What It Means to Be Black, British and Nigerian: Identity, Belonging and Owning Your Story

I am British and I am Nigerian and for most of my life, that statement has felt pretty much unremarkable because it’s simply the reality of who I am. Yet I have noticed that other people often find it far more complicated than I do. There seems to be an ongoing fascination with dual identities, particularly when those identities sit at the intersection of race, migration and nationality. Depending on the context, I have found myself being asked to explain one part of my identity through the lens of the other. Sometimes I think there is genuine curiosity and other times there are assumptions. Occasionally there is an expectation that I should somehow reconcile the two, as though being British and Nigerian are opposing forces rather than interconnected parts of my lived experience.

The truth is that identity is rarely as straightforward as the boxes we are given to tick. Even describing myself as British-Nigerian is, in many ways, a simplification. Identity is shaped by far more than nationality or ethnicity. It is informed by family, class, geography, education, friendships, language, culture and countless experiences that influence how we see ourselves and how we move through the world. As I have become older, I have become increasingly interested in the spaces where those different aspects of identity overlap, particularly when it comes to questions of belonging, social mobility and the pressure to assimilate.

As a British-Nigerian woman from a working-class background, I find myself thinking often about the relationship between assimilation and success. I think about what people are expected to leave behind in order to move forward. I think about the subtle ways in which certain forms of behaviour, speech and self-expression are rewarded while others are quietly discouraged. I think about the emotional labour involved in navigating environments that were not necessarily designed with you in mind. Most importantly, I think about how little we talk about the hidden costs that can accompany acceptance.

“I know my generation, and subsequent generations wanted to assimilate because it was safety. And I understand that. Because of the way racism operates in this world, it makes you think you have to do your best to camouflage...blend in and almost be a chameleon. We know now, it doesn’t work. And I’ve never tried to do that. Because I don’t think it’s worth the mental gymnastics. I’m not interested in assimilation. I was born here. I have nothing to prove.” - Ronke Lawal, The Global Chatter Podcast

There is often a tendency to frame assimilation as ambition or aspiration, but for many people it is fundamentally about safety. When you grow up understanding that difference can attract scrutiny, exclusion or discrimination, it is hardly surprising that people learn to adapt. They learn which parts of themselves are likely to be accepted and which parts may require editing. They learn how to move between different worlds and how to minimise the friction that comes with standing out.

I understand why previous generations embraced assimilation as a strategy. For many immigrant families, the desire to fit in was connected to survival, stability and opportunity. Parents wanted their children to succeed, to access education, employment and security in a society that was not always welcoming. In that context, blending in could feel practical and necessary and it could feel like a form of protection. The problem is that when adaptation becomes a long-term strategy rather than a temporary response, it can begin to reshape how people see themselves.

The cost of assimilation is rarely discussed because it is difficult to quantify. It is not always visible from the outside and reveals itself in small moments. It can appear in the way someone changes their accent in professional spaces. It can appear in the hesitation before sharing a cultural reference that may not be understood. It can appear in the conscious decision to downplay aspects of identity that feel inconvenient, unfamiliar or potentially misunderstood. None of these individual actions may seem significant in isolation, but over time they can create distance between who we are and who we feel permitted to be.

This is where class enters the conversation for me. Discussions about race and identity often overlook the role that class plays in shaping people's experiences of belonging. In Britain, class remains one of the most powerful influences on how people are perceived and how they perceive themselves. Upward mobility is often presented as an uncomplicated success story, but the reality can be far more nuanced. Moving into different professional and social spaces frequently requires learning a new set of rules, expectations and cultural norms. Some people navigate this transition with relative ease. Others find themselves caught between multiple worlds, feeling simultaneously too much for one space and not enough for another.

Professional environments often reward particular ways of speaking, behaving and presenting oneself. These expectations are usually framed as professionalism but professionalism itself is not neutral. It reflects specific cultural assumptions about what competence, authority and credibility should look and sound like. The further away your natural way of being is from those expectations, the more adjustment is often required. For many people, particularly those from working-class and minority backgrounds, success can involve a constant process of translation. You learn how to make yourself legible to spaces that were not built around your experiences.

That is why I have become increasingly sceptical of conversations that treat authenticity as something simple. We often tell people to bring their whole selves to work, but very few people are honest about the fact that authenticity can carry different levels of risk depending on who you are. For some people, authenticity is celebrated. For others, it can be scrutinised, misunderstood or even penalised. The challenge is not simply being yourself, it’s learning how to remain connected to yourself while navigating systems that may encourage you to become someone else.

When I think about personal branding, this is often what I come back to. Personal branding is frequently reduced to visibility, social media or professional reputation, but at its best it is really about alignment. It is about ensuring that the person people see professionally is not completely disconnected from the person you know yourself to be privately. That does not mean sharing everything. It does not mean abandoning boundaries. It simply means resisting the pressure to erase yourself in pursuit of acceptance.

Perhaps that is why the final line of the quote from my podcast interview on The Global Chatter Podcast feels so powerful. “I was born here. I have nothing to prove.” There is a confidence in that statement that goes beyond nationality. It is a rejection of the idea that belonging must constantly be earned. It is a refusal to spend a lifetime performing legitimacy for other people. The older I become, the more I believe that true belonging has very little to do with proving yourself and far more to do with accepting that your existence does not require justification.

I am British and I am Nigerian: those identities coexist comfortably within me, even when the world occasionally struggles to make sense of them. What interests me now is not whether I belong but why some people are still expected to demonstrate that they do. Assimilation may offer temporary comfort, but it often comes at the expense of something much more valuable. There is a difference between growth and self-erasure, and I think many of us are still trying to figure out where that line sits. The challenge is not learning how to blend in everywhere you go. The challenge is learning how to move through different spaces without losing sight of yourself along the way.