Being born in a white man’s country is hard to comprehend.
It’s complicated especially when you’re black.
Being the minority in a country that had a white Australia policy
I always feel like I don’t belong.
When I say I’m Australian
they say No what’s your background?
And when I say I’m Ghanaian
They say No you’re not, you weren’t born there.
Sometimes I feel as if I can’t be both.
Growing up in diaspora with African parents is a force to be reckoned with.
I have different views on everything; it’s quite difficult to agree.
I am taught the ways of diaspora and they have been taught the ways of their forefathers.
African Parents overlook the trauma we face as their children.
The beatings, comparisons and expectations all become too much.
Look at your friend, she is such a good girl.
She always listens to her parents and always does the right thing.
Let our parents not forget that they were once children.
But being a child in diaspora is tough.
Born to African migrants, even worst.
Mine left their jobs and lives in Africa to join the labouring workforce abroad.
Struggling for their stay, they were once illegal immigrants you would say.
Trying to make a life for themselves and start a family of their own.
They left their families, work and lives.
In exchange for money, debt and insufficient time.
For a little child born in diaspora, I was caught between two worlds and two identities.
I was often bullied, ridiculed and different from the rest.
The conflictions my mind is faced with choosing to be white or black.
The scolds from which I received for using my left hand to greet elders and retrieving gifts
I still eat Joloff and chicken and wear traditional clothes.
But here I am taught to express my opinion and buy chicken nuggets and pizza for lunch.
For me, a teenage girl in diaspora is a modern day slave governed by a dictorship
I was not given a choice to be governed by democracy because it’s not an option.
To talk back is a death sentence and ends in corporal punishment consisting of cooking utensils and other household items.
I am told to cook, clean and do household duties, otherwise, No one will marry me.
Not once do my parents fathom the thought that I could marry a white man.
When I go to finish school, my choices are broad in my mind.
But of course limited to my parents.
I can either become a Nurse, Lawyer or a Doctor. I could Study Commence, Business and accounting, you know how it is.
But what happened to our childhood dreams and creativity?
My parents won’t allow their diasporan child to be an actor, dancer or musician.
Their reasons? these type of careers don’t make enough money.
To a parent in diaspora their aim is to make sure their kids don’t suffer like they did.
My parents wouldn’t allow their children to become a factory worker or taxi driver like themselves.
I am the reason why my parents are still working, slaving away and paying taxes.
They will work the rest of their lives to take care of me and my siblings.
Then they return to their home.
But where is my home?
They want you build them a house on their land
but where is mine?
When I reach their homeland Africa
I will return as a young woman from diaspora returning to a land I don’t know.
The land I have learned about but have never properly seen.
The land I dreamed of but have not been.
Since my last trip when I was small child, I wasn’t familiar with this land.
I craved the experiences of others, but when I arrive I will have my own.
No amount of books, music or personal recounts could prepare me for this.
The hot wind from Kotoka Airport, The smell of tantalising dishes is filling the air.
Fried Platain, Tilipia, Palmnut soup and many more.
This is the real experience that I have been waiting for.
The markets, the traffic and seeing family members I don’t know.
Walking along a dusty road, okada and tro tro to and fro.
My mouth begins to water, my tongue longs to taste my grandmother’s delicacies.
My clothes’ soaking in sweat as I dance to the African beat, my soul is set free.
I feel now I can finally be who I want to be.
But I start to miss my “diasporan” ways.
I know I will start to miss KFC, burgers and the five level shopping malls.
But here, the faces are alive and I loving seeing those area boys playing ball.
Shirts and Skins.
Gorgeous African men with perfectly sculpted brown skin that glistens in the sunshine.
I must thank the gods for this one
I whisper to Bernice “Did you see that guy’s 6 Pack?”
I can relate to people with the same skin colour,surrounded by many cultures. I do not feel alone.
But I am still different because I am trying to acknowledge her as your own.
Without seeking her permission first.
She is Mother Africa as she gives me her blessing she says
“The land can never be you, you must become the land.”
Unless I change my train of thought and assimilate into African society.
I will always be that Child from Diaspora longing to belong to somewhere I can call Home.
By : Maame Afrique
Thursday 24 November 2011
Ramblings of Children in Diaspora-Binta and Yataa
Ramblings of Children in Diaspora
“War”
Pa,Pa,Pa that is a noise of war.
The sound of a shotgun killing the acquitted.
“War”
Pa,Pa,Pa that is a noise of war.
The sound of a shotgun killing the acquitted.
Ta ta ta that is a noise of war.
The sound of a man’s hard leather boots.
Moving across the wooden floors boards in our abandoned house.
The sound of a man’s hard leather boots.
Moving across the wooden floors boards in our abandoned house.
Sh,sh,sh that is a noise of war.
The sound of a young men luring innocent girls into their dungeons.
The sound of a young men luring innocent girls into their dungeons.
Hm,hm,hm that is a noise of war.
The sound of a mother worried about the welfare of her children.
As she drinks dirty polluted water after giving her children the last bottle .
The sound of a mother worried about the welfare of her children.
As she drinks dirty polluted water after giving her children the last bottle .
Can you hear our cries? Can you picture our lives?
As we run, we run as far as our swift small feet can take us.
We pray as we sleep the dirt of the earth becomes a blanket.
But when we sleep we can still hear the noises of war.
They are a never-ending soundtrack that replays every day in our heads.
As we awake from our nightmares we are forced to a life of confinement.
Refugee living.
Our mother died from cholera. We prayed and prayed for god to save her.
But she didn’t survive.
Our father shot by the soldiers and now we are orphans of war.
Without parents we sit and wait for someone to take us to a distant place.
As we wait,we pray. As we pray, we lose faith.
Week by week.Hour by hour. Day by day.
Finally we are rescued by a long lost aunty.
My sister and I are taken away to the promise land.
Memories of sunday school in the village fill our minds.
Surely God had remembered us like the Israelites.
We thought we were going to be so happy.
We love eating bread and jam, milk and chocolate cake.
Truly Living life in London is a blessing
But war still haunts us.
We still see the soldiers who killed my father in our dreams.
The rebels who defiled our lives and robbed our sacred pride.
This scares us and we feel like the living dead.
walking amongst the people of this cruel world.
As we run, we run as far as our swift small feet can take us.
We pray as we sleep the dirt of the earth becomes a blanket.
But when we sleep we can still hear the noises of war.
They are a never-ending soundtrack that replays every day in our heads.
As we awake from our nightmares we are forced to a life of confinement.
Refugee living.
Our mother died from cholera. We prayed and prayed for god to save her.
But she didn’t survive.
Our father shot by the soldiers and now we are orphans of war.
Without parents we sit and wait for someone to take us to a distant place.
As we wait,we pray. As we pray, we lose faith.
Week by week.Hour by hour. Day by day.
Finally we are rescued by a long lost aunty.
My sister and I are taken away to the promise land.
Memories of sunday school in the village fill our minds.
Surely God had remembered us like the Israelites.
We thought we were going to be so happy.
We love eating bread and jam, milk and chocolate cake.
Truly Living life in London is a blessing
But war still haunts us.
We still see the soldiers who killed my father in our dreams.
The rebels who defiled our lives and robbed our sacred pride.
This scares us and we feel like the living dead.
walking amongst the people of this cruel world.
Drip,Drip,Drip this is a result of war.
I am a young child, Binta 12 years old
Yet I still wet my bed every night.
In fear for my life.
I am a young child, Binta 12 years old
Yet I still wet my bed every night.
In fear for my life.
Shake,Shake,Shake this is a result of war.
I am Yataa, A young teenage girl who cannot speak English
on her first day of high school.
I have been stigmatized , ostracised and traumatised.
since that day I have never been the same.
I find it hard to talk to strangers often get scared of the slightest noise surrounding me.
I am just a small girl yet I have viewed more than most adults have ever seen.
We hope one day that war will cease to exist just like our childhoods were diminished.
I am Yataa, A young teenage girl who cannot speak English
on her first day of high school.
I have been stigmatized , ostracised and traumatised.
since that day I have never been the same.
I find it hard to talk to strangers often get scared of the slightest noise surrounding me.
I am just a small girl yet I have viewed more than most adults have ever seen.
We hope one day that war will cease to exist just like our childhoods were diminished.
Wednesday 9 November 2011
Tuesday 8 November 2011
JOLOFF RICE
JOLOFF RICE
Joloff rice is a Western African dish.It often disputed that Joloff rice is a Ghanaian,Nigerian or Senegalese dish.
Apparently,The Wolof Tribe from Senegal named it after their tribe.I Love cooking different types of food.I Love international cooking.This means when I remake different types of food from across the world,In my tiny Australian Kitchen.These are some pictures of my variations. Joloff rice consists of the following Ingredients. These are the basic ingredients I used
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| Joloff Rice with Vegatables |
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| Joloff rice with Chicken |
Thursday 13 October 2011
Natural Hair is Beautiful
So I love natural hair It's just beautiful
I'm soo bad at blogging it's terrible.
I love creativity..It's the outlet of the mind being unleashed
Here is colouring I did...I love embracing my inner child.Speaking of creativity here is a
poem I wrote called
I love my HAIR
I love my hair
she’s just the way I like it.
Beautiful and sensual.
I had many dilemmas with you my love.
But I wouldn’t trade you for anything.
Your curls like the waves on Bondi beach.
Your glistening shimmer like the sun
your texture unlike no other.
You are a part of me.
I’m tired of the cream crack.
Making me cringe in my seat.
The putrid smell of toxins and contagions engulfing my nostrils.
Compelling me to cough, cry and constantly saying”Ouch”
Making your insides blemished and stained.
Your curvy structure now rigid and tamed.
You cannot blame me for this vemon has been injected into my soul since my childhood.
I don’t not blame my mother brainwashed by the encompassing doctrine implanted into the “black society”
To not Accept the god given gift of KINKY HAIR
I knew she wanted the best for me and hated maintaining my eccentric hair.
But Now I have discovered Adanna,That is her name.
The pride my father and ancestors have been talking of since my birth.
The Pride that makes me wants to nurture and care you everyday.
After years of searching It’s safe to say, I have found a friend.
Who I would like to stay.
Your are mine and I’m determined to keep you till the end of time. MAAME Afrique.
she’s just the way I like it.
Beautiful and sensual.
I had many dilemmas with you my love.
But I wouldn’t trade you for anything.
Your curls like the waves on Bondi beach.
Your glistening shimmer like the sun
your texture unlike no other.
You are a part of me.
I’m tired of the cream crack.
Making me cringe in my seat.
The putrid smell of toxins and contagions engulfing my nostrils.
Compelling me to cough, cry and constantly saying”Ouch”
Making your insides blemished and stained.
Your curvy structure now rigid and tamed.
You cannot blame me for this vemon has been injected into my soul since my childhood.
I don’t not blame my mother brainwashed by the encompassing doctrine implanted into the “black society”
To not Accept the god given gift of KINKY HAIR
I knew she wanted the best for me and hated maintaining my eccentric hair.
But Now I have discovered Adanna,That is her name.
The pride my father and ancestors have been talking of since my birth.
The Pride that makes me wants to nurture and care you everyday.
After years of searching It’s safe to say, I have found a friend.
Who I would like to stay.
Your are mine and I’m determined to keep you till the end of time. MAAME Afrique.
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