THE FIRST THING I LOST IN AMERICA WAS MY VOICE

By Ijeoma Opara

I am not sure when I stopped talking.

I arrived in the U.S. in August 2024, after I was awarded a fellowship by the Howard Center for Investigative Journalism to pursue a master’s degree. Initially, everything seemed great. The first time I walked into the Philip Merrill College of Journalism at the University of Maryland, College Park, my heart was so full.

First day at Merrill College

The classrooms were high tech compared to what we had when I studied at the Nnamdi Azikiwe University in the city of Awka in southeastern Nigeria’s Anambra state. I was happy to be back in school. I always loved studying. I was among those at the top of my class as an undergraduate student and had more than three years of experience working as a journalist in Abuja. What else did I need to get through grad school?

“I became a different person from the me who came to the U.S. in August.”

I don't think journalism was a childhood dream for me, though my father insists that the signs were there. All I knew before journalism was that I loved to write nonfiction. When I started being more politically aware, I decided to pursue a journalism career, since it ticked the boxes for writing and nonfiction. I walked into the International Centre for Investigative Reporting (ICIR) in April of 2021, resumé in hand, seeking an internship in the newsroom, because I had no prior training. I was accepted and in no time, started doing relevant stories. Like the one I wrote on child sexual abuse in Niger state. I liked that story so much, I probably read it a hundred times. It felt safe to say that I was familiar with this field. 

Covering the All Progress Congress political party’s National Convention in 2022

But all it took was a few weeks into the semester for that excitement to vanish. Almost without warning, I became a different person from the me who came to the U.S. in August.

The first indication that something was wrong was when I found myself repeating sentences too often while speaking to people. The initial response I got almost every time I opened my mouth was: “I’m sorry, what?”

“One lady would squint so hard in concentration every time we talked, that I felt sorry for all the energy she was putting in.”

Before this time, I thought of myself as a fairly good English speaker. I talk a little too fast and have a fear of public speaking, but communication had never been a problem. Yet, here I was, repeating almost every sentence – every time. Sometimes, people just smiled and made polite sounds or gave responses that were in no way related to what I said. One lady would squint so hard in concentration every time we talked, that I felt sorry for all the energy she was putting in.

Maybe it was my accent. These days, I hear my accent very loudly. It has a lot of weight. It sounds like I open my mouth too wide when I speak. Like I bite down too hard on the words before I spit them out. Sometimes, it sounds like a song I am singing with a little too much energy. I had never, ever heard it before. Sometimes, I like it. Sometimes, I am not sure.

“Pepe? What is pepe?”

Maybe it is in my manner of speaking. I don’t know what to do with the “oohs” we attach to our sentences as Nigerians. The other day, a city official came for inspection at the house where I live off-campus. I mentioned that the fire alarm in my room had been beeping for a while. He said it must be the battery. 

After a moment, he looked at me and asked: “You don’t cook in here, do you?”

“No, oo!” I replied, widening my eyes.

I could have simply said “no,” but how do I convey my seriousness and sincerity and surprise at that question in just one syllable?

“Communication was taking too much energy from me. I had no choice but to shut up.”

Maybe they were not paying enough attention. Or maybe I was just stressing words differently from the Americans around me. But people were definitely struggling to understand me, and my speed probably made it worse.

One day, I told my classmate that I was craving food with lots of pepper in it.

“Pepe? What is pepe?” he asked, pronouncing it the exact same way I did.

“The thing you put in food to make it spicy,” I replied in surprise. “You people have another name for it?”

“Oh, you mean pepper?” he asked.

Apparently, I did not stress the “r” enough.

Sometimes, I too, struggled to understand other people when they talked really fast. Communication was taking too much energy from me. I had no choice but to shut up.

My life in Nigeria was simple-ish

In Nigeria, I did not have an accent. Nobody would have had any problem understanding what “pepe” meant, and there was no reason to be conscious of how I sounded.

I was the talkative child that everyone begged to keep quiet. The first child of five, I was born to two teachers and raised in Bariga, Lagos. My parents did not allow us to mingle much. We mostly just went to school or church. Other social visits were few and far between. Some memories have stayed with me from my childhood. Like following my mother to her school when I was on holidays and reading all the novels in their small library. But my childhood went by without much drama until I left for university at 16.

My days as an undergraduate student in Awka

I made great memories at the university in Awka, built lasting friendships, got burnt when I hung out with the wrong crowd. As a young adult, I got myself into so much trouble saying things I should not have. I felt my mouth was faster than my brain, and “Lord, bridle my tongue” became a prayer I said frequently. I grew older and learned to hold my tongue, but never enough to pass for a quiet person. I did not imagine that I would ever search for words and not find them.

“All I remember from my departure from Abuja are tears, headache and the lover’s back as he left the airport.” 

Now, my fondest memories are from Abuja where I moved to after graduation. I loved my job. I loved the evenings after work when I would hang out with friends over bottles of beer and peppered meat. Or go to Truck Central and listen to the live band. I loved my church. The few friends I had. It didn’t occur to me how much I would miss all these when I started applying to study abroad.

I applied to Columbia Journalism School, University of Maryland and University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign and got accepted by all three, but it was not until I was handed a white paper at the U.S. Embassy in Abuja that I realized I was actually leaving this life behind.

My goodbyes were in two major phases: the day I left Abuja to see my folks in Lagos and the day I left Lagos for the U.S.

All I remember from my departure from Abuja are tears, headache and the lover’s back as he left the airport. The heartache I felt was like a physical pain in my chest. When it was time to leave my family, I had almost exhausted my tears. Our goodbyes were said almost smoothly. My mother’s eyes were dry. But her voice was shaky when she hugged me and whispered in my ears: “Don’t stop calling me, o!”

I shook my head to indicate that I would not. If I opened my mouth, tears would follow. And my tears are another thing I cannot control. Going through immigration distracted me for a while. It was almost midnight by the time boarding was complete.

That was when the pain in my chest returned.

The next thing I lost was my confidence

There are times here in College Park, when I feel like I lost my confidence before I stopped talking. But I really think my voice disappeared first. The more I kept mute, the less confident I felt. I began to think too much before I talked. What if I made a harmless joke that got misunderstood? What if I said something really dumb? I mostly failed at this, but I tried to avoid political conversations, in case someone remembered our own situation in Nigeria.

Normally, I would be grateful for this silence, but I hated that I could not control it.

When I talk to friends from Nigeria on the phone, I feel comfortable. I raise my voice. I laugh. But twice, I got a text from my housemate telling me to “keep it down.” So, I sort of whisper through my calls. I don’t sing anymore or play loud music. My music box is just a decorative item on my desk.

I am struggling with everything 

I like America. I like the houses with lawns and no fences. I like how you can step onto the crosswalk and almost fully trust that cars will not run you over. I like the constant electricity. I love how squirrels and rabbits come out to play on our lawn. I tried to take a picture of a squirrel the other day. I maintained a reasonable distance so that it wouldn’t get scared. The squirrel observed me for a bit, then hopped towards me. When it came close enough, it stood on its hind legs, as though posing for the picture. In Nigeria, squirrels don't pose for pictures. 

This squirrel seemed to pose for the photo

My professors are great and most people are nice to me.

But I hate how much I am struggling with everything.

With finding friendships. With the cold. With knowing what type of coffee to buy when I walk into Starbucks. With spending hours at the grocery store because I am looking for the cheapest possible item to buy. Some time ago, I bought wheat bread instead of regular bread because I was so preoccupied with the price tag, I forgot to read the label. To make matters worse, grad school turned out to be more than just liking books.

What I am reading these days

My interest is in data journalism. I, who ordinarily gets dizzy just from looking at Excel spreadsheets, found myself in front of chunks and chunks of code. I always joke that I was supposed to be born before computers were invented, because I am not as tech savvy as my peers. Now, I have to take classes in R and HTML. And I have to do well in them, or what will I tell Joseph, my father?

I call the professor back a million times in every lecture. I am not alone in this, many people in class struggle with R, but I feel like I interrupt the class the most. And yet, I am not asking all the questions I have. I hold back sometimes because I don’t want to sound too dumb.

These codes threatened to take my life

The professor is kind. He pauses the class as many times as we need him to. All the professors are kind. But because my tongue now has a mind of its own, I ask questions only when I absolutely cannot help it. I also hardly give answers to questions, even if I know them. What if I am wrong and I have to repeat it twice?

“My confidence continued to take a nosedive, and it reflected in how I spoke.”

The last time I was in school was 2017. We wrote assignments by hand on sheets of paper. At best, we typed out our assignments and physically handed them to our lecturers. Here, we monitor and turn in assignments online. I am not used to this. I miss out on some assignments, just because I cannot track them properly. I’m worried that people will assume all Nigerians know nothing about technology. I am the only Nigerian in my class. I fear my classmates may not understand that this is a personal shortcoming, not a national one.

I also quickly realize that this is not 2017 anymore. It is not that easy to pick up from where I left off in undergrad. I am getting As in every course, but it doesn’t come as easily as it used to. I am fighting tooth and nail to stay on top of my game, calling classmates to verify every instruction; to ask how to approach assignments, even in cases where I know what to do.

I went to the bathroom and cried

The more I struggle, the more I lose trust in myself. I feel like a fraud and convince myself that I am not as good as the Howard Center thought. Maybe my essays were just great; I write for a living after all. Maybe my recommendation letters were just top-notch. What if these people find out that my brain is empty?

“She said, ‘I do not understand a thing you are saying,’ and ended the call.”

My confidence continued to take a nosedive, and it reflected in how I spoke. My words were always twisted up with each other. I mumbled sometimes. I could not make complete sentences. I sounded dumber by the day, even in my own ears. I did manage to keep a near-solid front in class, but beneath the façade, I struggled.

I began to understand why people picked up phony accents. You cannot help wanting people to understand you sometimes, so you try to say things the way you think they will.

It didn’t help that the master’s program is in journalism. 

One day I called a source for a story our class was working on. I introduced myself and asked my question. The lady at the other end asked me to repeat myself. I did. Maybe I talked too fast. Maybe it was my words falling over each other again, but she said, “I do not understand a thing you are saying,” and ended the call.

A lump formed in my throat. My classmate collected her number and called. The lady did not hang up. They had a conversation, and she got the information we needed.

The lump in my throat got bigger and more painful, so I went into the bathroom. I cried so much that I felt an ache in my temple. Then, I reached for my phone and called Amos Abba, a former colleague who now works as a reporter in the US.

“How did you say you do journalism in this country, again?” I asked.

University of Maryland campus

Getting my voice back

In the middle of all this, I was job-hunting. Someone directed me to a center on campus that supports underrepresented students as they navigate through college. I met with the director and told her I wanted to apply for a job.

I don’t know how it happened. Maybe because there were many Black people at the center that day. Maybe it was the fact that the director gave off vibes that fell between no-nonsense and kind. Like a highly educated Nigerian mum, but not quite. Like a person I would want to be when I grow older.

But I talked clearly and intelligently that day.

We talked about my skill sets, about my work in Nigeria. I told her about grad school. My struggles in class. How quiet I have become. I wonder if she believed me when I said I had gone mute since I came to America, because I talked non-stop. I told her about R. About missing home. If she had let me, I would have told her my family’s history.

I think my tongue stopped being shy that day, though it did not happen all at once. Maybe it helped that I talked my way into getting that job. I talked through the interview like I only ever did in Nigeria. Something about the center made me feel at home.

I am still picking up the pieces of my confidence from the floor. I have not found the same voice I had when I got on the plane that brought me here in August. I still hesitate before I ask questions. I remind myself to talk slowly. But I am much more at ease. The weight on my tongue somehow melted away.

These days, I feel like I belong in grad school. Almost like I am a part of society. Everyone now knows I am not quiet, and I happily accept this truth.

I have never been a quiet woman.

I will never be.

Ijeoma Opara is a journalist and graduate student living in College Park, Maryland. She enjoys writing, reading novels and making friends.

Instagram: ije_opara

X: ije_le