First world fragility

I visit the houses of my Nigerian community, one of which is a lady, who has an American roommate. Jessica was from Alaska, polite and open-minded, the kind that you can call a friend of Africa and blackness.

Mostly, when visiting the house, I would text the American in advance of my coming. So, she would be out and get time for a chat.  Our discussion was usually on books and the culture and life in Africa.

I continued to visit but our meeting reduced considerably as the semester progressed. In anticipation of that, we made arrangement to visit the zoo, museums and some arts galleries during the New Year break. I meet my Nigerian friend in our shared class or in the bus or in the office we have in the same building. I sometimes asked after the American, when I visited, even if I would not have a chance to meet her. According to my friend, living in the same place they could spend days without meeting.

Things had cooled off during the Thanksgiving. My Nigerian friend said I abandoned her. I already agreed she and the Egyptian are my elder sisters. (It's so much easier if you agree the ladies around you are your elder sisters, because at least they can agree to pay their Uber). I fibbed and apologized and said I was on my way coming.

Before I showed up I asked my Nigerian friend if her roommate was around. She said yes. But I saw changes in the living room and met a new face when I arrived. Some pieces of furniture were missing. I wanted to ask about her American roommate. But I kept silent. Then, after some time that the Nigerian didn’t talk about her, I brought up the topic. “Where is she?” I asked as usual. She knew whom I was referring to. 

I addressed her that way. It was half a code. In case she’s within earshot she couldn’t realize we meant her. If she suddenly appeared she couldn’t catch us at it. But more so since this Nigerian lady joked that I was secretly dating her roommate, it’s good if we devised a way of doing things.

“Oh, she left. She quit grad school,” she said. I was numbed for a moment. I felt bad and touched at the same time. Quitting school is not often about having options alone. So many things were distant experience before my coming to the US. Grad school is tough, especially for single and those without a family. More so, if you’re an international student. Talk about adjustment, the rewiring  and healing of psychic fissure, and the constant thought and struggle to keep up with multiple time zones.

Jessica checks some, but not all of the descriptions. By all standards, she is from rich family. So, what could be her case? What could make her case so different from an African, Nigerian, or some other international students? Jessica once told me how she was struggling with so many ideas in her head.

It might be that she couldn’t cope. She was always inside her room. Could spend three days without coming out. At a time the Nigerian texted her to know if she’s Okay or if she had offended her mistakenly. She was always working. She was perfectionist. And then one day, as things refused to work out according to her plan, she suddenly realized grad school wasn’t for her.

I don’t know enough about Jessica nor the American culture to define this situation. But do Nigerians quit school on account of mental health and or by simply realizing grad school isn’t meant for them? For some folks in this world life is soft, precious and fragile while others wallow in the cauldron of boiling trauma.

 

Madison, WI