We Just Don’t Call It That
Growing up in Nigeria, people hardly sat us down to really explain what racism is. We were taught it as something foreign, something that happened in America, in Europe, in history books with black-and-white photos. Racism was slavery. Racism was apartheid. Racism was white people and black people.
So for a long time, I thought racism had nothing to do with us.
Then I entered university.
And slowly, I realized we do it too we just renamed it.
Here, we call it tribalism.
On my first few weeks on campus, I noticed something strange. Before people spoke around me, someone would ask, “Do you understand Yoruba?” If the answer was no, the conversation switched. If yes, they continued like I wasn’t even there. It wasn’t hatred. It was casual. Normal. Almost invisible. But it carried a message: you belong or you don’t.
That’s how most Nigerian racism works. It’s not loud. It’s polite. It hides inside jokes, questions, assumptions, and stereotypes we repeat without thinking.
We grow up learning these labels early.
Ijebu people are stingy.
Igbo people only know business.
Edo girls are prostitutes.
Hausa people are Boko Haram.
Yoruba people are manipulative.
Fulani people are violent.
We say them laughing. We say them “as jokes.” But jokes shape thinking. And thinking shapes behaviour.
When you tell a child often enough that a whole group of people behave a certain way, that child stops seeing individuals and starts seeing categories. A person becomes a tribe before they become a human.
That’s already racism; it’s just wearing local clothes.
Tribalism is basically racism without distance. Instead of skin colour across oceans, it’s culture across states. Instead of accents from other countries, it’s surnames, languages, and facial features we recognize too well. We don’t ask, “Who are you?” We ask, “Where are you from?” first.
And in Nigeria, where you’re from decides a lot.
Politics is a good example. During elections, many Nigerians don’t vote based on ideas, competence, or character. They vote based on tribe. “He’s our person.” “She’s from my side.” We protect identity before integrity. So leadership becomes inheritance, not responsibility.
Even schools reflect it.
In some Nigerian classrooms, lighter skin is praised. Softer hair is admired. Foreign accents are celebrated. Children with certain looks are treated differently from others, consciously or unconsciously. A child begins to learn early: some appearances are more valuable than others.
That is also racism… just quieter.
As a student, you feel it socially too. Friend groups divide by language. Hostels cluster by tribe. Even dating preferences sometimes start with, “I can’t date someone from that place.” Not because of personal experience, but because of stories passed down like folklore.
And the crazy part is: most people don’t even mean harm. They think they’re just being realistic. But realism built on stereotypes is still prejudice.
We forget that nobody chooses their tribe the way nobody chooses their skin.
We also forget how dangerous this thinking becomes when life gets hard. When money is scarce, when jobs are few, when politics is tense, tribalism turns from jokes into walls.
Suspicion replaces curiosity. Fear replaces empathy.
And suddenly, people stop asking, “What did he do?” and start asking, “Where is he from?”
That’s how societies break quietly.
But growing up also means unlearning. It means noticing when your mind jumps before your heart does. It means asking why you’re uncomfortable around some people. It means realizing you were taught some things, not because they were true, but because they were repeated.
University is a strange place because it exposes you. You meet people your village never prepared you for. You sit beside people whose names sound different, whose food smells unfamiliar, whose stories don’t match your stereotypes. And slowly, reality starts arguing with rumor.
You discover that Ijebu people aren’t stingy, they’re careful.
That Igbo people aren’t only about business, they’re ambitious.
That Edo girls aren’t immoral, they’re human.
That Hausa people aren’t terrorists, they’re citizens.
You discover that tribes don’t behave. People do.
And maybe that’s the lesson.
Racism in Nigeria doesn’t always look like hatred. Sometimes it looks like habit. Sometimes it looks like humor. Sometimes it looks like loyalty. But when loyalty makes you blind, humor makes you cruel, and habit makes you unjust, it’s time to pause.
We don’t need to stop loving where we come from.
We just need to stop hating where others come from.
Maybe growing up as Nigerians is not about shouting unity, but practicing curiosity. Asking questions instead of assuming answers. Seeing humans before seeing tribes.
Because in the end, racism is not foreign.
We imported the word, but we already had the behavior.
And the first step to changing anything is admitting it lives with us.
