“She wants to know if you understand her.” Unaware the question was directed towards me, I didn’t immediately look up. I was studying the ropes of meticulously handmade beads hanging from the walls in preparation of market day. The intricate necklaces were the only spot of color in the mud and straw structure we were crammed into. They’d captured my attention immediately when I’d ducked into the main room of the hut and held it until I realized every eye in the room was on me. I reddened as much as my caramel complexion allowed. One of the Maasai wives tasked with showing us how to grind dried corn kernels into a fine powder watched me with open curiosity. She spoke to the short, bladed man translating for us, gesturing toward the darkened corner where I perched on the low bench that rocked and groaned under the combined weight of my classmates and me. “Do you know what she’s saying?” he asked me. “Pole.” The Swahili word for “sorry” tripped off my tongue easily after weeks of practice. A shrug and closed-mouthed smile rounded out my cringey apology. Some of the other wives joined them by the heavy, flat stones in the middle of the room. They all stared at me. “They didn’t know people who looked like you lived in the US,” the translator told the room at large, his gaze on me. He grinned at my obvious discomfort. I nodded and hummed, hoping it conveyed the, “ah, yes, I see,” that I couldn’t seem to verbalize. The original querier knelt, preparing to demonstrate the meal grinding process. My relieved sigh was premature. “Where are you from?” he translated for her. “Boston,” I answered. “And your family?” “Boston as well.” “Your parents? Your parent’s parents?” “Yep… we’re all from Boston.” He paused to consult them before assaying a shrug of his own. “They wondered if your family came from somewhere around here,” he explained. These women were almost childlike – completely unaware of the impact of their confusion. My largely suburban-raised classmates fell silent as a large elephant suddenly landed in the room with us. The dozen wazungu I’d toured the rural Tanzanian countryside with for months practically held their breaths as they waited for my reaction. I sensed their discomfort and considered my next words carefully. Miraculously, I was able to martial my thoughts in a way that normally escapes me. “Well,” I intoned. “I guess we did come from Africa originally. Then we… went… to America.” Muffled chuckles erupted out of my classmates at my word choice. I’m not sure the wives or even the translator noticed. “When did this happen?” they wanted to know. I shrugged once more. “A long time ago.” “How many generations?” I hesitated, searching for a number large enough to explain how far removed I was from the land my ancestors once called home. “Maybe about… 15?” I guessed. They made suitable noises of surprise at this and finally seemed ready to let the subject drop. But not without one final inquiry. “Do you know where your family came from?” I shook my head a final time, and, mercifully, we continued with our lesson. Like most African-American woman, I’d harbored a half-formed desire to “someday” travel to Africa to discover my roots. When such an opportunity practically fell into my lap, I seized it in a dual-handed death grip. I’d envisioned having a once-in-a-lifetime experience that wrapped my existence into a neat bow of unfettered perspective. And to a certain extent, it did. But I didn’t expect to confront the tensions that constantly roiled under the surface back home. What felt so raw and unyielding there was unfathomable here. Here, this small colony of wives and children only worried about when their husband and sons would return from tending the livestock that represented their livelihood. They never questioned who they were or where they belonged. On the way back to our camp, my classmates and teachers wondered at my truncated response. “It felt like a longer conversation than we had time for.” I answered simply. Now, I wonder when we’ll be able to finish the conversation.