How motherhood and migration reshaped my understanding of race, identity, and activism.
Migration and Motherhood
2023 was a year of profound firsts for me. I left Nigeria and travelled abroad for the first time, landing in the United Kingdom — the same year I cast my first vote and became a mother. Among these milestones came an unexpected revelation: for the first time in my life, I realised I was Black.
This was a fact I was reminded of at every turn. As a newly arrived immigrant, I spent months applying for jobs in England, my cursor hovering over the "Black" selection on countless Diversity and Inclusion forms. I couldn't help but wonder if these submissions were truly anonymous or if my skin color was a silent factor in the rejections.
Before leaving Nigeria, I had always been confident in my professional abilities, boasting that I could secure a new role within three months. Yet, nothing prepared me for how useless my skills felt as an immigrant. Our savings dwindled fast, and despite my Bachelor's and Master's degree as well as years of experience in Marketing and Academia, the only place that would eventually hire me was a call centre.
I began this demanding job within a week of my daughter’s arrival. The luxury of maternity leave was unthinkable; as we needed money to survive. The next year became a cycle of depressive episodes. Call centre roles are difficult enough, but with a foreign accent, I was a magnet for truly creative insults every single day.
My experiences at this job and a subsequent establishment left a profound mark, but what truly “radicalised” me—and grew alongside my infant—was the rising sense of dread and unwelcome fueled by growing conservatism in the UK. This reactionary movement is itself a form of exclusionary identity politics, where the national narrative is aggressively tightened to exclude immigrants.
The hardship of blending into a new country without the cushion of wealth or a livable income, combined with shifting immigration policies, forged a stronger ethnic consciousness within me. The profound irony is inescapable: a nation whose wealth and stature were built on the plunder of lands like mine is now deploying systemic and financial barriers designed to reject us and refuse the sharing of economic proceeds. For instance, the constant, sudden changes in visa requirements and fees felt less like policy and more like a deliberate financial and systemic barrier designed to squeeze immigrants at every turn.
We often associate motherhood with kindness and nurture, but one often-overlooked truth is the fierce, passionate defensiveness a mother will employ to protect her child.
Motherhood itself is intrinsically political. The choice to have a baby, the ability to determine where and how that child enters the world, and the society you choose to raise them in are all questions every mother must answer.
This drive pushed me to delve deeper into my identity and culture. As a Yoruba woman, this pursuit became an act of decolonisation. My social content has become, in a way, a documentation of knowledge for my daughter. I have no illusion I will be here forever. Having a record of who she is, where she is from, her rich cultural heritage, and the stories that shaped me as an adult gives me comfort. I want my daughter to stand strong, knowing her origins and rich heritage, and be deeply connected to them, recognising herself as a member of a global community of Indigenous people.
The main reason we relocated from Nigeria was due to insecurity and lawlessness. I was only to find the same fears—but for different reasons—in the West. In Nigeria, anyone can become a victim of lawlessness. In many other parts of the world, you can be targeted simply because of the color of your skin. My heart breaks when I read news of missing or dying Black children, or of school children being bullied and stabbed. Anywhere you stick out, you risk becoming an easy target for ethnic supremacists.
Before I relocated, I was very active in social discourse regarding women’s rights in Nigeria. However, I avoided politics and history—partly because they felt inaccessible, and partly because history was a banned subject during my childhood. But in my self-imposed exile, something shifted. I found myself reading, researching, and engaging more deeply with Nigeria’s realities.
There’s a saying that distance makes the heart grow fonder; for many in the diaspora, it also makes the blurred edges sharper. A running joke about people abroad being accidental lovers of Nigeria; is one I find factually true because nothing motivates you to want a better home like being an unwanted foreigner in another person’s country. This internal shift refocused my activism. Previously centered on women's rights alone, the singular act of becoming a mother made me more intensely interested in the politics that affect these rights as well.
The Call for Grassroots Advocacy
One thing this experience has underscored is the volatility of identity politics—both in the West, where I faced new forms of discrimination, and back home. I believe colonialism has deeply harmed many developing nations, my country included, and the present issues we face today have been profoundly influenced by its legacy.
Activism towards local interests is a significant force across the African continent. For Nigeria and other post-colonial nations, however, the stakes are different. Our ethnic rivalries are often born out of survival—an attempt to claim or reclaim identity, compete for representation, resources, and autonomy within the artificial boundaries left behind by colonialism. These insecurities stem from a mix of historical Western manipulation and internal competition over resources. However, I won’t pretend that these struggles are purely a colonial legacy, as that would be inaccurate. Long before foreign intervention, our societies had their own hierarchies, power struggles, and territorial ambitions. The difference is that colonialism amplified and reorganised these divisions, turning natural inter-ethnic competition into systemic instability for their gain.
It is also impossible to discuss the complexities of this political landscape without addressing the place of women within it. Politics is vital to how we experience identity and fight discrimination—topics that women have long suffered from globally.
A decade ago, I was not deeply interested in the statistics of women in active politics. Without motherhood, I probably wouldn’t have been exposed to the news that five newly elected or appointed women in Lagos died within a few months of resuming office—a chilling reminder of the specific, intersectional challenges Yoruba women are facing, among other issues like femicide, Gender-Based Violence (GBV), sex trafficking, harmful cultural restrictions and practices, and other gender-based sociocultural issues.
For these reasons, every mother should be an active participant in the political process, as it directly determines the survival of herself and her offspring.
Every mother should be an active participant in the political process, as it directly determines the survival of herself and her offspring.
My activism has therefore shifted away from generalised women's rights advocacy and towards a niche focus on the grassroots protection of the rights of people in my community. By becoming a mother, I am learning to prioritise the most vulnerable: the women and children within my immediate cultural sphere. This is not a rejection of wider feminism, but a practical recognition that change starts with the specific—with the land, the culture, and the people I want my daughter to inherit.
Charity, as they say, begins at home. This is a call to mothers and women everywhere: the future you desire for the next generation must be actively built, defended, and championed today—in our homes, our cultures, and our politics.
See you next time!
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