I can hear the whispers of my ancestors, of war and romance, of times under the shade of the warm acacia tree. They call to me incessantly. I hear them as I dress in the enemy’s skin, the fabric clinging uncomfortably. These clothes fit awkwardly on our bodies as if they are actively rejecting us, actively yearning for the drapes of African silks, vibrant colors, and embroideries. I hear them linger as I drink the bitter coffee, wrapped carefully in the garments of those who have wasted us like pests and rid us of our dignity. I feel like a fraud – a traitor – as a voice calls out to the motherland.
I recall the winds that dance through the sand, coated in gold; the emerald grass that brushes gently against dark skin, and the earth humming beneath feet rooted in a land of huts and herders. I hate that I live this life, always in constant limbo between my home and where I reside. The cold and cruel ways of the West, chewing up and spitting out people who look like me, surface as I drink the spiced tea. I allow it to travel down my throat as if I was meant to do this and only this, feeling the warm liquid soothe me with a hum. I think it clashes within me as I succumb to what the West wishes. A shell of a person once filled with the aromatic scent of spices and henna as I feel it being heavily slathered on. Fingertips once adorned with the red tint, now slavishly labor for a country that is eager to erase me. How can I be here when I know that is what I’m giving up?
“People would fight wars to be in my position,” I hear in the back of my mind. Yet, we were not built for this as we lug laptop bags across our broad cattle-herding shoulders, or as we comb our kinky and unruly hair into submission, meant to shield us from the smoldering African sun. It’s true, I’ve seen people fight tooth and nail, visas denied, and green cards canceled. I’m lucky to be where I am.
But I shouldn’t be here — no one should. Yet I still see the fight in their eyes, their dreams heavy with hope, while I stand here. Lucky, but longing for something just out of reach. What is it that I want? What more could I possibly want? People died to get me here. Who am I to complain? But it is not me complaining. My mind is grateful, but my soul is a fire, scorching, pulling against my bones, trying to break free. It senses the way I tense as the West tries to control my sense of self: the way I talk, walk, dress, all bending to what they deem fit. I do not matter to them. I am nothing but a shade that needs correcting.
My bones vibrate with wants and desires for the songs of my people, as they celebrate the birth of life or the start of a new one – the sounds ring from the chambers of their souls. The West stripped us of not only our resources but our spirit, leaving us to claw for a future stolen; a future that was ours to begin with. And yet, even in the quietest moments, the whispers of my ancestors remain, guiding me toward a truth I cannot yet name.