“ The Nigerian
man said the sheet’s colour was red; his South African wife said it was rust.
That discrepancy almost got the Nigerian man deported. Thelma Okoro (née Dee)
and Kenneth Sunday Okoro had gone to a home affairs office for a routine
interview to have their new marriage officially recognised. Because he was a
foreigner, authorities had to satisfy themselves that this was indeed a
legitimate couple and not a case of a South African woman accepting cash to
help the Nigerian to get South African citizenship by virtue of being married
to a local. The interview went swimmingly, until the matter of the sheet
cropped up. "My husband said the sheet was red; and I said it was
rust," said Okoro. "But this is to be expected. Men are generally
colour-blind, or imprecise when it comes to colours. But the officials latched
on to that. "They said the discrepancy in our answers showed that we were
not living together, that I had been paid and was being used to facilitate and
justify his stay in our country. I was ridiculed and insulted as a gold digger.
They said I was helping a foreigner to abuse our system."
One of the
officials proceeded to say – in the presence of the Okoros child – that he
would deport "the dog" and detain the South African woman. Another
day, another government office: Okoro was accompanying her friend, Lindelwa
Uche, to a human settlements office, where the latter wanted to apply for an
RDP house."One look at the name of the applicant, the official angrily
said: ‘We don’t deal with foreigners!’ But when my friend stood her ground and
pointed out that even though she was married to a Nigerian, she was South
African, the official said: ‘If you want a house, you will have to divorce that
man.’
"It was crazy. We stormed out of the office stunned, embarrassed,
angry. But we were powerless; we had no recourse in any organisation, or any
institution," said Okoro.It was an accumulation of scenes like these that inspired Okoro, Uche,
and a few other women to do something.In October, they launched the United Nigerian Wives in South Africa
(Unwisa), a support group for local women married to Nigerians. Okoro tells me women are coming out of the woodwork now. Many had been
embarrassed to mention that they were married to Nigerians. They had no one to
share their pain with. "It’s difficult to fight some of these battles as an individual
but when you do so as a group, it helps. It also shows the South African
community that you are not just a ‘prostitute’, as some of them think of South
African women married to Nigerians," says Okoro."It shows that we are responsible women, we are wives, we are
mothers. We are committed to our husbands, and doing so as a group adds weight
to our efforts." Unwisa has branches in Johannesburg and Cape Town. But the aim is to
have a presence all over the country because Nigerians, the entrepreneurs and
risk takers that they are, have spread their wings all over South Africa, in
search of their pot of gold in the Rainbow Nation. The organisation attracts women from all walks of life – nurses,
teachers, traffic officers, police officers, street hawkers. Membership is
about 60 in Johannesburg alone, according to a magazine they have just
published. The organisation wants to act as a lobby group to challenge those
sectors of South African society that seem determined to punish these women for
the decisions they have made.
The ostracisation, said Okoro, sometimes starts with the woman’s own
family who question her wisdom for marrying a Nigerian.
Okoro, a native of Randfontein on the West Rand, did not have such a
hard time. Her father used to work and travel in many parts of Africa. As a
result, he was open-minded, and for him to have a foreign son-in-law was not an
issue.
The Okoros have been married since 2008. They have two children –
seven-year-old daughter Ngozichukwu (God’s blessing), and four-year-old son
Ogechukwu (God’s time is the best).
She works just down the street as a beautician, and he sells clothes
from a street corner.
Their children go to one of the independent schools in the city centre.
They have come to accept the reality that they occupy the twilight
world of being half South African and half kwerekwere: one day the local kids
are enthralled with the tales the Okoro children are telling about their
father’s country, the next they are reminded that their father is really not a
real person "like us", as Okoro recounts.
"The minute a Nigerian walks in seeking help, they call me to
attend to him or her because they claim they do not understand their brand of
English," she says.
Unwisa not only wants to offer a shoulder to cry on for these
marginalised South African women, but also to start a series of workshops
through which ordinary South Africans can learn not only about Nigerians, but
also about other foreigners. Wary of being seen as forming an elitist club
removed from the South African reality, members of Unwisa try to get their
husbands integrated and involved in local community efforts. For example, they
recently raised funds for a local old age home and hosted a lunch for the
inhabitants.
The country stands to lose more than Nigeria if matters should come to
a head.
What is happening at the grassroots between South Africans and
Nigerians has not been helped by recent tensions between the two countries at a
diplomatic level.
In 2012, for example, 125 Nigerian travellers to South Africa were
expelled for not having valid yellow fever certificates.
In retaliation, Nigeria expelled 56 South African businesspeople.
The discussions paved the way for South Africa to waive visas for diplomatic
and official passport holders – but the rest of the citizens will have to wait.

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