a mirror in a crown
I spent King Charles’ coronation in a pub waiting for the football to come on the TV. After the game, I went home to tickle my nieces. Rather than pretend to care about a stranger’s family, I pinched mine while they’re young enough to request that sort of tomfoolery.
Like many people from Commonwealth countries, I grew up seeing the royal family through rose-tinted glasses. The Queen was a symbol of dignity, stability and a kind of external motherly love. A rentable grandmother. What Americans got from Disney, we got from Mama Liz. A real life fairytale. One familiar figure amidst all the seasons of life.
From the space age to the metaverse madness, she smiled, nodded, waved and generally kept herself out of trouble.
Even though I was born in England, I’m not a British citizen. To explain that lovely turn of events, we can thank Margaret Thatcher, the Prime Minister who changed the law ten years before I barreled out of the womb. But I was one of the lucky Nigerians to be granted tourist visas and my family visited often, so it felt like the country kinda accepted me.
We idolized British culture in secondary school. In 2008, my friend bought eight pairs of colorful skinny jeans in London…I remember him rocking purple skinnies and a purple sweater in the heat of Lagos. Back then, we would rather learn British slang than speak our local languages. It’s sad but true. One year, I failed Yoruba (my language) but got an A* in English. That should serve as a hint.
This country had a profound imprint on me. Till this day, when I need a laugh, I cozy up under a warm blanket and watch “Would I lie to you?” and I cackle without restraint. My neighbors are familiar with the unseemly sounds. As a football addict, it was bliss living in a country that is spiritually devoted to the sport with pitches sprouting in every corner. Soft UK rap—that rhythmic blend of poetry and spoken word woven with wit and verbal dexterity—has a special place in my heart.
No matter how long I live in America or what my autocorrect thinks, it will always be “aluminium” to me.
I loved the eight years I spent here, but the tint of rose in my glasses has worn off and I see the royal family in a different light. I still love London, her people, her vibe, her summer shenanigans. The pubs. The day parties. Proper scones. The footy. The moaning and complaining. Elite British banter. The Indian food. The public transit. The way I always run into my Lagos people here.
But that family, that institution is not mine…and there should be no pretense about it. These days, I see them as brutal suppressors, rabid resource thieves and unmatched masters of weaponized storytelling. How’s that for candor?
In this newsletter, I often dwell on the stories we tell ourselves…about work, about money, about love, about the power “our shoulds” have over us. As an engineer, I respect objective truth—in the arenas where it’s applicable and resonant. But in the tapestry of our lives, stories often wield more power than truths alone. Our minds are full of beliefs, memories, instincts, hunches, dreams, lived experiences, and even delusions. These narratives shape our perspectives.
So the same image conjures up different stories and feelings in our minds. Take the coronation crown for example:
A beautiful ornament bedazzled with hundreds of gemstones. Emblematic of skilled artisans at the top of their game. Exquisite craftsmanship and dedication adorned this crown with sapphires, emeralds, and other precious stones I’m too poor to identify.
What do you see?
I understand how someone could look at this and feel immense pride, national honor, admiration and even reverence for the institution. How they could be enveloped by a pleasant, fuzzy, warm feeling of adulation towards their country. In those jewels and stones, they could see the Brits’ timeless contributions to the world— Shakespeare, James Bond, the telephone, Newton’s laws of motion, Turing’s theories in computer science.
But in this crown, I see the architected plunder of a quarter of the world. I feel my blood pressure rise as I contemplate the impact to my home country—I seethe when I recall the images of state visits, the smiles and waves as she paraded past fawning faces. Would a Brit stand in awe of African kings or queens?
I see the rewriting of books, drawing of borders that inflame centuries-long, ongoing conflicts and the constant meddling in overseas elections. The machination that wields the British press to tell flavored lies. I recall the utterly stupid questions Immigration asked me as they looked through my Nigerian passport on my twentieth trip to London—while my American friends get a wink and a welcome. A colonial cuddle.
But the story doesn’t end there. The crown could also symbolise economic growth and the development of the Nigerian middle class, which led to Shell investing in an annual scholarship scheme that my father won in the 70s. They paid for him to study in England and he worked for Shell for decades which meant I lived a wealthy lifestyle in Nigeria. I went to good schools and my parents made sure I had more than I needed. Where would I be without that? It’s hard to say.
It could also represent a playful folly thing. For my American friends who grew up without an umbilical cord to the Brits, the crown is probably a cute thing they never think about. They might watch The Crown or occasionally read about Meghan. Or worry about Prince Andrew’s love of minors and sex scandals. But for most, it’s probably an extension of celebrity culture—nice accents, floral hats and cute cottages.
Basically, it’s complicated. There is no single story. Other Nigerians, even some in my family see the royals in a more gracious light. They believe the family is ceremonial and powerless. Or they differentiate between previous generations and today’s monarchy. I disagree but I see where they are coming from.
The intellectual’s trap is to believe your own trope. To respond “ah they have internalized colonization so much they can’t see clearly”. It’s tempting to think because I learned a power structure of the world that I’m enlightened and that others must see the crown the way I do. But all symbols are reflective—they amplify existing narratives in the viewer’s head.
The coronation might have been a ray of light in someone’s gloomy day. Perhaps they met the Queen as a child and have fond memories of those moments. Or some other reason. It doesn’t need to make sense to me.
But I couldn’t watch it. In my eyes, the crown symbolizes murder, plunder and subjugation. If I was itching for dark comedy, I’d watch Succession instead.
PS—this is the kind of essay I wouldn’t have published until I became American. Which is precisely why I needed to write it.
PPS—if you enjoyed this piece, please let me know by liking the heart button. Muchas gracias!
Great piece Tobi, you did a great job capturing the complex feelings involved with the Crown, many things I’ve never even considered being American and a mere spectator of British culture.
Like you mentioned, an American such as myself doesn’t care too much about the Royals and yet I also found myself taking a too-long glimpse at the Coronation events. Maybe because it’s so unusual and other-worldly? Colonization and the sickening excess represented by the Royals makes me livid. But I also don’t shame Brits who were both saddened by the Queen’s passing and moved by the King’s Coronation. And (being part British), I also wonder where I’d be today without American Colonization, for better or worse. Long story short, your piece here is such a good example that we can hold conflicting paradoxical thoughts and that’s ok. Even more importantly, we can allow others to celebrate something we feel is preposterous because, for them, it brings meaning and pride. (I say that in this context... And yet if there was a lavish celebration for someone like let’s say Trump... I’d be singing a different tune! Get your celebrations out of my country!! 😂)