Mireille Waku and her family are pragmatists. That, and good neighbours, have made their move a success, reports Kathy Sheridan.

Six years ago Mireille Waku, her husband, Saleh Ramazani, and their two little boys were pioneers. They were the first black family in their neighbourhood. Ben was the first black boy at his school in Lucan. They are an educated, well-travelled family with a diplomatic background and roots in what is now the Congo. Circumstances found them in Ireland, "a politically neutral country", starting from scratch and prepared for anything. But not for the Christmas cards. "From the first day neighbours came to say 'hi'," says Waku. "On our first Christmas they came with presents and wine." Was that so surprising? "Well, I lived in Belgium for many years and never had a neighbour come with a card for Christmas."

With characteristic honesty she admits she didn't like the look of Ireland to begin with. The rain never stopped and the city buildings did not inspire. "But I always say to Irish people, you have something that is more than tall buildings, you have a sense of humanity. There is something about Ireland that reminds me of Africa. The human contact is still so important. Our family are so surprised when they come here."

But she is no Pollyanna either. Being the first black family in the neighbourhood had its testing moments. "When Ben started school he would come home all upset, saying, 'They call me blackie, blackie.' "

But far from shouting racism his parents merely told him: "You are black. What's the problem? You must accept that you are black." Each time, says Waku, you have a choice about how to react; this is theirs. When the term "nigger" cropped up they told Ben: "Nigger is just a word. It depends on how you see it yourself and its intention when it was said." Anyway, the friend who used the word was on the phone minutes later to say sorry.

And clearly there were no hard feelings. When it came to buying a house the children were adamant about staying in the area, so they ended up in a house a couple of footpaths away from their first. "Even for ourselves," says Waku, "I felt so good in this area. From the first day I really loved the house and everything about it."

How people receive you depends on how you carry yourself, they believe. They've heard the complaints about loud Africans. "We are loud. Why? It's a culture. In Africa you can play music very loud, you can shout very loud and no one will even notice or say anything. But when you go to live somewhere you have to adjust, you have to respect the culture of that place. We know that, but others, maybe leaving Africa for the first time, they just don't know."

But it's not about complete surrender either. "You must not lose your own culture; it should be 50-50. We have that debate with the children. When I cook certain African foods my son will say: 'Oh, Mum, don't cook African food, there are smells. My friends will talk.' We have to educate them to live as Irish but also show them the point of our culture."

They also applied some honest cultural scrutiny to their job-seeking adventures. Ramazani found work readily enough in the IT industry, albeit starting in a junior capacity. Appointed team leader after a year, he is now on the management ladder. "In Ireland they don't care about what you are but what you can do," he says.

For Waku, despite her degrees and languages, it was more of a challenge. "I had so many interviews, so many that you begin to look at yourself and ask, well, is it my colour? But you have to be honest with yourself." She realised that what was missing was computer training. "There is an expertise which is different in Europe. Work demands are different, the culture is different. People could see that I was not ready to be given a job." So she did a year-long course in business and computer application and quickly landed a job in the financial sector.

There is a quiet but powerful ambition about the family. Eleven-year-old Ben, who hadn't a word of English when he arrived in Lucan, is now the best-known child in the school. An irrepressible singer, actor and dancer, with his funky gear and bandannas he is undoubtedly also the coolest guy at the Billie Barry stage school, where his determined quest for superstardom since the age of four roars ahead. "He's a super singer, a super dancer and very conscientious," says Lorraine Barry. "He's been rising through the classes, working like a demon and is still very likeable, very respectful." Ben's quieter brother, Saleh, at eight, has the intelligence of an 11-year-old.

As for their own entertainment, being teetotallers, Waku and Ramazani didn't quite get the point of Irish pubs until they read a book of jokes that got the point across that pubs are about conversation. They go to the movies and the occasional concert (Diana Ross is mentioned) and Ramazani has taken quite a shine to traditional Irish music. Yes, the diddley-aye kind, he grins, mimicking a fiddle.

Do they regard Ireland as home? "On Ben's first day at the Billie Barry school," says Waku, "someone asked where he was from, and he said: 'I'm Irish, but my father is originally from the Congo.' " "Where are you from?" can be a loaded question, however. "When Europeans or Americans ask I say, 'I'm Irish, originally from the Congo,' " says Ramazani.

"When Africans ask I know they want to know which country in Africa I'm from. African people don't like the question. They are thinking, why is this person asking this question? We are as Irish as the people next door. I say to the children: 'You are Irish, you are not different, there is nothing missing.' I am Irish, and that is not because I have an Irish passport. Last week, when I went to France for my job and was coming back, I felt very good, because I was going home."

Waku starts to laugh. "When we went to buy this house the broker said, 'Where are you from?' and my husband said, 'I'm Irish.' The broker looked at him closely, looked back at me and said, 'Tell him to ask his father what part of Ireland he's from.' " She's practically cracking up; Ramazani smiles weakly.

But Waku takes her Irish citizenship seriously. "You cannot be a part citizen," she says, even as she wryly describes treatment by fellow citizens that might crush a lesser woman, such as the manager of the store where she worked for 18 months who never once spoke to her directly.

They regard such episodes as out of character for Ireland. And Waku has seen the flip side. When a good friend, an Irishwoman who drives a taxi, got a call to an address where six black people demanded to be accommodated in the car and the friend said it wasn't possible, they shouted at her, calling her a stupid racist.

"Nothing was her fault, but she was so upset. We have travelled a lot. We know what is racism. As a foreigner I never felt I was different here, never felt I was watched or looked at. Ask me do I think Irish people are racist, I would say no. I think five years ago the Government opened up Ireland and never saw what was coming. When people talk about racism here I ask is it racism or are people confused?"

As hard-working taxpayers themselves, they say they understand perfectly why Irish taxpayers get angry about the system. In the US, says Waku, her brother had to exist for six months with no state support, until he was legalised. They are baffled by a social-welfare system that "encourages people not to work". It's a recurring theme among working immigrants. "There is a miscommunication between the Government and the people. People need explanations for these things."

They see the point of the proposed citizenship referendum. "How you go about it is the point," says Ramazani. His wife agrees but worries that "some people will be victimised for nothing while others will deserve it. I believe that nobody about to give birth wants to go somewhere else. They're desperate for a better life."

And, she believes, there are practical ways to help newcomers to make a contribution. "For example, African men usually have an education whereas the women do not. The result is they have no confidence, so they stay at home, have no contact with Irish people, and complain. But one income in a house is a total misery. The women must be given the means and the chance to develop skills and learn the language, and soon you will know if the will is there."