Babatunde O. Fashola

This weather – the cold night chill of summer going into oblivion – reminds me of Harmattan, the dusty West African season I sorely miss, now that I’m gone. I am scooping my froyo at TCBY just about the Belvedere Square Market in Baltimore City, and listening to Becca’s “No Away” as I feel necessitated to tell my story. I’m ‘necessitated’, not because I think my story will say all I want it to, but because it is an essential, pan-optic view of the lives of those who become nomads, like me.

Yearly, Facebook, Twitter and Instagram announce the arrivals of my kind, those either running from something, or pursuing a new life. They frantically post pictures of their new habitat, a place endowed with glories their old one lacked. Soon, they call this place home, and who wouldn’t? With the uninterrupted flow of electrons through power outlets, the welcoming smiles of Caucasians and Hispanics alike, the daily touch of banknotes way more valuable than those from their countries, the promise of a new life, and myriad opportunities presenting themselves upon logging into email accounts and surfing the web? This is a haven-a haven of pleasure.

The first thing that stood out to me on arrival was the airport. I thought it was a San Francisco thing, but soon came to understand that it was commonplace in this country, as I saw the magnificent structures in Phoenix, Baltimore, Salt Lake City, and Seattle. Each time I had a layover – a term I was forced to substitute for the one I was used to – I thought to myself that life is beautiful, and as long as I could think of it that way, I would be fine.

As I got to meet new people daily and interact with them, I was reminded that I am BLACK and they were mostly either of a different skin color or no color at all. This was a strange feeling at first, as I had never been categorized by the color of my skin. Most people I had met for the previous 2 decades of my existence were either black or, wait for it, black. Sometimes, this could be good, but things like affirmative action may force you to think that your scholarship may have been based on pity or quotas, rather than on merit. But who cares, eh? You are a recipient and that is all that matters.

The more we stay here, the more we are reminded that this place is no home. Not just because the American football sucks and we are forced to wonder why they are so excited about fighting themselves, but also because we are forced to wake up so early to watch our own football, and our favorite English Premier League teams in play. In addition, we have precious few people to talk to about the matches afterwards. Who wants to know about your ‘football’? If you like football where you’re coming from, you had better get used to liking what we call that too- Soccer.

The occasional evasion of whites from blacks on the bus and in train stations also reminds us that this place is no home. It forces us to ask if the days of Kunta Kinte are truly over. Despite your Swatch, Perry Ellis shirt, Wrangler pants and Nike shoes, you are still being evaded? The truth is, no one is interested in your lush wardrobe. For all they care, you could have bought all those on credit with the cards these companies dutifully dole out. All people seem to care about, really, is what you sound like (your accent irritates their ears) or what your skin color is. Many of us are forced to twist our tongues, inject slurred ‘r’s into our speech, and look for ways to approve our new found tongues. Sometimes, we tend to think we are different from the African-American community. It boosts our ego, I believe. However, from my years of stay and personal experiences, I can say we are all the same, at least to the whites.

Despite all these, we can’t run home: to where mosquitoes bite, internet crawls and electricity is rare. No one runs back home. It’s too dire back there, too dangerous too unpalatable; it’s no match for the newfound ‘home’. We may visit, though, to complain about the heat, hold coffee cups each morning to satisfy our new cravings, and take taxis because the buses can’t cut it anymore. And we know we have a responsibility to our people; to those North-Eastern children in Nigeria living in despair and not knowing it; to those unemployed- more intelligent than we are but confronted with no opportunity; to those lacking the most basic health care, constantly being misdiagnosed; and to those that need to be encouraged to pursue their dreams, no matter what challenges they face. But the facts say that we can’t run home, and can’t stay here either. We are interlopers, a frigid breeze, never resting.

Right now, my $5.61 froyo is gone and the cold has descended like the mighty king of the temperate region. The Belvedere Square Market is now less frenzied and I am walking back to my apartment, alone. It’s 10:00pm.