Since childhood, I dreamed of going to Africa.

To a black American child whose history can only be traced to a plantation and the lineage of the white plantation owner who took advantage of my grandmothers — Africa– was the closest thing I had to connect to my heritage. All of my white American friends can trace their histories to this or that European country. And when pressed, they’d describe their heritage as Welsh, Scottish, Scandinavian, etc. American say this because their great-great-great-great-great grandfather came from there and they felt an affinity to a country whose language, culture, and history they had never seen, heard, or known. Knowing where your ancestors came from past the 1700’s is a privilege in America.

But claiming a duality of identity is also what it means for many people to be an American. For Indigenous Americans their history starts here. For black Americans, who are descendants of slaves, our tale begins here too – as far as we can trace it, probably to the first census or the slave codes of the 1800’s. It gets more complicated and frankly, painful, tracing your European ancestry if it popped up sometime around the 1700s or 1800s. So growing up – Africa was a magical place for me.

I dreamed of going to Africa to have as close as a feeling I’d ever have to reconnecting with my roots.  As a child I imagined walking the ground where my ancestors may have walked.

In high school and middle school, I studied people like Marcus Garvey and Paul Cuffe who championed the ideas of returning back to Africa.

They were my idols until I learned more about the complicated history of the American Colonization Society, the Back-to-Africa movements,  and the history of Sierra Leone and Liberia.

But the dark side of the Back-to-Africa movements of the Reconstruction and Post-Reconstruction era did not dampen my idealization of Africa as a “motherland” in the same way 5th, and 6th generation Irish-American and Italian-Americans idealize “homelands” they’ve never been too.

As time went on, I decided I would one day make it to the continent. And when I did; I wanted to be prepared. I studied more about American history and learned that, most likely, I had heritage from West Africa, but where, who knew? West Africa, according to the UN, consists of 17 countries – 13 of which have seaports. I attempted to trace my roots further in America to see if learning about the plantation my family came from could lead me to records of transfers and ships names- but I only got as far as the early 1800s.

Later, I took a 23andme DNA test, and it gave me no further clarity.

So it would happen that my first trip to the continent would be to South Africa during my honeymoon. We spent 3 days in Cape Town and then a week on safari in Sabi Sands. I couldn’t claim any greater cultural knowledge than I had before the trip, and I felt no such “homecoming” feeling. I knew all too well I was in a different region than my likely ancestors. But nevertheless, I fell in love with South Africa. I figured whenever I would make it back to the continent it would be to also revisit South Africa.

When planning this round-the-world trip I took an Ancestry.com DNA test, and AfricanAncestry.com test. Then, I also designed at least two months in Africa. A month and a half between West and Central Africa and then almost a month again in Southern Africa traveling to Namibia, South Africa, and whichever other countries I would choose at a later date.

As the date approached, I spoke more with my friends. Some first generation Africans, others recent immigrants, and other black Americans, like myself. Most of my black American friends were thrilled that I was going to West Africa. Some had previously gone, and they talked about how beautiful it was. Others wanted to remind me that, I, as an American, would always be considered “white” to most West Africans I would meet. Others took it upon themselves to joke about black Americans’ obsession with Africa, revealing they did not understand black history or how reasonable it was to yearn for your roots in the USA.

I also understood that I would be going to Africa as an American, of privilege, from a country with an exploitative and complicated history and relationship with Africa. That colonial and exploitive history between us could never erase the power dynamics or differences. I tried to prepare myself for the unexpected and not get too excited about finding my roots.

But I couldn’t help myself.

And after almost two and a half months on the continent, it’s fair to say I feel as much like a foreigner as I feel at home.

Every country was such a unique experience.

It didn’t matter if I was walking around in Ghana, or watching cultural practices in Togo or Benin, or relaxing on the beach with locals in Sao Tome & Principe. Or just being myself anywhere in Southern Africa. It was such a comfort to be surrounded by Black people, many of whom, shared a sense of familiarity with me because of our shared history of living in a society which had and currently discriminates against us because of racism and white supremacy.

That comfort was something I had only felt a few times in my life – like at AfroPunk in Brooklyn. But to feel it every day, with a people, was phenomenal. I, truthfully, don’t want to leave. Especially with the current politics at home – this comfort is intoxicating.

So in reflecting on my impending departure from Africa, at least until March, I want to highlight some of the more profound experiences I’ve had while searching for my roots.

São Tomé and Príncipe

My first landing in West Africa was in Accra, but I only spent a night and half before traveling to  São Tomé and Príncipe, located in Central/West Africa. When I first heard the flight attendant announce we had landed in Accra, I expected to feel something, almost like a homecoming, but I didn’t. Instead, I was overwhelmed not knowing where to go and what to expect. While everyone spoke the same language as me – no one looked like me. I felt entirely out of place. It was downright disappointing. I got no knowing nods or welcomes – just the face of a less than amused security guard demanding I answer some questions. I had dreamed of this moment my whole life and to come to it – it was anticlimactic. Nevertheless, the next morning we were off to the island.

In São Tomé and Príncipe, everything changed. We met Joel, who was our local guide for our time in São Tomé, and I learned that São Tomé’s history is similar to the US.

Joel explained, during our tours of the old Portuguese Forts & churches, that the Portuguese discovered São Tomé and Príncipe in the 1400’s, supposedly uninhabited. São Tomé and Príncipe became a port city where slaves and other goods were traded. To cultivate the land, the Portuguese brought slaves from all over West and Central Africa. This practice continued until late 1800s when the transatlantic slave routes were abolished. But, even when Portugal had outlawed slavery, the method continued on this island through informal networks until the early 1900’s. Much like in the United States. Once slavery was official abolished; the colonizers then ruled through defacto slavery through low wages and abuse. It was not until Independence, after a series of revolts, in the 1970’s did the island become truly free. The parallels in our shared history astounded me. Like in the United States many of the people of São Tomé and Príncipe are of mixed heritage and were from other slave ports in West Africa. I contended, if I spoke Portuguese or any of the local languages, I would have easily blended in.

That level of comfort led us to enjoy lunch on a local’s porch and make some friends. But there was also the ever-present nature of power dynamics. São Tomé is not a rich country, and outside of tourism and cocoa, there’s not much commerce. My comfort, experience, and recommendation of São Tomé and Príncipe, in many ways, is crucial to supporting a local tourism economy that provides jobs outside of the agricultural sector. I wasn’t blind to the reality that their hospitality was also their livelihood.

But it was still surprising that I felt such racial harmony and ease here. Even with the language barrier; not once did I feel like an outsider. I could also imagine myself moving here. I could open a small coffee, chocolate, and wine shop. Open a little hotel, co-owning it with a local person, and just slip away into this country – spreading my time between the warm beaches, having friends over for fish and plantains, and just relaxing for the rest of my life. It’s not clear if it was just the island vibe, or the hospitality, or the shared history, but I felt at home more than I did in Ghana. My blackness and my account as a descendant of slaves felt like a doorway into a community who understood me in ways others never could.

West Africa: Togo & Benin

Being as close as possible to where my probable ancestors were shipped off to America and yet, also experiencing these countries with a large group of White European and American tourists, was a challenge for me. I wondered if next time I should experience both places with other Black Americans and if we’d have an entirely different experience. Or if my shared company had nothing to do with how I ended up feeling. But let me explain.

First, I do not speak French, and that was the chosen language of government and communication by the colonizers and those who run the countries today. Not everyone we encountered spoke French either, but I think speaking French would have helped. Second, the large group of tourist I was traveling with made the idea of personal connections with anyone outside of the group or the tour guides moot. Third, my tour guide spoke French, local languages, and German. None of which I spoke fluently, so my questions were often lost in translation. Fourth, I was regularly called “White Person” by locals watching a group of 14 white and 1 black person and two local Togolese guides walk through their neighborhood gawking at them and snapping pictures without permission.

However problematic the invasion of privacy was, the idea of being called white in a place that was probably the home of my ancestors was painful and frustrating. I understand that the concept of race in every country is different and sometimes race doesn’t matter at all – Let’s remember it’s a social construct unique to state and circumstance. But still, it was hard to separate my own lenses from that of those I was meeting.

I felt utterly like a tourist. But I was also trying to represent Black Americans in some way. I was extremely uncomfortable offending anyone least I leave the impression that Black Americans are rude. It went on like this for days until I had a bit of a revelation.

At one point, I was so distressed at being called white so many times that I asked one of our Togolese guides if the people were also referring to me.

He looked me dead in the eyes and responded: “Of course, You are too light to be one of us.”

His honest answer, from his own perspective, stabbed me right through the heart and killed all the dreams I had built up of my time in West Africa. Those dreams of walking around, seeing people who looked like me, and maybe being mistaken for a local just died with his words. After that, I let go of my understanding of race.

Instead, I took his words as a sign to let loose. Perhaps I was not “representing” Black America but just white tourist (who could be from anywhere) and in that case – I should try less to connect with the local culture and just be totally immersed in my own ideas and experiences, as respectfully as possible. Besides, if I was white, then I assumed, there were expectations of how I should act.

I found myself doing everything I saw the others on tour do. This included taking selfies with kids and playing drums and “attempting” to dance the local dances. It was surprisingly freeing.

Nevertheless, while in Benin at the former Portuguese slave fort, one person, recognize me as different. He was our local guide for the day. When our Togolese guides first introduced us to our local guide for the slave forts and the Gateway Of No Return, I noticed him surveying me. I was apparently not anonymous to him. After he introduced himself to the group, he then beelined for me. He grabbed my hand and squeezed it, and then placed his hands on my shoulder in front of my travel group, looked me in the eyes, and said “You and I are one. We are both descendants of slaves.”

“You and I are one. We are both descendants of slaves.”

I choked up a bit. My eyes got watery. I would learn through his tour that his grandfather was a slave in Brazil. When slavery ended there, he repatriated to Benin, one of the few free African nations at that time. Our guide spoke just to me the entire tour as everyone stood around awkwardly. Christian, understanding how critical this moment was to me, held in the background too.

Being acknowledged as a person of African descent made me proud.

It was also fitting that he would be the one to show us Benin’s Door of No Return and the monument to lost African slaves.  When we got to the symbolic door, he let us explore on our own. I left by myself and just walked through it. I got all the way to the edge of the water. I thought how ironic it was that the last thing they saw was all this beauty. Then I imagined my ancestors telling me “You did not abandon us in your thoughts.” Then I walked back.

He took us next to the monument for lost slaves. I looked up at its beauty and thought to myself, that perhaps, for those from West Africa, maybe the older generation, there is a real hole in their hearts for those who were taken. The care given to my ancestors, their ancestors, was moving. As the tour ended, I shook our guide’s hand and thanked him. He nodded, sincerely, and I was once again touched.

As we rode to the hotel, the sun began to set. The dirt road leading to our chambers left a trail of dust behind us. As I looked out the window, it felt as if I could count each fleck. I looked up at the orange sky and gasped. “Pull over” I barked in English and then yell “Halt, Bitte” in German. He stopped driving. I grabbed my camera and went outside. The sun was the most beautiful I had ever seen it. I cried taking pictures of its beauty. I wondered if this is what my ancestors had thought of when they reflected on the beauty of their homeland.

Ghana

I left Togo and Benin on a high note. Feeling exceptional about Benin and less so about Togo. I had been acknowledged and that was enough for me. Even after that day in Benin, locals kept calling me “white person” but it bothered me less. I was sad to leave Benin but also happy to go to Ghana. At least I could speak to people and listen to what they had to say. I decided to try and use our common language as an opportunity to learn more.

But once back in the country, I felt too intimidated. How could I break away from 15 others to have a frank conversation about Ghana and race? I did not even know where to begin or if there was one to be had. The reception in Ghana was warm the second time around, and of course, we were tourist still, adding money to a sector of the economy.

Everything continued as usual until we made it to Elmina, on the Gold Coast, where one of Ghana’s many doors of no return could be found inside a former Dutch fort. At the tip of the historic city of Elmina, we stopped to watch fishermen bring in the catch of the day on Ghana’s white sand beach. As the locals crowded around the fisherman, buying dinner and trading stories, us weary 15 tourists traversed down a small hill to the center of the action. As we watched normal life take place in front of us, a woman approached me and began to speak to me in a local language I couldn’t understand. She reached out her hand and touched my shoulder, smiling, and then touched her heart.  I turned to Daniel, my Togolese German tour guide and asked him what she had said. Her smile still radiating in my eyes. He translated “She said we are one in the same.” I smiled back at her and did the same. Then, she quietly walked away. It was another innocent but profound moment for me.  As our tour came to an end I asked the other German-speaking Togolese guide, Daniel, if he thought when people called us “White people” that they had been referring to me. He laughed at my suggestion and said: “If you and I were walking down the street together, people would talk to you in the local language.” Although it came at the end; I felt relieved to know there was a variety of opinions on the subject.

Southern Africa

Leaving West Africa for Southern Africa was bittersweet. It was a time that signaled the beginning of my solo travels, the end of my travel with Christian, and a chance to be in Africa, alone, as myself.

I looked forward to blending in more as a solo Black woman in a Black continent. In the beginning, I could only imagine what I would find.

I was also no stranger to the fact that no matter how local I looked, the minute I opened my mouth, I would be outed as an outsider. It made me wonder how 2^nd and 3^rd generation Americans felt when returning to the homelands of their grandparents or great-grandparents.

When I landed in Cape Town, a familiar place to me, it was easy to blend in and also be a tourist.  Cape Town is a very multiracial city, a very international city, and a very complex one. Racial and ethnic tensions are on display much like in the United States, although they manifest themselves differently.

I had many conversations in South Africa where people spoke to me in a way that they would only speak to other colored or Black people. I often spoke of what it was like to interact with white South Africans.

I distinctly remember a conversation I had at a store in Johannesburg where I went to buy headphones. I was also considering buying a different headphone with more technology, and I asked the assistant what he thought. He told me “That’s white people stuff. Don’t waste your money.” And while I didn’t quite understand what he meant it was an acknowledgment of our common race, all the way on the other side of the world, in a continent where my ancestors came from.

In Southern Africa, I was a tourist and a local. Be it in Namibia, Botswana, Zimbabwe, or South Africa. The countries were international destinations and welcoming to everyone. My brown skin was an asset like my American passport. There was a sense of comfort and ease that I felt just merely blending into a crowd and not being the only one in everyday situations.

That comfort was amplified during my time in Namibia where I played exclusively the role of a tourist and a solo female American traveler wandering through downtown Windhoek by herself. Or while in Botswana on tour with a Scandinavian man and British couple, joking about life with our German tour guide and Botswanan spotter. Or having dinner with Mama Ruth at our hotel. Or when in Zimbabwe where I made friends of my tour guides and met up with a few locals for a night out on the town. Or in Johannesburg, where I dined at an Indian food restaurant with Mama Ruth’s daughter or discussed the political and racial realities of downtown Johannesburg.

There was something about just being in a place that saw me as a Black American that is refreshing in a way, I believe, only people of color can understand.

Therefore, leaving Africa is a loss for me. I can’t imagine a time I will be back under the same set of circumstances. It’s unlikely I’ll travel alone again through the continent. There’s a feeling of peace here that is just inexplicable. Something one needs to experience first-hand.

I’ve tried my best to give a snapshot into a window of the complexities and comforts of traveling through different parts of Africa as a Black American who’s a descendant of slaves. The reunion is always emotional and unexpected. But those moments of acknowledgment of my long past connection to Africa is uplifting. It’s everything I wanted, and I can’t wait to go back. Especially to Zimbabwe, where I made friends who feel like family.

I genuinely feel that for every Brown and Black American child, they should spend some time in Africa, alone, to know what it feels like to lift the burden of race from their shoulders and be themselves for a while. And if they go and they do not find what they are looking for – they can at least experience a sunset in Africa. One of the most beautiful you will ever see.

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