I can still remember my first experience in Africa. It was the summer of 2008. For a year and a half I had been engrossed in Ethiopian culture as a result of teaching at a boarding school in Eastern Kentucky. Invited to Ethiopia, I began learning the language and getting my mouth ready for spicy food. I was so anxious on the plane ride. All the flight attendants were Ethiopian and everything was in Amharic, the official language. As the pilot announced the plane was landing, everyone began clapping and screaming for joy. Excitement was all over my face as tears prevented it from being dry. I was so happy to be home.
When I found out about the world race and learned we’d spend three of our months in Africa, I couldn’t help but jump for joy. I already felt at home in Ethiopia, I just knew I’d have no troubles in Kenya or Uganda. Though I didn’t realize it at the time, I was placing a great expectation on Africa and we were fair warned about how unmet expectations lead to disappointment.
I guilt tripped myself. I’M AN AFRICAN AMERICAN. I’M SUPPOSED TO LOVE AFRICA. I kept telling myself that I am here for my church, my family, my community– all of which have never stepped foot on African soil, some never even meeting an African. My ancestors were African; I should love every African country.
It wasn’t until a long talk with a friend that I realized, “Just because I’m African American doesn’t mean I have to love Africa. Just because I’m African American doesn’t mean that every African country is going to feel like home. Just because I’m African American doesn’t mean I’m going to relate to every African I see. But just because God sent me, I will do what He purposed me to do while in Africa.“
