I’ve always felt like an outsider, from a very young age. Born in Benin City, Nigeria, we moved to the UK when I was seven, so that we could all attend boarding school as my father wanted us to have the best education he could attain for us.

This news wasn’t shared with me, of course, as I was far too young to appreciate it, so on the first day at our first boarding school — luckily a place that agreed to take me in addition to my brother, who was of boarding age — I asked him when we were going home. His answer: “This is where you live now.”

At some of those first schools, I was the only black girl. I looked different, sounded strange and with my no doubt shell-shocked countenance, behaved oddly. I had a naturally shy persona, but soon learned that didn’t serve me well in an environment where I already stood out.

When my braids were removed in the first week for hair wash day — against my wishes — my mother was promptly called in to redo my hair when the resistant fist of my afro reappeared after my dunking. I learned to refine my “boo-boo accent” so that my peers could better understand my level of English.