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Africa—the unknown, a place of rich history and culture. Before traveling to Tanzania my only understanding of Africa was of poverty-stricken communities filled with sad-eyed children who looked little different from me. Living in Dar, and seeing the people going about their lives with smiles on their faces, soon revealed that my previous misconceptions were all a load of bull. It was the summer of 2015, my grandfather and I were partners in crime, we walked lockstep together as we traversed all over Tanzania. From Dar Es Salaam to Zanzibar, from Arusha to Mbeya, my grandpa and I were on a mission to experience as much of Africa’s culture. Little did I know that I would soon experience much more than I bargained for. One of my grandfather’s business associates invited us to attend his daughter’s wedding. We traveled by bus to a small farming village in Mbeya where the wedding would take, once we got there we were immediately separated, him with the men and me with the women. I won’t lie, I was a little intimidated by them. I stood off to the side, trying my hardest to blend in and not look totally out of place. It was Zama who stepped forward, the first words out of her mouth was: “Is that your real hair?” I spoke not a lick of Swahili, but I understood that. With her comment, Zama had broken the barrier that had separated me from the rest of the women. We all laughed, I was welcomed into the fold, because of Zama. I had eaten indiscriminately at the wedding; I didn’t start to feel the negative effects until a day or two later. Sharp violent pains raked my body, I was cold yet hot at the same time. Eating was torture for me because I couldn’t keep anything down, but the worst of it was the diarrhea. I didn’t know what the heck was wrong with me at first, my grandfather bought me some medicine thinking it would help, it didn’t. Instead, I continued to vomit, the doctor, an energetic young man and he prescribed pill after pill but they all did nothing. I continued to vomit, to suffer to the point that I became depressed. It got so bad, that I became afraid to eat. My grandfather is a strong man, but for the first time in my life I saw fear in his eyes, it was in that moment that I wondered if this was the end of me? Do you know how traumatizing it is to be in so much pain you are afraid to eat for fear of vomiting? Or how paralyzing it is to contemplate your own mortality? I had expected my trip to Africa to be an adventure, not my funeral pyre! I remember lying in my hospital bed, my grandfather’s weathered face wrinkled with age as he tried unsuccessfully to remain positive after another failed attempt to cure me. The doctor, once upbeat but after each consecutive attempt failed to cure me his countenance became grimmer and grimmer. For the first time in a long time, I prayed. Medicine had failed me, so I prayed to God because I was on my last lifeline. I cried out to God, weeping, releasing everything in me until I had nothing left. My grandfather held me close as he helped me out of the bed, it was right after my prayer when the doctor came back with a tiny pill. “This is my last try, pray that it works” He said tiredly as he looked at me sadly. I took that pill and walked out of that hospital. A week later, that pill cured me from what we found out was a combination of Typhoid and Malaria. I had somehow contracted both diseases around the time I attended the African wedding. I learned a lot about myself from my trip, that I am resilient and strong, to not be afraid to take risks but most importantly to have faith. When all else fails, go to God, because you never know what may happen in your life. My life is not over, I am alive and well and ready!