Reflections on ancestry, identity, and our shared humanity
I have never doubted who I am, where I come from, or who my ancestors were.
If I were a racehorse, I would probably describe myself as a thoroughbred.
Of course, with the benefit of age and a little wisdom, I recognize that everyone can make that claim. We are all thoroughbreds in our own right, each carrying a lineage as unique and remarkable as the next.
And before anyone misunderstands me, let me be clear. I do not consider myself superior to anyone because of my ancestry, my ethnicity, or the color of my skin. But neither do I consider myself inferior to anyone for those same reasons.
We are who we are.
All of us, God’s creation. Different shades, different languages, different cultures, different journeys, but members of the same human family. And if we trace our origins far enough back, science tells us that the story of humanity begins in Africa.
Perhaps that is why I have never felt the need to prove my identity. I have always known myself to be Yoruba, Nigerian, African. Those identities were never questions in search of answers. They were simply part of me, as natural as breathing.
But curiosity is a peculiar thing.
Despite my certainty, I eventually decided to submit my DNA for ancestry testing. Not because I expected some great revelation, but because I wondered what science might have to say about a story I thought I already knew.
Well, the results are in.
79% Yorubaland.
I smiled.
10% Igboland.
Interesting.
8% Western Bantu Peoples (Benin).
Now we were getting somewhere.
3% Benin.
And there it was. A genetic portrait of a man who had always known himself to be Yoruba, but whose ancestry, like that of so many Africans, carries echoes of other peoples and places.
I cannot say I was surprised.
After all, the boundaries that define our modern nations are relatively recent inventions. Long before colonial administrators drew lines across maps, our ancestors were moving, trading, marrying, migrating, and building communities across the African continent.
We have always been more connected than our modern identities sometimes allow us to acknowledge.
And perhaps that is the most interesting revelation of all.
The DNA test did not tell me who I was. I already knew that.
What it did was remind me that identity is both deeply rooted and wonderfully complicated. That beneath the names we give ourselves lie generations of human encounters, relationships, journeys, and stories we may never fully know.
I remain proudly Yoruba. Proudly Nigerian. Proudly African.
But I am also reminded that no people, no culture, and certainly no race has a monopoly on human dignity, intelligence, achievement, or worth.
We are all products of those who came before us.
And while my ancestors may have traveled different paths from yours, somewhere far enough back, our stories converge.
So yes, perhaps I am a thoroughbred after all.
But then again, aren’t we all?
And isn’t that a beautiful thing?
Simply O.
