It turns out that there is only one type of African. This, honestly, upsets me a smidge. Not because this definition of this African is nothing like me nor anyone that I know to be African. My itch lies in the fact that I just don’t believe this African will and can ever exist. Let me explain what the One African is.
He has skin darker than the shoe polish I’ve seen some of us use on our heads. She is the colour of a starless night sky. He is built like a rock, with elephant skin. She is supple and as sturdy as instsika. He speaks African. She has hips the size of mountains and feeds villages from her bosom. He breeds a nation and fathers no one. She is this and not that. He is them and not us. She is the rise and the fall.
The mistake lies in the classification. African is not a definition of one thing or person. It is not an exclusion of other, but the inclusion of all.
There are Africans that are the colour of milk, summer, leather and ebony. There are Africans built like mountains, rivers, the wind and dreams. There are those with eyes made of water, coal, fire and the red earth. If you look real close, you are sure to find Africans who aren’t Africans. These too, are Africans.
There are those of us who don’t want to be defined. We too, are African.
So, maybe when we stop defining who we are and start living, we might just let others live as well.
Namaste
