I was at a friend’s dinner party last month, and someone asked me about jollof rice. Not in the casual, “Oh, you’re Nigerian, I bet you make great jollof” way. It was more like, “So, what’s the definitive Nigerian take on this dish, and how does it reflect your people’s relationship with colonialism and trade?” I had a forkful of salad halfway to my mouth. I remember just blinking, feeling the weight of an entire nation settle on my shoulders. I didn’t arrive at that dinner with a PowerPoint on West African food history. I arrived with a bottle of wine and a hope that no one would ask me about politics.
That moment has stayed with me, not because it was unusual, but because it was so familiar. The pressure to represent an entire culture in every room is something I’ve carried for as long as I can remember, and I’m still learning how to set it down. It shows up in small ways. Being the only Black person in a work meeting and feeling like my performance will confirm or deny someone’s unspoken theory about an entire race. It shows up in bigger ways, too. Being asked to speak on behalf of “my community” about a news event I’m still processing myself.
I want to talk about this because I know I’m not alone. And because the weight isn’t just external. Sometimes I’m the one piling it on myself.
The Unspoken Job Description
Growing up, I learned early that my behavior would be read differently. Not just as Ziona’s behavior, but as a reflection of Nigerian parents, African women, first-generation immigrants. It’s a lesson passed down in quiet conversations and side-eyes from elders: You are not just you. You are us. There’s beauty in that communal identity, sure. But there’s also an exhausting, invisible job description: Ambassador of an Entire People.
In professional spaces, I’ve found myself hyper-aware of my tone, my hair, my lunch. Once, I brought leftover egusi soup to the office microwave and spent the next ten minutes nervously apologizing for the smell, launching into an unsolicited TED Talk about its nutritional value. No one asked me to. But I felt I had to manage the perception. If my food was “weird,” maybe I was weird. If I was weird, maybe we were weird. The logic is flawed, but the feeling is real.
This pressure also twists into a kind of performance. I’ve caught myself over-explaining Nigerian customs as if I were a tour guide rather than a person living them. I’ve smiled through microaggressions because I didn’t want to be the “angry Black woman” who confirmed a stereotype. Each time, a little piece of me felt erased.
When Curiosity Becomes a Script
There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from being treated as a cultural oracle. People mean well, usually. They’re curious. They want to connect. But there’s a difference between genuine, reciprocal curiosity and the kind that turns me into a walking encyclopedia. The first feels like an invitation. The second feels like a quiz.
I’ve been asked to explain Nollywood’s global impact during a coffee break. I’ve been asked to weigh in on corruption in African governments while waiting for an elevator. Once, someone asked me what “my people” think about the British monarchy—as if we hold a monthly vote. In these moments, I feel the room shrink. I become a representative, not a person.
What’s tricky is that I want to talk about my culture. I love sharing stories about my mother’s cooking, the chaos of Lagos markets, the rhythm of pidgin English. But that sharing should come from a place of choice, not obligation. It should be a gift I offer, not a tax I pay for being present.
The Burden I Put on Myself
Here’s the harder confession: even when no one puts me in that role, I step into it. I have an inner critic who sounds a lot like a disappointed auntie. She whispers that if I stumble over my Yoruba, I’m letting the diaspora down. If I don’t know the answer to a historical question, I’ve failed my ancestors. It’s an impossible standard, and I’m its primary enforcer.
I think this comes from a deep love and a deep fear. Love for where I come from—a fierce desire to honor it. Fear that if I don’t represent it perfectly, it will be misunderstood or diminished. But the truth is, no single person can hold up an entire culture. Cultures aren’t monoliths. They’re living, breathing, contradictory, beautiful messes. Just like people.
Letting go of that self-imposed burden feels like a small betrayal at first. But it’s actually an act of honesty. I am one Nigerian woman. One perspective. One story. I cannot be all the stories.
Finding Freedom in the Particular
What’s helped me most is learning to speak from the “I” instead of the “we.” It’s a subtle shift, but it changes everything. When someone asks about a tradition, I try to say, “In my family, we…” or “My experience has been…” It reminds me—and them—that I am not a spokesperson. I am a person with a particular life.
I’ve also started giving myself permission to not know. To say, “I’m not sure, I’d have to ask my mom,” or “That’s a great question, but it’s outside my experience.” The sky doesn’t fall. People usually nod and move on. And I feel lighter.
Another practice: I’ve stopped pre-apologizing. For my food, my hair, my name. If someone is curious, I’ll engage. If they’re uncomfortable, that’s not mine to fix. This is still a work in progress, but every time I do it, I reclaim a little ground.
For Those Who Hold the Weight
If any of this sounds familiar, I want to say: you are allowed to be just yourself. Your existence is not a debate or a dissertation. You don’t owe anyone a performance of authenticity. Your culture is not a burden; it’s a home. And homes are not museums—they are places where you can kick off your shoes and be messy.
It’s also okay to be angry about this pressure. To be tired. To want spaces where you don’t have to translate your entire heritage for an audience. Those spaces exist, and they’re worth seeking out. They’re worth creating.
For allies and friends who want to help: just see us as people. Ask about our hobbies, our favorite books, our terrible cooking experiments. Don’t make every conversation a cultural deep dive. And when we do share, listen without turning it into a compare-and-contrast with your own experiences. Let it just be ours, in that moment.
A Gentle Reframing
I’m learning to think of culture less like a flag I have to wave and more like a lens I get to look through. It shapes how I see, but it doesn’t dictate what I must say. Some days, I’ll talk about Nigerian time and the art of arriving fashionably late. Other days, I’ll talk about my obsession with reality TV or my fear of pigeons. All of it is me.
Representation matters, yes. But representation isn’t the same as being a representative. The first is about visibility and inclusion. The second is a job I never applied for. I’m resigning, unofficially, one room at a time.
So, the next time someone asks me about jollof rice at a dinner party, I might just say, “I make a mean pot, but you’d have to ask my grandmother about the history.” And then I’ll go back to my salad, free.
Frequently Asked Questions
How do I respond when someone expects me to speak on behalf of my entire culture?
It’s okay to set a gentle boundary. You can say, “I can only speak from my own experience, not for everyone.” This reminds the other person that cultures are not monolithic and protects your own peace. If the question feels invasive, you can simply change the subject.
Is it wrong to feel proud of my culture but tired of explaining it?
Not at all. Those two feelings can coexist. Pride is about your internal connection to your heritage; exhaustion comes from the external pressure to educate others. You can love your culture deeply and still need a break from being its ambassador.
How can I stop putting this pressure on myself?
Start by noticing when you’re doing it. Ask yourself: Am I speaking from “I” or “we”? Am I allowed to not know this? Give yourself permission to be a learner in your own culture, not an expert. Surround yourself with people who see you as a full human, not a cultural symbol.
