I Almost Lost My SELF!!

It used to amaze me that even though
Pre-dreadlocked,
Dressed in khanga from head to toe,
Carrying my babies on my back
Basket on my head
Chewing sugar cane sticks
And
pepper sprinkled muhogo roasts…
Just like everybody else…

…before I even opened my mouth to speak
They could somehow tell that I was
someone
ELSE…
DIFFERENT…
Other THAN…

I couldn’t hide it even though I tried
And
I almost
Lost
My SELF!...self…self…self…

In my freshly landed Just-got-off-the-boat enthusiasm
Of living in Africa,
I tried to Blend,
To Melt,
Homogenize,
Disappear,
Erase
The essence of what made me who I WAS and AM…
An African,
Who grew up in and was molded by
The ‘hoods of America,
And
I almost
Lost
My SELF!...Self…Self…Self…

I almost lost that distinctive stride that signals
“She ain’t from here!”
(ANATOKA MAHALI INGINE, BWANA!)

I almost lost my fierce, laughing,
In yo’ face SISTAH tone of voice
And My
Hands-on-hips-finger-wavin’-snake-charmin’-
“You ain’t ‘BOUT to tell
ME
I Can’t”…
(Neck moves!)

I tucked that ‘me’ tightly under my khanga wraps
And
Demure gaze
And
Soft, gentle handshake
And
I almost lost it, in giving it up…
But
I woke up just in time…And place…And attitude

I had to learn to remember that the
“I” that is “ME”
Has a history as rich and as valid as anyone born
with the dust of our African Ancestors squished lovingly between their baby toes

I learned to remember that the
Middle Passage memories still twisting in my DNA
(causing frequent bouts of claustrophobic episodes)
are as real as the recollections of those who had never
Been ripped from the reassuring womb of
Family
and history
and language
and food
and religion…religion…religion…

I learned to remember that the French etymology of my name
Was just as valid
And honorable
And blessed
As
Habiba’s or Amina’s or Aisha’s
‘cause it was given to me in love,
By those who loved me
And marked me as surely as the eternally swollen scarification cuts
Of a
Dinka Lady

I learned to reject feelings of embarrassment at having been born
An African in America,
Off-land
Off-shore
Thousands of miles
Off-course
From where I might have been
Had those captors not had such a pressing need for
Dark rum
And
Cotton gins

I’ve learned to remember and bring honor to the fact that
I’m STILL
The fly in the ointment
The
Lump in the clotted cream
The
Wrinkle in the dried cloth
The
Hard green pea under the stack of mattresses!

And after having lived in Africa for going on 40 years…
I’m still
DIFFERENT…
SET APART…
MNEGRO!!!!

But
It no longer bothers me that folks STILL ask me
(even after I’ve explained that I’ve lived in a village
In the heart of WaMeru homeland…
In Africa…
For years and years and years…
Probably even before they were born)

It no longer bothers me, I tell you…
when they say in response to my explanation…

“…uh huh…Yes…yes…
I do understand that
But,
(now watch out…here it comes…here it comes!...)
But…
WHERE

ARE

YOU

FROM??”

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