Spud & Yam

I have this cousin who calls myself & himself Spud & Yam.

You see I’m the ‘exotic’ Irish Spud and he is, well, he is proper exotic Irish Yam. (He has an Nigerian dad).

For any of you that don’t know, Ireland is still ridiculously unmulticultural. Like, OK, this little island, with big presence, is very much part of the global village, but himself has always been ‘the only black in the actual village’.

But that all might change come October. Who knows what magic is being mixed for us in the great gene pool jar?

I’m hoping baby gets all the traits himself has that I put down to his African roots.

Now, I don’t really know how he got these traits as he was born and bred in Ireland. But the only time I see anything resembling them is when I see his family Skype from Nigeria.

Skin colour aside, (as baby could potentially come out as ‘tropical’ as me – tropical white, which is white with lots of extra glare in your eyes), there’s this (African?) energy I’d love baby to have…

Himself says hello to people he barely knows. He’ll make the effort to cross the street to talk. (It often freaks people out but once they know it’s genuine they love it and look forward to it).

He has big faith. Yes I know this completely urked me when we first met. Like he goes to church and dances with his hands in the air and cries. Ok he doesn’t cry. But the strength and goodness it bring him makes it worth all the squimishes.

He moves differently. Rude stuff aside, (baaa-lush!), he moves quicker, faster and more agile than anyone his age. It’s certainly not an Irish thing. No ‘sturdy’ GAA player here. We’re talking nimble like a Serengeti white-tailed deer.

His laugh. It’s the same boomy laugh I hear shake Skype into stalling every time his dad rings. ‘Son! Hooooo hooooo hoooooo! (Screen freeze)’. It’s so jolly, free and, yeh, Nigerian, I can’t help smile as I do another mountain of ironing upstairs, (shopping online).

Then there’s expression. His sister in Nigeria, barrister with her own firm, dances when she’s happy on Skype. She stands up, waves her arms and shakes her ass showing exactly how’s she’s feeling. It lights up the computer screen to full brightness (hypothetically). Himself moonwalks while he chops veg for his tabulleh, does hand flow movements when he hears a beat he likes and laughs his boomy, jolly belly laugh all the time, with his baseball cap turned sideways.

And then there’s his humour. I didn’t get it initially AT ALL. He would say anything but the truth. ‘When I was in prison…’, (My eyes wide in horror, showing the white part that should be pink). It was always a long elaborate tale of, eh, funny talk. Everywhere we went I was like cringeeeeeeeeee. And then the numista dropped (Nigerian penny). It has to come from his cherished African storytelling heritage, right? Now this is debatable. But let me at least pretend.

So there, in a barbecued cashew nutshell, is the flave flave or energy or traits I’d love baby to take from himself, granddad and his African roots.

However, you have me thinking now. Jury is still out on that humour/ African storytelling one.