I had been anticipating Africa for this whole race. As we got closer to Ethiopia, I had this nervous excited feeling, but had all of these questions pop up in my head. Will I blend in or stick out? Will they like me? How will they receive me? Will they welcome me home? In the states, I have to specify that I’m “African” American, but am I African enough?
When we stepped off of the plane for the first time in Ethiopia, I had real tears in my eyes. I had stepped foot onto African soil for the first time in my life. It was an unbelievable feeling knowing that this was the continent that my ancestors had come from.
The majority of my time here was beautiful, but I had a slightly rude awakening. Whenever we got to the orphanage, all of the kids ran up to us, and as we held our arms open to welcome them, all of the kids ran passed me and jumped into my squad mates’ arms. It would happen like that in Rwanda as well, and to be honest, it stung. I wanted to love on all these babies that looked like me, that looked like my family, but I didn’t have white skin and long blonde hair that they could run their fingers through.
As it turns out, my mom felt the same way that I had. It was almost a sense of rejection, but once I changed my perspective, I realized that it’s a almost a compliment to be overlooked. For the first time in my life, I blend in. It’s the first time in my life that I hadn’t felt like the minority.
I would walk down the dirt road and would greet the women in Oromifa, their native tongue, but then start speaking to them in English, and they would be surprised and stop to hug me, shake my hand, and welcome me. I would go to the market every few days, and the days I didn’t go, they would ask about me, the girl who looked like them. Many people in both Ethiopia and Rwanda said that I looked like them and came from their country.
Some would ask me where my family was from. I have no idea. Some of my family members have able to trace back to the plantation our ancestors were on, but that’s as far as we’ve gotten. Some have said that was cool, but is it?? My history is lost, but it doesn’t stop at a plantation. I know a girl who’d been able to trace her family all the way back to Ghana and even found her relatives. I hope to do that one day.
Today is my last day in Africa. Just typing that statement brings tears to my eyes. I’m not ready to leave. It feels like home, like I belong. I went to the salon in Rwanda and got my hair done. I’ll never forget sitting on a pillow outside of the salon with my stylist braiding my hair and everyone around me speaking in their native tongue. It was one of the most comforting feelings I’d had on the race. A place where they know how to do my kind of hair, where all I have to do is show a picture of what I want, and a few hours later, it’s perfect. There was a sense of belonging, where although I don’t speak the same language, I am understood.
I’m going to miss it. I feel like every person of African descent should visit a few countries in Africa and spend some time there. Honestly, two months was not enough. It really is the motherland. The place I come from.
Til next time, Beautiful.
