Nigeria has changed since I was a young boy. In the sixties and seventies, I used to ride my bike from 41 Bourdillion Road, Ikoyi, to the Ikoyi Club. Back then, Ikoyi was still dominated by the British. To the left of our home lived a British family—the Lees. Pip Lee was a good friend, so was his brother Grayson. So kind were they to me, Kio, that not once did they invite me into their home—telling me straight up that their parents didn’t like Nigerians inside.
This was Nigeria. Lagos. A black man’s country. And these two English boys had no qualms saying that rubbish, even though they knew I was a student in England just like they were. They’d complain about how Nigerians weren’t good enough to run the tyre factory their father managed—a skinny old man in shorts with those ridiculous high socks the British wore like some kind of colonial badge. One day my brother Tonye, who was nine at the time, beat Pip—then thirteen—into a pulp. I laughed until I cried. Afterward, we invited Pip in for a drink. That was the difference—we had hospitality. They had inherited arrogance.
Anyway, I’d pedal off to Ikoyi Club, chased by bush dogs through the polished streets and elegant colonial houses. On arrival, I’d face a fortress of white British schoolchildren—because the club was flooded with expatriate kids during the holidays. I always found them common as hell. You know the type: bangers-and-mash Brits with drivers, cooks, gardeners—living like kings in Nigeria, yet nobodies back home. I had no problem reminding them they were peasants playing gods in my country.
Me? I was arrogant, spoiled, and a bit of a thug. Son of Godfrey Amachree. Anything was possible. While they sat ten to a table complaining about how “Mohammed didn’t make the bed properly” or “Tunde the driver impregnated the nanny,” we—Fanye, Victor, Johnny, the sons of Nigeria’s elite—sat at our table, drinking Chapmans, smoking, eyeing the white girls, taking bets, being loud. They’d shout at us: “Stop talking so loud, you Nigerians—this is a members’ club!”
That was the cue for a fight.
I was at Eton College. I mixed with royalty, aristocrats, sons of millionaires. Not these plebs. It was a golden opportunity to remind them—this was our country. A bunch of cockneys playing God in Nigeria? Nah. Not on my watch.
My brother Tem-Tem once ended up in jail for beating up some English boy at the Club. Brigadier Ali—an Uncle Tom married to a white woman—had him locked up. My parents were livid. Gowon was not impressed. But we were fighting back. I’d swim in the pool—usually the only Black person in there. That led to real, bloody fights, while the stewards stood and watched.
In England I had Skinheads and racists making my life hell. But in Nigeria? I wasn’t taking shit from anyone. Especially not some common British kids who wouldn’t last a day in Tunbridge Wells or Manchester without their daddy’s oil job.
The Brit kids would throw parties. Of course, they never invited Nigerians—except for Dele Fatayi-Williams, the half-caste Club mascot they’d send to the gate to tell us we weren’t welcome. My God, looking back, I laugh. It’s crazy what I grew up seeing post-Independence.
Dele would deliver the message, and we’d barge in anyway—switch off their Beatles record and blast Fela. Revolution, Nigerian upper-class style. I’d shout, “This is my country. You’re guests. None of you can tell me what to do. And if you try, you’ll be on the next flight out. And by the way—your father works for my father.”
Yep. I was a terror. A freedom fighter in short trousers. And we all were. We took our revenge for the racism we faced in English schools and streets—right out on these spoilt brats living off our land.
Those days were fun. The Club was well run. And then the British left—and the Indians came. Oh my God.
But that’s another story.
Credit: Kio Amachree
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