. Hafziyat left my hand hanging the other day in public.

Before I left the office, I asked for her name. It was Angela. (A jaw drop?) Well, I was stunned too. I couldn’t contain it. I told her: I acted out the shock. She understood. “You thought I was Muslim all along, right?” she voiced. A brief exchange followed. I was not the first to guess her name from her outfit.

The naira redesign came. An hour and thirty minutes in the queue each day for cash. We bought money. A thousand naira note was sold for ₦100, ₦200, and even ₦300 successively. Just when ₦1,000 sold at ₦300, we found this shop.

I was called on the phone to come over with my ATM card. The shop had a few customers that hour, it was still morning. I wanted ₦3,000 naira. My bill, he said, was ₦100. How so? I wondered. He wasn’t joking, neither was he mistaken. I asked the second time, and he said the same thing. I wondered if he really was in the midst of the cash frenzy.

He had something like a black scar on his forehead. He spoke Hausa fluently and his accent was it. My first guess at his name was Ismail, then Muhammed. Like, who else can be this honest in business . . . in Nigeria . . . at a time like this? Fellow natives will say, “Definitely not Emeka!” I was still wondering why his bill is three times less, as I looked around the shop for signs to aid my guess at who this fellow was. It wasn’t enough, for a start, that he is one fine human . . . and then one fine Nigerian. I cared more about his appearance and then a clue at his religion, then state of origin.

On a panel in the shop was a devotional. On top of it, a book from the Jos ECWA Theological Seminary (JETS). Hold it, a little. I paid close attention to the name he was called. Three times he answered “Solo.” My mother was the one who called me over. “Is he not Muslim?” I asked. “Why is he called Solo? Or is it short for a Muslim name? He looks so Muslim, really!”

She smiled. Then she said, “His name is Solomon. He fellowships at the Seminary Church.” (The JETS premises is only a five-minute walk from his shop.)

I mumbled in surprise and allowed the information to sink in. I suddenly wanted my stereotype lenses off. I did not want to profile anyone again from that very instance. Muhammed or Anna, I do not want to guess any longer.

Image source: iStock Images

I think I am just one out of many of us who are prone to profile a person this way. We want to first have a thorough assessment of whoever we meet, so as to guide our treatment of the individual. We first want to determine if the person is male or female, native or settler, traditionalist or atheist, Nigerian or American, before considering his humanity. Our stereotype-stricken world made us so. Yet, I believe being human precedes all of these categories. Strip us bare of our stereotypes and we are just humans needing salvation from ourselves.

The fault in our eyes is that we are temporarily short-sighted about love.

Your LetterMan,

Tongjal, W. N.