Bath made me rethink the meaning of community

Nigeria gained independence in 1960, so by the mid–late 1960s, when my parents were born, it was less than 10 years old as an independent country. It was still only a decade or so into defining itself outside of colonial rule.

There was a sense of national identity forming across education, art, and music. A trendsetter like always. Cities like Lagos were expanding rapidly, and there was a visible confidence and excitement in what Nigeria could become.

But that excitement existed alongside instability. Just seven years after independence, the country entered Civil War. Repeated military coups and political divides exposed ethnic and political fractures. Even with the oil boom of the 1970s, which brought significant wealth, was undermined by corruption, greed and mismanagement, which permeates Nigeria today. The late Fela Kuti expressed his criticism of corruption by the Nigerian government in the album 'Zombie'.

 

By the time my parents left, the country was still relatively young, but moving to the UK in the 1980s meant entering a country with its own challenges.

Britain in the 1980s, particularly under Margaret Thatcher, was going through major economic and social change, such as deindustrialisation. Inequalities were becoming more visible. For Black immigrants, these inequalities were also racial. Events like the 1981 Brixton riots were driven by tensions between Black communities and the police, alongside broader experiences of racism and marginalisation.

I think back to this time and worry about the experiences my parents had to endure for me to have the privileges that I have now. To freely study, work and express myself. I also likewise feel excited thinking about how young they were at this stage in life. Were they also worrying about their outfits like I do? Were they pulling all-nighters for essays like me? Were they also too lazy to cook some days like me? It allows me to humanize them, rather than just idolizing them.

Nigerian communities in the UK were also forming within this context, building stability, connection and familiarity. That sense of community matters deeply to me because it is where culture is preserved and also adapted. It’s where people find each other and support each other. For example, if someone needed aso ebi tailored for a wedding, an auntie might do it for free, and in return someone else might do her hair. There’s a kind of informal exchange, a chain where everyone contributes and looks out for each other. I’ve found this to be true at Bath as well, one friend might cook and host, another might give someone a lift, and it builds into something bigger where everyone is held up by each other.

At the same time, there’s this strong push toward individualisation in the UK socially, culturally, even geographically. For me, that’s made the community feel less automatic and more intentional. The Black British identity is still relatively young, especially for first-generation families like mine, it’s not something that feels fully defined or settled. It’s still being shaped by experience.

My experience at University has played a big role in finding community. It has forced me to actively seek out connection: to find people, spaces, and moments where I felt seen, rather than just assuming they’d be there. It is meaningful to be seen. From friendships, shared experiences, music, humour, politics and more.

I have learnt, similar to how my parents may have learnt when they migrated, that community is not always inherited straightaway, but is something that is created. It is built with commitment, time and appreciation. I look at their old pictures from their house parties, gatherings, hall parties, at church and it makes me appreciate them even more, because those are the images and memories I am creating now.