THE NIGERIAN MOMENT: How British-Nigerians quietly made their way to the top of British society

AT AKOKO, an upscale restaurant in central London, Nigerian staples such as moi-moi, stodgy bean pudding, and mosa, a savoury doughnut made from overripe plantain, become fine dining. Staff shuttle steaming bowls of jollof rice across the restaurant to clients paying 120 pounds for a tasting menu, plus another 95 pounds for a wine pairing. A shorter 55 pounds lunch menu exists for the time-pressed, the tightwads and those husbanding expense accounts. This year Akoko won its first Michelin star. It was joined by Chishuru, another Nigerian joint. Its owner, Adejoke Bakare, has gone from being a have-a-go chief working out of a temporary spot in Brixton Market in south London to a Michelin-star-winning West London mainstay in barely four years.
What is happening in food is happening elsewhere. From politics to YouTube to sport to music, members of Britain’s Nigerian diaspora have established themselves in the country’s elite. “That beaming West African mothers are now such a regular fixture on award-show red carpets and stages tells its own story,” Points out Jimi Famurewa in “Settlers”, a recent memoir-cum-history of black African London. A Nigerian moment has begun.
British Nigerians are curiously overlooked in the folk tales Britain tells itself about immigration. There is no iconic episode to match arrival of HMT Empire Windrush, the boat that brough a few hundred people from the West Indies in 1948, points out David Olusoga, a historian (himself British Nigerian). They lack the numbers of, say British Indians or the geographic spread of Poles. Instead, theirs is a prosaic story of modern migration. Airplanes bearing the parents of future chefs, footballers, politicians and musicians arrived in steady numbers throughout the 1980s and 1990s. The results, however, are extraordinary.
Michelin stars are just the start of it. British-Nigerians have put their stamp on the country’s music scene. Grime, probably the most influential British genre in the past few decades, was shaped by British-Nigerians. Or as Skepta, who won the Mercury Prize, a prestigious award, in 2016, put it: “I’m a badboy from Nigeria/Not St Lucia/Joseph Junior Adenuga/Big lips, African hooter.” Skepta’s brother, JME, is another well-known MC; their sister Julie, is a prominent DJ. It is not just a family affair. Four of the eight Mercury Prize winners since Skepta have had Nigerian heritage. Much of their success can be traced to geography. All the recent British-Nigerian Mercury winners were raised in London, which is the heart of the country’s Nigerian population. A home in the British capital is often vital to making it into Britian’s creative elite, whether that is in wealthy Hammersmith or, as in the case of the Adenuga’s, on a council estate in Tottenham. What is big in London becomes big in Britain. A niche genre like grime can spread from pirate radio to critical acclaim in a few years.
Bukayo Saka, a British-Nigerian who plays football for England and Arsenal, is another London boy made good. Mr Saka is the golden child of a golden generation of England players. No profile is complete without a mention of the fact that Mr. Saka achieved four A*s and three As in his GCSE exams. Homework was done during the 90-minute drive from West Ealing to Arsenal’s academy ground in Hale End.
That application is typical British-Nigerian story. For a demonstration, head to any train station in south-east London during term time, says Famurewa. While commuters head into central London, British-Nigerian children in oversize blazers travel often absurd distances in the other direction to outer London boroughs and Kent, which still have selective grammar schools. Not everyone can play for England, but anyone can hop on the 7:30am train to Gravesend (providing they have the grades).
An emphasis on education as a path to prosperity is hardly uncommon among Nigerians. What made the Nigerian influx different was that many arrivals were middle-class to begin with. Kemi Badenoch, one of the four remaining challengers for the Conservative Party leadership, is one case in point. Her father was a doctor, her mother a professor. In one sense Ms. Badenoch’s rise to the cabinet in the previous British government, is extraordinary. In another, it is becoming normal: another middle-class British Nigerian was determined to enter Britain’s elite and succeeded.
Britain’s Nigerian elite proves often overlooked rule. Ethnic minorities who make it into “Who’s Who”, a guide to the powerful in Britain, are slightly more likely to come from middle-class families (rather than a working-class background) than their white peer, according to “Born to Rule: The Making and Remarking of the British Elite”, a new book. It is those with plenty of privilege who tend to make it to the top. KSI, or Olajide Olatunji to his mother, is Britain’s most influential YouTuber; he boasts 24m subscribers and an empire than ranges from boxing matches to Prime, a sickly drink. KSI started life as a YouTuber as a private school boy from Watford. When asked once if he felt Nigerian, KSI replied: “If I’m getting my extended family asking for money, I feel pretty Nigerian; when I’m going to a private school, I feel pretty British.” Skim the biography of prominent British-Nigerian and you will often find the name of a prominent public school.

From Lagos to Latymer Upper
Judging a group by the cream of its crop has its limits, just as Michelin-starred restaurants reveal only so much about the dietary habits of a country at large. Last year alone about 141,000 Nigerians arrived in Britain, predominantly to do low-paid jobs in areas such social care. Their tale will be different. But the story of the British-Nigerian elite is a simple one. They are generally middle-class, always well-educated (often privately) and predominantly from London. Why are there so many British-Nigerians in the British elite? Because, often, they look just like the rest of it.

Culled from The Economist