African-American

I try to blend in by wearing the latest African fashions. My assistant had to cut a wider neck hole so my bulbous melon would fit through. It was very humiliating.

I have been living in Africa for over half my life and I think I am now turning African-American. My bloodline is all American – a rich combination of North and Central which will ensure I grow up to be both practical and passionate. But now the air I breathe, the food I eat (almost constantly), the dirt I roll in, the music I hear, and much of my adoring public are all African. I must admit I have never fully understood the term “African-American,” which is nothing more than two distant spots on a map bound together by a hyphen. Even though it makes no mention of the color spectrum, it seems to denote skin pigmentation. I find this curious and I wonder if I share similar experiences with others who use this label.

For example, now I eat African-style with my hands whereas before, I recall sipping genteelly from a boring, sterilized bottle. Africans are famous hand-to-mouthers, literally. Some of the favorite dishes are yasa poulet and tiebdienne. The first is chicken, the second is fish. They both are mixed with rice and share a similar tomato-onion sauce. It is a wet, messy meal and Senegalese grab it with their right hands, squeeze it into a sticky ball and pop it in their mouths. I find this utterly squishy and entirely delightful. I’ll never go back to the bottle again.

I wonder also how many people can say they have experienced the unique African plague of mango worms. These are not actually worms but big, disgusting larvae from some kind of fly or other menacing bug. They grow from eggs that hatch right under your skin. This is a joy usually reserved for pets and my poor Gazelle gets them regularly. But I was lucky enough to experience first-hand one of the little suckers holed up in my own head in an apparent attempt to ride to fame on my coattails. He grew silently but painfully right in the back of my skull and we shared many adventures together until I awoke from a nap one day to find he had left me just as silently as he came. It turns out my assistant smothered the red welt with Vaseline so the poor larvae had to come up for air and then when he did, my assistant pulled him out with tweezers. Sometimes life can be difficult here for adventure travelers, but even more so for mango worms who think they can live a comfortable life stowed away in a celebrity’s noodle.

You can see that I have also abandoned the American and possibly Australian transportation method of riding up front like a baby kangaroo. Now I ride African-style in the back of the bus where all the cool kids sit. I kick back in my comfy wrap and let my assistant catch all the bugs in her teeth for a change.

I don’t know, maybe being African-American is more complicated than all that. Besides, there will probably be too much explaining to do if I check that box on my college application forms. All I know is I am grateful for having the opportunity to sample the best and worst life has to offer on both continents, no matter what my skin color. And I may never be a master of race relations, but at least I don’t have one of these in my parlor.

Until next time, peace to all.
Omi, Baby Adventure Traveler