From the Big Apple to the Prickly Pear

At the beginning of the summer, I was on a mission. I was going to do weekly covers of songs, I was going to always be in the loop with my friends, I was going to train hard for track, I was going to go to the aquarium, the park, the zoo. I was going to be better and do better, no excuses.

 One thing that seemed so minuscule at the time but I lacked to see its enormity: I was going to go to South Africa.

I was on the road to rediscover myself this summer. After a year of disappointment, hurt, tears, regret, sickness, and all of the other terrible things to follow, I wanted a fresh start. What better way to start over than to go back to my roots. To the Motherland. To Africa.

On the plane, there were so many things rushing through my mind at once. It was almost surreal. Who would've thought that a year after graduating high-school, I'd find myself in South Africa. For some reason however, I felt a little sad. I was traveling alone and I kept asking myself, "why don't I have someone to share this with right now?" The issue of being alone was something I struggled with this past year. Being at school, barely knowing who I was, and having to warm up to people who sometimes walk out of my life was difficult. Loneliness was a constant, lurking force that always reared it's ugly head. On that flight, its presence was there, sneering at me. I began to question what I wanted from this trip. At that moment, I didn't quite know.

A movie that I watched probed some very random thoughts. The narrator kept talking about moments of impact and how they defined a person. I thought about what defined a person. To me, a person isn't really whole, so they are defined by their pieces. When we come into this world, those pieces are scattered across the world. Some pieces are close by, but for the others, you must travel far to find them. Outside the comfort zone. Outside of what you know. Outside of the normal. This is why you can't become a "whole" person if you've never experienced a different country or culture before. During your journey, you encounter people in your life who will either help you put them together or scatter them even further. Those who help you are the ones you keep around. They, as well as yourself, help you become a whole person. Is that the purpose of life? Maybe. Personally, it does give a whole lot of meaning for my existence.

A met a man at a restaurant called "Nandos." Of course I know I shouldn't talk strangers especially while by myself in a foreign country, but something urged me to do so. After the usual pleasantries were exchanged, the conversation took a completely different turn. He asked me what was my purpose here on Earth. Of course, just like on the plane, I didn't know. This whole year was just filled with the undecided and uncertainty. I was at a place where everyone knew exactly what they wanted to do and how they wanted to do it. I, on the other hand, was stuck. The counselors preached on and on about how it's okay to not know your major freshman year, but I didn't believe them. If I wanted to go to medical school, I should've been preparing since I was twelve. I felt too far behind. Then, the things I actually did enjoy (music, writing, and running), didn't seem to reap a very positive future in terms of money.

It bothered me that I couldn't answer his question. He asked me what I enjoyed doing and that seemed easy enough for me to answer. After a long laundry list of things, he single out writing. He told me that despite the fact that I love to run or to help people, my heart is in writing. Up until that point, I didn't want to admit it but it was confirmed, I am a writer. I was scared to share my writing because I put too much heart into it for people to just toss aside. I shared with him my whole theory of people being pieces, and he was astonished. He told me that I will be famous for writing about things that people need to read. Although they may not necessarily like it, people need to see it. He told me that I will do great things.

He also told me that I was angry, which I was. He told me that I've come here, to Port Elizabeth, for a reason, whether or not I was aware of that reason (I was not aware). I just couldn't understand how he knew all of these things about me, yet he was a stranger. This is where I insert that he was a prophet sent from God to tell me of my good fortunes to come. Mind blowing.

I never saw that man again but for some reason, I expected that. Life has a funny way of working sometimes. I'll never forget what he told me that day. He helped me figure out why God put me here. It helped me find my voice, my meaning.

I wrote this because I felt like I was doing injustice to my homeland and to my experience. Whenever anyone asked me "How was South Africa?", I'd only respond with "beautiful" or "amazing." It just didn't seem fair.

So, here it is.

I found pieces of me that I couldn't think would be scattered so far. It made me think about how sad it was that people from the Caribbean went to extreme lengths to distinguish themselves from Africans when in fact, all of their customs and cultures were derived from that very continent. I was shaken by the history. Nothing about it was censored or fabricated. There was abuse. There was violence. There was sex. Nothing was implied like in Greek theater. Africa was raw.

I was drowned in a sea of melodious tunes. Drumming, split-tone singing, yelling, pinging, screeching... Harmonious, how it all meshed together at one time. I was exposed to talent that was too often only credited to Europeans. I saw Africans perform everything from ballet to traditional African dance. And everything in between.

I was questioned about who I really was. Where I really came from. I was envious of those who knew the language. I felt utterly uncultured. If there was anything I wanted to belong to, it was this. I was angered by the circumstances of our history. I was deprived. The culture alone was a goldmine, yet there were those who sought out to destroy it. I was cheated out of my true homeland.

Finally, I was at peace. My found pieces were finally melded together and I was able to step back onto U.S. soil with a completely different view. It took everything in my power not to scrutinize America for everything, mainly with the textbooks that misinform and misguide, but at least I'm much more aware of the true story. Even if I didn't want to admit it, I was a new person.


 I am an African, no matter where I was born or how I may look, my roots trace back to Africa. Nothing or no one can take that away from me.