Africa- Do you think of Us?

Being in Africa has proven to be wearisome on my physical, emotional, spiritual and psychological self. The last two weeks we spent out of Nairobi. The first week we visited Amboseli to see the Maasai community. The second week we went to the coastal city of Mombasa to see the Swahili and Muslim communities.

I love to read. It is fulfilling and selfishly I love to read because it adds to my social capital. For each component we have a list of readings to accompany it. On our long drive from Amboseli to Mombasa I began the readings and something that I had unconsciously already known jumped out at me in the readings. It stated that these sandy beaches we were headed to were the last parts of Africa that many slaves had seen before been shipped away forever. I placed the reading in my lap and my glazed expression focused out the window. My stomach was already uneasy from the sickness I was recovering from, but this made it worse. I’ve always had a close relationship between my feelings and my physical wellbeing. Under extreme guilt my stomach can feel like a pound of cement was poured into it. When uncomfortable or scarred my heart beats fast and I begin to shake and it’s hard to walk. Things like that. Anyway- I began to have serious doubts on weather I actually wanted to go there or not. It made me sick to think about treading on the same ground my people had treaded into captivity hundreds of years ago. But what added insult to injury was the fact that I didn’t know if anyone else would understand. The other black American is a female whom I’ve come to love dearly. I was praying she would share my sentiment.

This was one of those times that I resented the fact that so few of us were on this trip. Now I know black people are different but I’ve been taught and have come to believe that there are some universal parts of us that we share. And if there were more of us here I wouldn’t have felt the need to keep quiet for so long.

The staff member whom accompanied us was Mr. Sinnary. He’s a very intelligent and charismatic man. One morning near the end of our stay there I got fed up with my feelings and needed to vent them. My fellow Black American did understand my feelings but I envied the fact that she was not tormented as I was. During breakfast when most of the students had left the area I began speaking to Sinnary about my feelings. I told him that I felt a bit uncomfortable being here. That it was kind of creepy and depressing. I wanted to know if Africa ever thought about us? I mean the white man is bad but some of those slaves were bought and paid for from other Africans. I wanted to see some plaque- some statue, something to say they remembered us. I mean- we remember them. I felt neglected and odd. Like it should be wrong to vacation on this sand soaked with slave blood. I felt like I shouldn’t be having fun there. Like I should be having a memorial service.

But in the midst of this conversation a white male- my antithesis- came and literally grabbed Sinnary to pull him away from our conversation. My heart almost stopped. I couldn’t believe how rude he was being. I voiced my disgust telling him there are ways that decent people interrupt conversations. I said I couldn’t believe he was being so disrespectful when I would NEVER treat him this way. He never seemed phased. He barley looked at me. Like my blackness was invisible. I told him that all decency that I thought abided in him was gone. I was very hurt. The night before almost the exact thing had happened when I was asking Sinnary to clarify the significance of the Mijikenda people we had seen. But this time was much worse. I don’t make a habit of being vulnerable, but this time I was. I had feelings I couldn’t reconcile and it hurt that I was the only one being persecuted by them. In the midst of me discussing my jacked identity calamity and black history blemish a white man had ended my quest for answers. How symbolic. How ugly and sick and ironic. Even in Africa as I search for myself I’m thwarted by the white man. Lol. Please read this with sympathy because I am also currently reading the Autobiography of Malcolm X. It’s crazy to read this while in Africa. I usually put up with a lot of mistreatment but what I cannot stand is being disrespected. And at that moment that was for me the tip of disrespect of not only me but also my people. And you DON’T do that- I’m Diamond dammit. I wanted to hit him. It’s taken every bit of Christianity in me not to take vengeance (that characteristic comes from my Deddy). I was hurt that he didn’t understand because I wanted him to… but I know he never will. Not because he’s a white man- but because he has no concept of respect for another adult. His mother should have done better.  

That afternoon my black friend, my white female friend, and myself went out on the beach- we poured some liquor in the sand and I said a prayer for their souls and all of us descendants. We paid homage. I felt much, much, much better. It’s one thing to read about that dark past- but another thing to look it in the face. I have no clue what I’ll feel like if I ever go Deep South.

Ninakuacha na hii (I leave you with this)

A couple weeks ago during my Urban homestay I was introduced to one of my sibling’s friends. Once hearing that I was American she began to slump her shoulders and back and began spewing a bunch of “Yo homie” and “Dog” and “ya know wat im saying’”… I wanted to hit her. But I didn’t’. I smiled and spoke to her in Swahili. Thanks to the media some parts of Africa have the same view of us that white American suburbia has. I’m here to set them straight. Ignorance is not confined to white America, many Africans don’t know who we are either. That’s why I’m here. 

Why Can't it just be about Jesus?!?

           I hunted and gathered. We drove for hours into the bush. As we drove we passed hundreds of little houses made of mud and banana leaves and grass. We passed hundreds of little babies running and screaming and waving with enthusiasm. The first full day we went to gather roots for eating with the women. As soon as we arrived at their site my heart immediately got excited when I saw the beautiful chocolate babies everywhere! We were given a tour of the house and were asked if we had any questions- I just had one, “Ninaweza kubeba motto?”= “Can I hold a baby?” So within five minuets I had a beautiful naked drop of cocoa in my arms! My life seemed complete. I was wearing a kanga and sat down with the rest of the women with the baby in my arms hoping to disappear among them. I did- one of my cohorts said “Diamond I didn’t even notice you there!” And the biggest grin spread across my face. The baby, a boy, liked me greatly. He seemed content and warm. The only things covering his ebony skin were a gathering of beaded bracelets. There was one on each ankle, under each knee, on each wrist and around his waist. The tiny beads were yellow and blue and red and green and were made to fit his tiny body. As he sat snug in my lap I warmed by body with his and placed my face on his head. My back was slightly arched trying to get as close to him as possible as he clasped my fingers in the palms of his tiny hands. I turned him around to face me and we made faces at each other while our noses met one another. I rubbed his back and basked in this God given gift of joy when this baby boy baptized me. I got peed on and couldn’t have been more at peace. I instinctively lifted him up and said, “Oh, just got peed on!” then adjusted my kanga so he could have a dry place to sit again. I saw the students moving and the women preparing to take us to gather food. I was hoping that I wouldn’t have to give up my baby so soon and thank God, the mother simply came over to me and handed me a kanga to protect the baby from the sun but let me keep him. My baby wasn’t too keen on the moving or having to be covered by the kanga to keep from getting scratched by trees. So to keep him smiling I followed the ways of my mother and her mother before here and I sang. I made up a song that said “Una furaha mtoto (4x) nina furaha pia” which means “Be happy baby and I’ll be happy too”. He grinned at ever refrain. Digging for those tubers were hard work! The only things we had to aid us were these sharpened sticks. I wasn’t very good at it! But my consolation prize was going over to sit with the women and the baby again! The women then roasted the tubers over a fire and passed them around to all present. The ‘eating’ consisted of chewing on the tubers and sucking the juice out. There are also some great pics of me and my baby sharing a tuber!

Two nights in a row we had all night dance and song sessions. The first night was preceded by a Q&A session that rocked my world (this was my element- not that hiking stuff). I asked them- in Swahili- if they really needed us tourists here. I mentioned how one of the articles we had to read for the trip was a journalist stating how the Hadza were starving and didn’t need tourists, just food aid. I told how one of the common beliefs that academics (like me) are trying to dispel is the that Africans are like babies and need to be taken care of; that AID from outside countries is crucial to their survival. However Africa and Africans can stand on their own- with the right type of aid (“Dead AID” by Moyo). Suddenly the ‘chief’ (who was actually just the old man who liked to be called chief, because contrary to popular belief Africans don’t and never had chiefs this was a creation of colonization) got very excited and moved to the edge of his chair and was addressing the rest of the Hadza and our guide Killerai. Although he was speaking Swahili he was speaking way to fast for me to comprehend but Killerai laughed every once in a while and was smiling. I thought chief might have been telling me off but even if he was I was still excited- its what I came for. Lets ruffle some feathers and get some answers!  

 Translation time came and Killerai told us that cheif began by saying that that was the best question they had ever gotten and that he was very impressed with my Swahili and was proud that I was there and proud of me. I was cheesing and my heart was filled with so much euphoria because I felt like I connected and I wanted them to see my heart. To answer the question- the only reason they needed tourism was because it provided money for them to send their kids to college. Point Blank. They are NOT starving and their other dietary/physical needs can be obtained from selling the DELICOUS honey they collect. I don’t even like honey in the states but Haza honey is BOMB! We danced late into the night and they sang us the Tanzania anthem and their Hadza anthem- which was my favorite, and I got it on tape! The next day at another camp we danced into the night again. If you know me you know I can dance ALL NIGHT LONG. While sitting around the fire one of the younger men engaged me in conversation. To make a long story short my night continued while laying atop of this huge rock formation under a beautiful African start lit sky while a Hadza man whispered sweet nothings in Swahili in my hear! And to think I could have been in classroom!

Ninakuacha wewe na hii/I leave you with this:

            I hadn’t really realized how hard old Missionaries have made it for us new ones. One of the realities of my religion is the hideous effect it has had on this continent and my people. The issue is that Missionaries didn’t just bring Christ- they brought a plethora of other things too. Some things were great, (like promoting the ending of Female Genital Mutilation) and some not (the belief that all Africa ways of life were backward and wrong). But in the 21^st Century it seems that there are still Missionaries doing it wrong. Those that have been to see the Hadza apparently had preached the Gospel and also encouraged them to leave their hunter gatherer lifestyle. I was so irritated to hear this. Why can’t it just be about Jesus?!? But they were signing some pretty tight praise songs in Swahili that I can’t wait to bring back to the states! On our last ride together I joined them and we sang with jubilant enthusiasm praise to the one true God and Jesus Christ. So despite the missionaries BS, the Hadza know about Jesus!! 

Brown Skin- "I can't tel where yours begins- I can't tell where mine ends"