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.