My last boyfriend was Nigerian–a fact that I loved, because his culture was much older than mine. Something about him felt essential, elemental, like a carry-over from a piece of history in the brownness of his palms, how soft his hair was. Aside from being tired of black American men, some of whom, in my humble opinion, collectively forgot their role in the household, he made me laugh, which was great because he pissed me off just as much.
In any case, our relationship failed, as most do, and I was astonished by the outpour of ignorance used to console me during the tough time. When I moved home, I didn’t realize how strictly color-consciousness strangled minds. In my anger, I grouped and assaulted all black men–wrong, but it made me feel a little better– and the response from black men, “He wasn’t black, he was African,” stole my breath.
Mistakenly stumbling on a nerve, they endured my retort, one which seems to be on loop these days: “First of all, Africa is not a country, it’s a continent…” I thought…If Nigeria is not black, then what is? Certainly not we, with our generations of color complexes, color contacts, colored weaves, bleaching creams, long-haired-thick-red-bone exaltations. I mean, who are we trying to escape?
For the many negative stereotypes I heard incessantly, about two of the prophets had passports, meaning the others had never been out of the country. So the stereotypes they heard, about the “country” of Africa, were never substantiated. Where did they come from? In addition, the advice I received never associated the words to a particular ethnic group, or even a nation, simply the “country” of Africa.
How can we adopt Tiger Woods and Barack Obama, who are bi-racial, as black and vehemently deny black Africans as black? Is being black only accessible to those whose blood has been “purified” by whiteness? I can’t stomach to think that that is the logic behind the omission, but then again…some would like a “long-haired, thick, redbone” and swear that it’s not brain-washing, but a preference, that a black woman’s hair is supposed to dangle down between her shoulder blades, or into the small of her back–that it grows that way.
Apparently an ignorant consistency is also a hobgoblin of little minds. Maybe it makes the world more manageable to minimize an entire continent of people into one culture, one religion, one association. I may endeavor to pigeon-hole black American men, but that’s a population a few million strong, not an entire continent. I’m not evolved enough for such a feat.
