A Nigerian Connection at Bloomingdale’s

Dear Diary:

On a recent Friday I stopped at Bloomingdale’s Clinique counter. A petite black woman in her 30s said, “What can I help you with?”

“I just want an eyebrow pencil.” She led me to a drawer and chose one.
“This is the color for you,” she said.
“Are you sure? It looks too light.”
She brought out the shade darker. “No, you’re right,” I said. “I should have trusted you.” Her accent told me she was West African.
“Come with me,” she said, leading me to the cash register. “Is there anything else you’d like?”
“Do you have a purse-size spray perfume?” She brought out a shiny red package with perfume and body cream.
“Where are you from?” I said, ignoring the package.
“Nigeria.”
“What tribe?” She looked up. This wasn’t a question she expected from a white woman.
“Ibo.”
“I na su Ibo? Do you speak Ibo?” I said.
“Oh my God,” she said to the saleswoman beside her. “She speaks Ibo.”
She turned back. “Why, how … are you married to an Ibo man?”
“Yes,” I said.
She drew me away from the cash register and said: “I just took my children to Nigeria for the first time. They loved it. Everyone was so warm and welcoming. It was different from the U.S.”
“I know,” I said. “You remind me of the sense of belonging I felt in Nigeria for so many years.”

She had a customer waiting. I bought the eyebrow pencil and the shiny box of perfume and cream. “Please come back. You don’t have to buy anything,” she said as she double-bagged my purchases.
“I will,” I promised.

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