Ramblings of a Child in Diaspora-Hazel

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