Back in Africa/Why Africa?

As I walked out of the Lagos airport towards the bus that was going to take me to the domestic terminal where I was to catch my flight to Abuja and the power went out in the parking lot, I knew I was back in Africa. As someone hastily grabbed my suitcase from me and lugged it to the bus hoping for a tip, I knew I was back in Africa.  As the heat crept in through my clothes and the moist air enveloped me, I knew I was back in Africa. As the rowdy chatter of passengers waiting for the bus to leave filled my ears, I knew I was back in Africa. And it was okay because this was My Africa.

Allow me to explain.

Riding in the back of a pick up truck in Botswana

Africa to me is not a continent of despair or hopelessness, or of theft and rent-seeking or of power cuts and water shortages. Yes, these things exist and happen in Africa but that is not what I think of as My Africa. For me Africa is the little kids who grab at my hair with huge grins on their face in Kafunchan, Nigeria. It’s dancing by a bonfire in Gabane, Botswana. It’s sitting by Lake Malawi and listening to the waves softly kiss the rocks underneath the platform where I sit reading. It's clutching onto the sides of a motorcycle as I whiz down a hill in Sierra Leone and feeling the wind rushing through my hair and the dust filling my nose and mouth. It's carefully tiptoeing through West Point in Liberia as barefoot, deliriously happy children pull me in every direction to show me their homes in the sprawling slum while I avoid stepping on shards of glass and getting plastic bags caught on my foot. Its drinking adulterated palm wine and gagging at the taste but swallowing it anyway out of politeness in Kabala, Sierra Leone. Its standing beside run down car, peeling a perfectly ripe avocado with a swiss army knife in stopped traffic driving into the mountains of Guinea. Its smoking a cigarette while precariously huddled over the front of a moving pick up truck, shivering in Botswana's winter as we race towards the desert races at night. Its sitting in my cubicle at UNICEF pouring over strategy papers on how to save the youth of Malawi. Its drinking a pink drink in Pretoria. 

But I can't hide from the reality of the situation around me. Because Africa is also seeing the stunted children running after me begging for money in Liberia. Its also the youth handicapped by the war in Sierra Leone. Its the corrupt customs officer at the Lagos airport who stole my iPhone. Its the devastating inequality in Botswana. Its the endemic racism I see by people against themselves, the injustices that go ignored because life is treated cheaply here, the entrenched poverty contrasted with how the top live in their palaces with their porches. Its both the corruption in everyday lives and interactions and the massive corruption by the cunning who are fleecing their countrymen and sapping their country dry. Its the wars that are chronicled in movies only after the fact and rarely, if ever, acted to prevent or stop. Its the perpetrators of horrific acts and their victims. Its the preventable deaths. Its the potholes and the collapsing buildings.

The beautiful faces in West Point
the biggest slum in Morovia, Liberia

How am I supposed to reconcile these two scenes? They are, after all, the same places. Where does that leave me? 

People ask me why I love this place so much. Why did I permanently imprint an image of the continent on myself ("Hey! You've got AFRICA on you!")? Why doI keep coming back even after I kept getting sick and eventually almost died (though that was largely my own fault - the poor quality of the healthcare only added to the trouble. A story for another time)? Why do I know that I won't be vacationing in Paris or London next summer?

Because I love this continent. Its diversity. Its life. Its vehement drive to survive against all odds. Its lack of despair even when there is cause. Its dearth of pretention. Its hidden gems. Its subtle, nuanced, intricate lessons. Its hidden adventures. Its burgeoning and existing challenges.

I can't readily explain why I'm so drawn to this continent more than I am to Europe, arguably my first home, or North America, my second. The best I can do is try to explain it through this blog. Through painting a picture with words (and some photos...) of the continent and the countries within it that act as such a strong magnet to me.

Making our way around Conakry, Guinea