KAMSY ANYACHEBELU
Recipe for a Gifted Child
PUBLISHED IN FOLIO 2024: VOL. 39.
WINNER OF THE 2024 FOLIO NONFICTION PRIZE
Anyachebelu’s work is a searing memoir of the ongoing traumas of whiteness and colonialism. The hermit crab essay and the author’s incisive prose make an ideal container for the soft underbelly of family, struggle and resistance. Using a recipe to “cook” a gifted child, Anyachebelu’s prose takes us from Lagos to Ithaca, a nuanced account of the toll to belong and the fraught markers of academic success. – Nandini Sikand
On the day I contemplated dropping out of Cornell, I stood at the edge of a bridge and pondered all the overdue papers I would never have to complete and the burden of student debt I would be free from if I ceased to exist. I peered at the jagged rocks below, dusted with snow. If I jumped, I wouldn't die. I’d be caught by the nets surrounding the bridge, and within minutes, campus police would rush to the scene, forcing me to return to a life I needed rescuing from. I knew this, yet my evening walk had led me here.
I am what the United Kingdom's government calls a "High-Potential Individual." The sole criterion for determining a high-potential individual is the individual's alma mater. Your college major and cumulative GPA are irrelevant. There were 41 eligible universities in my graduating year, 23 of which were American schools, including 6 Ivy League institutions. I attended two of these institutions. Notably, none of the eligible universities are in Africa, South America, the Middle East, or South and Central Asia. On that cold Ithaca night, over 5,000 miles from home, I contemplated dying at the ivory tower university, where I once believed I’d be the most alive.
Attending a prestigious university within the American higher education system ostensibly signifies that I am worthy of increased immigration opportunities and a valuable resource to rejuvenate the UK's struggling post-Brexit economy. One path to becoming a High Potential Individual is to be a Gifted Child. If you are curious how gifted children who excel in academic systems are made, follow the recipe below.
Gifted Child Recipe
Prep & Cook Time: 18 years
Ingredients
1 First-Born Daughter
1 Supportive Mother
1 Ivy League University
1 Monotheistic God
Ambition (generous portions)
Academic Resources & Achievements
Exceptionalism
Shame
Privilege
Directions:
Prep Supportive Mother: You will need a supportive African mother who believes in ‘exposure’ (read: Western influence) and an evangelical Christian God (preferably the prosperity gospel version).
There is a usual script my mother uses as she begins the ‘academics module’ of her biblical parenting training course. “I don’t know where the desire for all my children to attend prestigious schools came from,” my mum claims, three mugs standing proudly on her office desk, each bearing the monogram ‘Cornell Mum, Upenn Mum, Northwestern Mum.’
In 1981, my mum was sent to an all-girls secondary school in her hometown, the village of Ojoto in Eastern Nigeria, far away from the bustling Lagos metropolis where she had been born. The firstborn of six children to a tailor and a factory worker, she was a streetwise child. On a hot April day, my then 13-year-old mother arrived at Onitsha's hectic, open-air market with a book title scribbled on a crumpled piece of paper in one pocket and two months' worth of saved pocket money in the other. Her school's library consisted of a single shelf of tattered and outdated textbooks, so she endured several rickety bus rides and trekked half a mile on dirt roads to purchase an English textbook, reading it by candlelight and hiding underneath the stairs to avoid dorm prefects. In secondary school, while my peers retreated to their dorm rooms after lights out, I lingered in the chilly, dimly lit common room, my rechargeable lamp by my side. My thoughts often drifted to my mum at my age in the '80s, and I would turn another page and read another chapter. We were similar in many ways, but our circumstances were worlds apart— divided by class but united by ambition.
My grandmother had wanted my mum to attend an esteemed federal school in Lagos. She saved every penny she made as a seamstress and would smuggle fabrics from Togo to make extra income. Unfortunately, she could not afford the tuition fees. To provide for my mum's younger siblings, she enrolled my mum in an under-resourced, albeit affordable, school in the village. My mum was a brilliant student, ranking at the top of her class, but no matter how hard she worked, she would never get the same opportunities her wealthier cousins would get. She never forgot that her only sin had been poverty.
“It was never rooted in family competitiveness; I just always wanted it for my children,” she says as trainees ask me which mug is mine. While she beams, I often contemplate pointing out how she vicariously lived through her children on every school prize-giving day. I look at the three cups on her desk, thinking how hers, most likely from Harvard, would be among them if my grandmother had sold enough fabric, and I allow her to bask in the delight of her cherished mugs.
Prep Child: You will need a firstborn female child. A male child will do, but a female child is preferred for optimal results. They are malleable under patriarchy and tend to internalize responsibility more quickly. Consequently, they are more likely to be people-pleasers and high achievers, driven by societal expectations of exceptionalism for black women. An African family is ideal, but any "minority culture" with professional career ideals that value meritocracy and academic achievement as a means for upward social mobility will suffice. An Asian family is a common alternative.
Add ambition, academic resources, and a supportive mother to a pan and knead together, creating a self-worth dough. Bake in a pre-heated system of meritocracy:
By third grade, I had already attended three schools. My mother was always looking out for a better private school: more competitive, with more foreign-trained teachers with a more rigorous and foreign curriculum. Even though I was at the top of my class in 1st grade, my mother found the Nigerian school’s 16-subject curriculum too bulky and the teacher-to-student ratio too disproportionate, so I moved to a school with a Nigerian-British curriculum and a racially ambiguous head teacher.
My mum transformed a spare room in our house into a library. The walls were adorned with inspirational posters, shelves stacked with textbooks and children's novels, and a long desk punctuated by colorful chairs stood at the center of the room. After school, my siblings and I retreated to the library, where she would homeschool us for hours. When we weren't completing her assigned cursive worksheets or creative writing prompts, she maintained a weekly roster of tutors—Math on Tuesdays and French on Wednesdays. We had swim practice and after-school activities on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Saturday mornings were reserved for piano lessons, and afterward was bible study, where my mum would teach all the neighborhood kids in our living room. The rest of Saturday was our free time, the only time I was allowed to watch TV. Many weekend afternoons, while playing Barbies with neighbors, I would dread the sound of the doorbell, knowing that yet another tutor had arrived.
Even the most well-intentioned mothers pass on their traumas and insecurities to their daughters. We witness it all the time: The mother who was assaulted may become overprotective of her daughter, while one who suffered domestic violence might do everything in her power to create a safe home environment. In an attempt to shield their daughters from experiencing the hardships they endured, mothers often overcompensate, inadvertently perpetuating the generational trauma they are trying to prevent. In my case, my under-resourced mum ensured that I was over-resourced, and I became burdened by the expectation of exceptionalism. She was at school almost every day despite her job as a banker: She took charge of PTA meetings, spearheaded after-school activities, and was so heavily involved in school that many parents assumed she was a staff member. She gave her all for me, ensuring all the fundamentals were covered—the best schools, a spiritual education, and the constant presence of her love—and in exchange, I was expected to be nothing short of exceptional in everything I did.
“Always stand up straight and hold your head high when walking to the stage. Stop bending.” She would say on the drive home after a mental math contest or a spelling bee, a cone of stracciatella ice cream, and the certificates and medals beside me in the back seat. Although I graced the stage almost weekly, always knowing my name would be called for the top prizes, I would approach the stage nervous and shaky, my anxiety levels high each time. I dreaded those moments, the room full, the stares of teachers, students, and parents all wondering if I would get top place again. Mum expected me to be on stage after all the hours in the library spent memorizing equations from special workbooks imported from the US. On the ride back home, I savored the taste of stracciatella and the feel of it melting down my fingers, the medals forgotten beside me, a lull before preparations for the next quiz, test, and exam.
We were a formidable duo—a union of a gifted child and a mother's tireless efforts, and the product—the perfect, well-mannered poster child of academic excellence.
Transfer the dough to an elite school. Cook on low heat for several years:
I learned early that proximity to whiteness was important. On my first day of 3rd grade at my new school, as my mother drove me past colonial mansions in Lagos's most affluent neighborhood through automatic gates and onto a cobblestoned driveway, we could barely contain our excitement. I had been on the waitlist since I was two, and as we passed through those sliding gates, I drew closer to the future my mother was determined I would have. She squeezed my hand as we turned towards the school office, revealing an expansive pebbled playground of colorful mosaic benches and trees with lush, sprawling branches. She knelt in her black skirt suit to meet my eyes, adjusted the collar of my white polo shirt, and straightened out the pleats of my adire skirt. "Do you remember Bella from nursery school?" My mom pointed to a white girl with curly brown hair and freckled cheeks in the distance. "You used to be such good friends. You should go say hi," she urged before hugging me, encouraging me to have fun and to remember the home I came from.
In Nigeria, foreign means better, even more so if the foreign was of Caucasian variety. At this British school, whiteness was not reserved for only the headteacher. All the teachers and many of the students were white. While the supporting staff were black. Whiter school = better school. This phenomenon can be observed across the habits and preferences of the Nigerian middle class: meals from Middle Eastern-owned local restaurants, struggle for entry into international schools, and Nigerian parents listening to their Nigerian children speak with pseudo-British accents. She might never admit it, but my mom wanted my reconnection with Bella to give me the privileges and power that could only come with being white in a postcolonial African country. While I joke with my friends about our adeptness at code-switching, I often wonder about the impact being conditioned to bend towards the West had on our psyches and how most of our decisions, values, and desires are tied to it.
At my new school, I quickly learned that even if your skin is dark, there are other ways to be foreign. You can adopt certain sensibilities and lifestyles. You could have Filipino nannies, forfeit Nigerian food for foreign cuisines, eat only imported snacks bought from expatriate grocery stores, only ever call white immigrants expatriates, vacation in a European country or southern American state every summer, and master a foreign accent, preferably British.
Nigerian children are subject to the psychological warfare of adopting Western sensibilities. The better your accent, the more realistic your affectation, the more American pop culture references and paraphernalia you know, the more sophisticated you are, and the closer you are to whiteness. The decider in the battle for colonial affiliation is usually class and wealth. To ensure success in a neo-colonial state, upper-middle-class parents often use their wealth to acquire even greater proximity and, if possible, a second citizenship for their children. Despite my parents' efforts, I did not have a second passport, only a mind that beat out the academic competition and a mother whose ambition for her children was almost as great as her love for them.
The older I got, the whiter my schools became. The desire to align more closely with the West would continue into my teenage years and see me flung miles away from home with a mandate to succeed.
On high heat, drizzle a portion of high expectations on the dough till it is fully coated:
I anxiously fidgeted with my eraser, struggling to remember the spelling of “determined.” Tears welled in my eyes, and my chest tightened as our teacher called out the next word on the spelling test. Spelling was my weakest subject; somehow, I had forgotten to study for this week’s test.
After recess, a swarm of overstimulated 4th graders filled our classroom as the bell rang. Our usually pleasant teacher demanded silence and began handing back our spelling books. I could sense the impending disappointment in the air. "This was the worst spelling test this class has ever had, and no one will be going to recess tomorrow. We will use that time to go over the words you missed." My classmates' collective sigh echoed through the room.
Then, my teacher whispered sternly, "Kamsy, please follow me to the Veranda." My heart sank as I nervously approached the classroom door, recognizing the disappointment in my teacher's eyes. It sent a sharp pang through my body, deflating me till I shriveled into a frightened child. Avoiding my teachers' and parents' disappointment had become my relentless pursuit, so when it unexpectedly arrived, I felt utterly defeated. "This is very unlike you, Kamsy, a two out of twelve; what happened?" I gulped, unable to answer, and looked away in shame. "Even if others get these scores, I certainly don't expect this from you."
You want to fully integrate the child’s identity and accomplishments. Use a portion of exceptionalism as a garnish on your perfectly baked child:
In 5th grade, I devoted most of my after-school hours to writing an autobiographical children’s novel. My mother assumed the role of editor, and together, we crafted what we believed to be a masterful literary piece.
On the day of my book launch, students from schools across the city applauded as I approached a high table. A school board member, our head teacher, the wife of a state governor, and a published author sat waiting for me. All these people had gathered here for me, yet I felt like a pawn in someone else's story. I took my place at the high table, attempting to ease the tension in the room with a joke aimed at the audience. I was uncertain whether I was easing their tension or my own. Throughout the day, I was passed around by photographers, teachers, parents, and journalists, repeatedly asked to smile or explain the inspiration behind my book. Each time, I responded with a well-rehearsed answer that my mother and I had practiced for hours the night before.
What started as a fun passion project, where I spent hours on colorful illustrations, quickly morphed into a nerve-wracking ordeal involving weeks of press rounds at radio stations to promote my book. I began to fall out of love with creativity. Talent show performances and hobbies became less about personal triumph and more about an expectation lumped in with the rest of my academic achievements. Anything I created became an accomplishment to distinguish myself from my peers and build a strong portfolio for future Ivy League colleges.
Years later, whether during a chance encounter at the supermarket with an acquaintance or at a family member's dinner party, I found myself condescendingly or affectionately referred to as "The girl who wrote the book." Involuntarily constrained by this single childhood achievement, there was barely any room for my identity to evolve beyond the confines of others' expectations.
You should have a nearly formed gifted child. Transfer to another much whiter elite school:
When I was 11 years old, my mother and I flew halfway across the country, leaving the thronging streets of Lagos for the sleepy Northern town of Jos. After nearly a year of searching for the perfect international secondary school in West Africa, my mother learned about an American Christian Missionary boarding school in Jos. She had found an institution that was the ideal combination of top-tier academics and Christianity and boasted of previous Ivy League graduates. All my other secondary school exams were canceled.
Throughout my academic journey, I cultivated a rapport with teachers. I believed this camaraderie between students and staff was reserved for those considered a "joy to have in class." However, it became evident that merely being white entitled students to privileges I believed came only from high performance and exemplary behavior. I learned that I needed more than excelling in meritocracy and being a people-pleaser.
On my first day, the entire student body gathered for our Opening Chapel service. We were in a large auditorium adorned with quilted banners bearing Bible verses and rows of squeaky metal chairs. I looked around at the unfamiliar faces and noticed the student population was divided into distinct demographies: white missionaries, children of staff members, a Lebanese community, non-caucasian foreigners, and the demography I was most familiar with, upper-middle-class Nigerians. I channeled my inner Blair Waldorf, wearing a white polo shirt tucked into a patterned knee-length red skirt with a matching headband and ballet flats. As I approached the chapel for service, a white woman with an accent impossible to place stopped me. She informed me that my skirt was 4 inches above my knees and violated the dress code. I stared at her in bewilderment. I had meticulously reviewed the school handbook, and my mother had ensured that all my clothes adhered to the dress code while helping me pack. As I awkwardly attempted to tug the skirt down, an older white student sauntered past us. She wore a yellow mini-skirt, an indie band T-shirt, and flip-flops. I couldn't help but inquire, "What about her skirt?” A brief silence passed between us before the teacher replied, “Well, your skirt appears tighter, and your hips make it rise when you sit, which unfortunately violates our dress code.” In Jos, I gained an understanding of the microaggression I would face later in my academic career in the US. Uprooted from my life in Lagos and transplanted to a city, the dismissal drove me to work even harder to impress my teachers.
I had grown accustomed to the white presence in Nigeria, but the extent of it in Jos was startling. I was unaware of how many foreign families had settled comfortably and for generations across cities in Nigeria beyond the confines of the capital city of Abuja and the economic hub of Lagos. They occupied space with ease and entitlement, forming communities reminiscent of retirement neighborhoods in Florida. Jos was just another city to me, and all white people seemed the same; the only difference was that I now memorized American presidents instead of Tudor Kings. While I could recite Tudor Kings back to Henry The First, I had little knowledge of Nigerian history, except for the annual speech by a well-meaning head teacher on Independence Day.
Add in academic goals, a monotheistic God, and the rest of your exceptionalism, and cook the child on medium-high in a pressure cooker:
I had not taken to this new school as easily as I had with the others. There would be no school drop-offs or pickups, no after-school sessions with my mother talking about strategies to get the best grades, and no hand on my shoulder or face in the crowd to strengthen me as the bouts of nervousness and anxiety grew. All I had were the lessons my mother had taught me, the knowledge that I had to be the best, and my mother’s voice telling me to remember the home I came from. The superintendent announced the school's theme for the year, accompanied by the verse Philippians 4:13. "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me."
My mum had recited this verse during our family devotions, and it was one of my favorite bits of scripture. Here, in cold and unfamiliar halls, the verse took on a different quality. In Lagos, our worship was joyful, with clapping, drum beats, and a mix of vibrant Igbo melodies dedicated to a Pentecostal African God. But in Jos, our devotion was underscored by the soft strains of a piano and the harmonious verses of Hillsong for a sterner, quieter, whiter, non-denominational God. The hymns felt different here; we hummed instead of danced to the worship songs, and the air was cold and sharper than the balmy Lagos heat. The hymns and the God were the same; I reminded myself as I recited the scripture along with the student body and waited for the speech that would commence the school year.
Those first days were the hardest I had ever experienced. For the first time, I got the sense that I was not good enough—not perfect enough— and I could do nothing about it. At night, the bathroom became my sanctuary, and I whispered prayers between muffled sobs. During the day, I sought solace in the company of other newcomers from Lagos, fellow privileged children whose parents dreamed big dreams. Together, we navigated the hallways and braved the cold stares of these coloured-eyed strangers. We stuck together, navigating new landmines and obstacles, this time, not in the form of new curriculums or contests, but from our peers. My classmates resented me, particularly for the attention I received due to my academic performance. I would beg teachers not to commend my work in front of the class and sought refuge in the bathroom on days when progress reports were handed out, dreading the onslaught of taunts about my grades. What I had once been celebrated for became a target on my back. These children, who had family conglomerates to inherit, could not understand why I had to try so hard.
By seventh grade, our Lagos cocoon had dwindled. One classmate transferred back to Lagos; another relocated to the US. I begged my mother to let me transfer to another school, but she insisted that Jos' tranquility was the ideal environment for academic success. I was forced to adapt and chisel away parts of my identity to fit in. I constructed the alter ego of a cool girl, an armor of survival: preppy skirts became ripped jeans, I mastered a winged eyeliner look with the precision of a black marker, and I employed all the Western affectations I learned in Lagos. My weapon of choice became humor, often self-deprecating, a precarious shield I wielded to amuse and placate my peers. I completed Rebecca's essays and earned a coveted spot in her inner circle; I allowed Hamoud to copy answers during quizzes and was invited to lunch with his friends. Every day, I remembered my mother’s words and reminded myself of my purpose at this school. If I could endure the bullying, maintain high grades, and appease my straight-haired tormentors, my dream of attending an Ivy League school remained well within reach. In a matter of years, I would escape this hellscape; all I had to do was endure.
Until then, my relationship with God had revolved around academic success—a transactional agreement with the divine to ensure excellent grades. Far from home, ostracized by peers, and my circle of fellow outcasts diminishing by the year, faith took on a deeper significance. In the past, God had only ever admonished me to live a sin-free life. I worked as diligently in my faith as in school—leading and attending Bible studies, serving as an usher in church, and devoting time to prayer and fasting. But now, as I navigated the turbulence of teenage emotions, our connection felt intimate, personal, and less transactional. My faith and commitment to academics became my lifeline.
Each month, I visited my journal. Between pages of teenage hurt and memories, I stapled the black and orange emblem of Princeton, painstakingly drawn the golden crowns of Oxford, and embellished pages with the crests of Ivy League institutions I wanted to attend. I would remember the first day in Jos, the first chapel service, and the superintendent’s speech. On that day, as I listened to the announcement of academic awards, I learned about the title of valedictorian. Between tears, hurt, and loneliness, I made a commitment to myself and God to become my class valedictorian. My academic dreams were no longer the hopes of an ambitious mother. I was determined to gain the respect the school and students denied me.
Cut a portion of exceptionalism into small cubes and let simmer in the pan on high heat. Then, make a resume salad to add to the sauteed exceptionalism:
By 10th grade, the work had begun in earnest. I was a member of the student council, a member of the National Honor Society, had the highest GPA in our class, was a track star, and had founded an NGO. I knew that high school was a long and arduous sport of resume padding in preparation for college applications, and I had begun the game as early as possible. While my peers were having their first kisses and heartbreaks, their first dye jobs and fashion mishaps, I took as many advancement placement courses as the school would allow, overextended myself in various extracurricular activities, and spent my summers at SAT boot camps, US summer schools, or architecture offices in downtown Lagos, completing internships.
During the 10th-grade award ceremony, the most important day in the school year for my family, a classmate tapped my shoulder and whispered, “You know you're not that smart, right? They just give you these awards because you're a suck-up." As my name was called for the highest GPA award, I brushed the comment off and climbed the stage. Their words stung, and I spent the walk fantasizing about how they would regret being hostile to me years from now when I received my Ivy League acceptance letter in the mail.
Add one Ivy-League university to the mix as your child is simmering. Place this pot in the rigorous college admission oven and let it bake for several years:
My mum had been sound asleep for most of the five-hour ride from Penn Station to Upstate New York. I nudged her awake to let her know we had arrived at Cornell for our first college visit. I slept for only three hours and was up bright and early. I memorized the campus map and noted all my questions about the school's architecture program for the information session later that afternoon. In the morning, my mum, feeling less tired, could finally match my excitement. We explored the campus together, imagining what life would be like when I became a student there. We savored sandwiches on the steps of the chemistry building, strolled through the libraries, bought matching university sweaters, and took turns photographing each other at various campus landmarks.
While waiting at the bus station for the journey back to New York City, I rested my head on my mum's chest and whispered, "Thank you, Mum." She held me close, softly kissing my forehead. Eight months later, she cradled me in her arms as I broke down in tears when I received rejection letter after rejection letter on Ivy Day, watching my lifelong dreams shatter with each "We regret to inform you."
Blend shame, expectations, perfectionism, self-worth, and disappointment until the mixture is smooth:
I stood in the bathroom of my parent's hotel room, clutching the edge of the sink, as I anxiously recited the lines of the valedictorian speech I had been writing for two weeks. For most of its history, most valedictorians at our school were white missionary kids. They were the lead roles in school plays and comprised most of the National Honor Society. It was unsettling. Even when I and other students expressed our concerns, we were often treated as beneficiaries of the white missionaries' benevolence, encouraged and reminded to be grateful for the quality education we received, which we could not get anywhere else in Nigeria. In the years preceding my graduation, Jos grappled with the escalating Boko Haram insurgency, and the school's white population steadily declined. Katie, my classmate, who would have been the valedictorian and considered Nigeria her home, returned to Michigan during our sophomore year.
I finished practicing my speech and performed it for my mum and aunt. I braced myself for their feedback, an anxious silence hanging in the air. Then, my mother, my most trusted critic, responded: "You can't do that." With graduation the next day, we began a relentless revision session, drawing inspiration from Myles Munroe, borrowed from my mother's well-worn collection of his books. It was my last sleepless night of high school. I pushed through fatigue to refine every enunciation and fine-tune the speech, drawing on years of experience from school plays, debate competitions, and nerve-wracking internship interviews. The following day, I took the stage, facing a packed auditorium, and as I concluded my speech, applause filled the auditorium. It marked the culmination of several arduous years of unceasing effort, and I felt the weight of relief wash over me.
After the graduation ceremony, following school tradition, my classmates and I formed a line in the hallway outside the auditorium, ready to greet well-wishers. As tears flowed and laughter echoed through the corridor, I smiled, engaging well-wishers like a campaigning politician.
"Congratulations, Nne, your speech was exceptional," one parent said while another kindly patted my shoulder.
"Thank you so much, Aunty," I responded cheerfully.
My well-wishers were barely out of earshot before they began speaking about me.
"It's such a shame she's Ivy League material and didn't get into one," one whispered.
The other chimed in, louder, "What's the point of being valedictorian when you're valedictorian of 'olodos'?"
Their words deflated me, and a deep sadness squeezed my heart, the pressure forcing shame to ooze. I hid the tears, persisting with my facade of electrifying charisma. I maintained a firm handshake and an enthusiastic smile for each well-wisher. The life of a high-achieving student takes an extraordinary psychological toll; It breeds unrelenting anxiety, self-imposed pressure, a compulsion for people-pleasing, and obsessive behavior stemming from a ceaseless cycle of striving and achievement. But, despite it all, should you fall short of expectations, even the title of valedictorian and acceptance to a top 30 globally ranked college can leave you feeling like wasted potential.
"Congratulations, we are so proud of you. That was a good speech," my best friend's father hugged me tightly.
"Thank you very much, Uncle," I replied.
Yet, I didn’t forget that he had hoped I would get into Columbia.
When left to simmer, shame and toxic ambition form a potent elixir for success. These are your final ingredients; however, they come at the cost of your gifted child’s mental health:
The day I walked to the bridge with the intent of dying was the first time I left my room in a week. Passing posters that read Need Help? You don't have to do it alone; my feet first took me to the office of a university therapist for a consultation. Accessing support proved to be an ordeal, and after weeks of waiting, I received an email from the university health services confirming a consultation for that afternoon.
Four years earlier, I landed in America as a bright-eyed, well-dressed freshman. I had been pre-selected for my first college's selective architecture program and was bursting at the seams with vitality. I would not give up on the one thing I had been working towards so easily, and I would chase my Ivy League dream. I saw my freshman year at a state school as one more test. Ambition carried me through the onslaught of Ivy rejections that first year of college, but by the summer of my sophomore year, I updated my Facebook status to announce, "Started School at Cornell University." Relief, pride, and deep fulfillment filled me as I clicked the share button. I had done it. The relief was brief, and the feeling of anxiety, my heart's rapid beating, that had followed me since 6th grade and that I thought would dissipate with my acceptance resumed.
At Cornell, the onset of 'arrival fallacy' was subtle; it crept into my dorm room those first few weeks; It approached me in bed and massaged away the ambition from my aching bones; It taunted me with unsettling questions. Now that you've made it to one of the most elite and whitest schools, now that you've fulfilled everyone's expectations, now what? I would wake up drenched in cold sweat. One by one, the brutal studio courses weeded students out of the architecture program. One night, at 3 a.m., a handful of us were still hard at work, refining our models for the upcoming critique, when my friend Natalie stormed out of the studio in tears. "I can't do this shit anymore,” she cried. She never returned to class that semester.
By the end of that first semester, I had spiraled into a weeping ball of despair. I skipped classes I worked hard to get into, spent my days taking aimless walks around campus, and cried while listening to Bob Marley's albums. I felt adrift. Who was I without my insatiable appetite for academic success?
The university's health services building was stark, white, and crowded with students. I felt anxious. In Nigerian culture, mental health issues were stigmatized, and I wondered what certain family members would think if they knew I was here, what they would say when I told them I couldn’t pray the pain away. The therapist was a petite white woman in her mid-30s. She wore a plain sky-blue sweater and grey slacks. In a tone as dreary as her office's décor, she asked why I had come in that day. I described my symptoms, including fatigue, insomnia, migraines, and a profound lack of motivation. This was far from the Ivy League utopia I had fantasized about. Her face was expressionless when she said, "What you are describing are symptoms of depression." I stared at her, waiting for her to expatiate. “This is common among students in demanding academic settings,” she went on, “especially when the weather starts to change.” I felt less alone and demoralized—there was a name for this heaviness inside me, but at the same time, the diagnosis came without an apparent cure.
William Deresiewicz, an ex-Yale professor who diagnosed this epidemic in his book Excellent Sheep: The Miseducation of American Elite and the Way to a Meaningful Life, argues that the relentless pursuit of academic excellence and the single-minded focus on building impressive careers often left highly accomplished students lacking a sense of self and purpose. Essentially, they became "Excellent sheep." My upbringing was eerily similar to the pressure cooker environment described in the book, and the cultural obsession with prestige that drove many gifted children to prioritize external validation at the expense of their well-being was not unique to America; it was present, perhaps even more so, in Nigeria. I felt purposeless. I hadn't given much thought to what would happen after this. Everything I had done up to that point had been in service to this single goal. I had changed my major multiple times and had no postgraduate aspirations.
During another one of my mental breakdowns, my friend offered some advice. Like many of our peers, she would study casing and apply to consulting firms during Thanksgiving break. They had managed their existential angst by redirecting their energies towards new ambitions like gaining entry into big tech companies, internships at the UN or World Bank, becoming Fulbright scholars, or securing acceptances to MBA/JD programs at yet another Ivy League institution. Whether I was the "Excellent Sheep" described by Deresiewicz, a rat caught in the proverbial race, or a hamster endlessly spinning on capitalism's never-ending wheel of toil, I and other gifted children had our fates seemingly sealed by a lifetime of relentless performance. I no longer wanted to participate in the pursuit of the elusive dangling carrot that was accomplishment. I wanted out.
When our time was up, the therapist handed me several worksheets and pamphlets to help me understand my condition, advising me to schedule another appointment for a follow-up session in a few weeks. As I made my way home, the late afternoon sky had already begun fading to darkness as winter drew night closer. I came across a cemetery and was compelled to walk through it, hoping reflecting on death would re-instill my will to live. As I meandered past the tombstones, I recalled my friend’s words when I told him about my troubles. He looked at me with a half-smile and said, “At some point, I decided to be mediocre so I could finally enjoy this school and live my life.” He was also Nigerian, an engineering major who, to his parent’s dismay, had chosen to pursue filmmaking upon graduation. I had no intent of ever returning to the therapist’s office and decided to throw myself off the bridge. After a lifetime of fearing mediocrity, I was faced with a choice: mediocrity or death.
Walking against Ithaca winds, I felt my phone vibrate in my coat pocket and knew it was my mum calling. Speaking to her was always the most comforting part of my day, but at that moment, I would not have been able to bear her daily prayer or her belief that mental health issues were unaddressed spiritual attacks. I ignored the call.
Throughout my academic journey, everyone constantly reminded me that the stakes of exceptionalism were high. They always talked about the heights you would reach but never the lows, and I never thought the stakes would be my life. While society often reveres exceptionalism, it largely operates on mediocrity. This societal worship of exceptionalism creates an environment where success-addicted gifted children thrive. The challenge lies in diagnosing our struggle when our pursuit of success turns desperate, leading us to adopt unhealthy habits bordering on self-destruction. Our disease is one society celebrates with applause and validation.
I closed my eyes and leaned over the bridge’s rail, allowing the cold wind to caress my skin. The first lines of Diane di Prima’s poem Revolutionary Letter #1 came to me:
“I have just realized that the stakes are myself
I have no other ransom money, nothing to break or barter but my life
my spirit measured out, in bits, spread over
the roulette table, I recoup what I can.”
My phone vibrated again, and I picked up.
“Hello dear, I have been calling you all day. Are you ok?” my mum asked.
I burst into tears.
Kamsy Anyachubelu is a Nigerian writer and community builder. She is the co-founder of The Table Community, an alternative space for spiritual growth beyond religious walls. Through her work, she attempts to find healing by interrogating the trauma inflicted by society’s insistence on fitting individuals into a box. She is a graduate of Cornell University who enjoys writing from cozy Lagos coffee shops.