It was at the reading room I first met him. I couldn’t help but stare. At the dreadlocks. Dirty, unusually bushy, on his tiny, skinny skull.
He stood out. In his shabby clothes. A sharp contrast to the atmosphere of decency and order and respect in a room filled with serious students.
I wondered what program he read. Perhaps African Studies. In that department, it wasn’t unusual to find many like him. Walking barefooted on campus. Or, wearing some oversized African prints. I’ve always wondered what they wish to portray.
The part of Africa where I’ve lived all my life, people are open to cultures. My people are curious. They love to travel, learn and bring ideas and new items found in other lands home.
Everyone strives to make it in life so they can afford a good life. A life which allows them the freedom to travel, try new foods, new clothes from other cultures, new books and movies.
I have never seen any of my people proud to walk barefooted when they can afford to buy sandals. My people do not see their culture as inferior to any other culture.
They cherish their tradition and are proud of their cultural heritage. They love to wear our traditional cloths with pride.
And yet, they also love to wear European clothes, try American foods and put on Brazilian wigs.
It’s what our ancestors have always done. Our forefathers traveled a lot. Their aim was to find out what lay beyond their lands. Curiosity. The goal was not to run to greener pastures and stay there forever. The objective was to learn new ways and see how they could be used to improve life back home.
Where do these people I find on my school campus, barefooted, with heavy dreadlocks weighing down their heads and necks, come from? Which Africa do they try to portray? Certainly not my Africa!
The African Studies department on campus produces brilliant scholars who have brought about tremendous positive changes in various communities.
However, some of their students are extremists who try to portray an Africa they’ve constructed in their minds that does not reflect the reality of the African people.
“Are you new to this reading room? “ A voice interrupted my thoughts while my eyes were fixed on the rastafarian.
“Yes.” I reply.
“Water in sachets is not allowed here. Only water bottles are allowed.” he lectured me, pointing at the rules pasted on a corner of the wall I hadn’t noticed since I came in.
“Thank you.” I said, trying hard not to look at the weired man I had been studying.
It was time to study my books.
Mowabites Worldwide 