In a country where stereotypes cling like shadows, being from Ebonyi State can feel like carrying an invisible burden. From our dialects to our complexions, we are often misunderstood—and sometimes, even celebrated for being absent.
Yes, you read that right. There are people who would rather we don’t show up at all.
The average Ebonyian is met with rejection every day. It’s in the way people flinch at our intonation, in the subtle jokes about our skin tone, in the assumption that all we know how to do is farm. But here’s the strange part: when we lack these very things—our language, our appearance, our rural pride—we suddenly become “acceptable.”
Celebrated? For not having the same skin tone as my people? Celebrated for being unable to speak my dialect? Celebrated???
I once walked into an interview that was going smoothly—until I mentioned that I was from Ebonyi. Her face dropped. The light in her eyes dimmed. I knew something had changed.
Still seated there, I scanned everything I had submitted. Were my documents in order? Was there something off about my appearance? Had I said something wrong? And just as I began to doubt myself, my eyes fell on my own skin. Then I remembered: I had said I was from Ebonyi State.
And in that moment, I realised what had truly gone wrong.
But let me tell you what being from Ebonyi actually means.
An Ebonyian is culture personified—salted with tradition, thick with strength, and void of cracks. Our dialects are not just words. They are music. My brother from Izzi will greet you with an “Avooo!” The one from Ikwo says, “Ogezuo nu!” And if you think that’s beautiful, wait until a grandma from Uburu greets you. Your heart will melt.
We are a people mocked for our strength. They say, “They only know how to farm,” as if farming is not a science. As if knowing when the rains will fall, how to till the land, how to bring life from soil, is something just anyone can do.
But don’t take my word for it. Grab a plate of Abakaliki rice, or yam grown in our villages, and let the taste do the talking.
Everything they use to despise the Ebonyi person—our accent, our skin, our hard work—is what makes us a people of depth.
So, the next time you feel tempted to tone your skin just to fit the “average Nigerian look,” remind yourself:I am Ebonyi. I don’t crack.
And when you’re rejected for being who you are, dust your shoulders, smile, and say:“It’s my strength. I know they’re intimidated.”
And if they laugh at your intonation, look them straight in the eye and say,“Mbashi.” Let them struggle to understand.
You are Ebonyi. You don’t need to blend in. Stand out boldly. Because we are not the mistake — we are the message.
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