The Bias I Didn’t Know I Carried

Unconscious bias is an attitude we develop from preconceived notions about race, gender, or culture—ideas absorbed so quietly that we rarely realize they are shaping our reactions. For a long time, I did not realize I carried one.

I did not think of myself as a biased person. I believed bias belonged to other people—those who spoke loudly with hatred or acted openly with discrimination. I had no idea that mine lived quietly inside me, shaping my reactions before my conscience had time to speak.

Nigeria is home to many cultures, languages, and traditions. It is one of our greatest strengths—and also one of our deepest challenges. Growing up, I heard stories about tribes that were not my own. Some were jokes. Some were warnings. Some were passed down so casually that I never stopped to question them. Over time, those stories hardened into assumptions.

I met two women one afternoon. One of them spoke my native language fluently. The moment she did, something in me relaxed. I smiled more easily. I felt safe, familiar, connected. Conversation came naturally, and I found myself drawn to her without effort.

The other woman was from the Hausa tribe. She was quiet at first. Her clothes were simple, her appearance untidy by my standards. She did not speak my language. Yet she tried to engage me—asking questions, listening attentively, smiling warmly whenever our eyes met.

Still, I kept my distance.

I told myself I simply did not “connect” with her, but that was not the truth. The truth was harder to admit: I had already decided who she was before she had the chance to show me. Her tribe spoke louder to me than her character.

When she spoke, I answered politely but briefly. When she laughed, I looked away. I did not offer her the openness I gave her friend. I did not dislike her because of anything she had done—I dismissed her because of what I assumed she represented.

Then time intervened.

Circumstances placed us in the same space again and again. Slowly, without intention, she began to slip past the walls I had built. One day she made a joke so unexpected that I laughed out loud before I could stop myself. Another day, she noticed my silence and asked—gently—if I was okay. She remembered small details from conversations I barely recalled sharing.

She was kind in a way that did not demand attention. Funny without trying to impress. Grounded, sincere, and deeply human.

With every interaction, something uncomfortable happened: the image I had created of her began to fall apart.

I saw clearly then how close I had come to losing a meaningful relationship—not because she lacked value, but because I had refused to see it. My bias had nearly robbed me of connection, laughter, and learning.

What unsettled me most was realizing how easy it had been. My prejudice was not loud or aggressive. It hid in preference. In familiarity. In the comfort of choosing what felt like “my own.” I had not attacked her with words, but I had diminished her with distance—and that, too, is harm.

That moment forced me to look inward.

How many people had I quietly excluded before her? How many voices had I dismissed because they sounded different from mine? How often do we, as Nigerians, allow tribal identity to determine who deserves our warmth?

Unconscious bias does not always announce itself as hatred. Sometimes it shows up as silence. Sometimes it looks like politeness without openness. Sometimes it feels like choosing who to relate to based on language, appearance, or background—without ever questioning why.

The Hausa woman I once judged became my mirror. She reflected back a version of myself I needed to confront—and change.

Today, I try to pause before forming opinions. I ask myself whether my discomfort is rooted in truth or in conditioning. I remind myself that no tribe, culture, or appearance can capture the fullness of a human being.

In a country as diverse as Nigeria—and in a world fractured by division—this awareness matters. When we challenge our unconscious biases, we do more than grow individually. We create space for trust. For solidarity. For the kind of relationships that can heal communities.

I almost lost a good woman as a friend because I was biased. Instead, I gained something far more powerful: awareness.