Non-African Black in Africa

by Sapphire Vital (Dominica)

I didn't expect to find Uganda

I recently read the novel Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. In the book, the protagonist is a Nigerian named Ifemelu who immigrated to the USA as a young adult. America awakened her to the idea of race and as the story goes, she began a blog about being a non-American black in America. Funny enough I began reading the book a couple of days before I arrived in Africa for the first time. Americanah was my trusty flight companion as I gazed out the window at the dark sky, my heart awaiting the motherland. And so, in flip, with that first step onto the runway in the Pearl of Africa, my own awakening began. Where I come from Africa is borderline idolized. It’s the glorious land of our ancestors, our long-lost home, and our true identity. We have African Heritage Days, we wear African dress for independence celebrations, we have African dance groups, some of us dream of repatriation and the list goes on. We are the neglected child clinging to its parent. The excitement I felt about being in Africa for the first time was indeed palpable. I didn’t expect to levitate or anything too dramatic, but I did expect to feel a deep connection to the land of my heritage. As the plane landed, I could almost hear a revert Wakandan style drum instrumental welcoming me home. Strangely to me, the first emotion I felt was one I’d felt before. It was the feeling of novelty that comes with every new country I’ve visited. I felt out of place and the first couple days I had a heightened sense of homesickness. Coming from studying in Europe, my surroundings did feel more familiar. It was nice that the faces around me were the same colour as mine. It was nice that the sun shone blindly bright, the air was warm, the soil was a rich crimson hue, and the markets overflowed with colour from the produce to the skirts wrapped around sellers’ waists. It was nice that a seller at the craft market was intrigued by my accent because “we are the same”. But the similarities didn’t bring the comfort I hoped for. Rather, they highlighted the differences. Locals spoke to me in their language and I couldn’t respond. I clung to the back of my boda boda while everyone else cruised no hands. The large bustling crowds raised my anxiety levels. Even the dust clung to my skin differently. Within the first week I became fully aware that I did not know the culture, I did not know Uganda, and Uganda did not know me. I was surprised that so few people knew about the Caribbean. Each time I pulled out my phone to show someone its location or explained I was not African American, reality sunk in a little deeper. The proverbial veil I had worn my whole life dropped, and I realized how little I could actually identify with my beloved Africa. Surprisingly, Africa taught me that I had full reign of my true identity all along. Yes, I originated from men and women from the African continent. Yes, I cherish all the blessings my ancestry has brought me from the earthen glow of my skin to my affinity for well-seasoned food to the effortless on beat sway of my hips. But the truth is the resilient men and women who were forced across the Atlantic to become slaves on shiny new island colonies, evolved into a separate, unique, and beautiful people. Although I wish my distant African cousins knew more about us, my love for Africa is very much intact. I love the rich diverse culture and landscape housed on the African continent. Simultaneously I revel in the realization that my heart fully belongs to the crystal-clear waters, sandy beaches, untouched forests, sing-song accent, and calypso beat of the lovely and diverse group of islands that border the Caribbean Sea. With this realization, I must respectfully lay aside my dreamy thoughts of the motherland and firmly hold on to who and what I am. I am not African. I am Afro-Caribbean- the long lost daughter all grown up.