When I was young people called me Cheupe Dawa — Swahili for ‘white pills.’ It never bothered me, for it was meant to be a compliment on my light complexion. Growing up in a Tanzanian society plagued with colourism, I was blind to it. I never saw what was staring me in the face: the toxic urge to resemble whiteness, rather than appreciating my Blackness.
Being 'Cheupe Dawa' meant that I had some privileges. I could afford to wear bold red lipstick— almost encouraged to actually— because it accentuated my features and suited me. My sister, however, whose skin glistening rich with melanin, never put on red lipstick — I doubt she ever even considered it because society dictated that it wasn’t created for her to wear. The audacity of denying red to anyone! The same shade that runs in all our bodies was instead only to be reserved for a few. How heartbreaking for choices to be dictated and for wants and desires to be disregarded. I wonder now how she must have felt.
I had never experienced living in a society without the undecorated sense of my Blackness. The thought had never even crossed my mind. After all, I was 'Cheupe Dawa,' the girl who was regarded like white medicine — until, of course, I moved to Canada.
In a city with a 1.2 per cent visible Black or, as I prefer to say, visible African origin, I learned the harsh realities of what it means to be Other, not because of your views or actions, but because of how you look, the pigmentation of your skin, the kinky texture of your hair, things you have no control over yet they define who you are, who you should be, how you are expected to be, or rather how the world expects you to present yourself as you navigate this thing called life.
It was after nine months in Canada when, in a group exercise, we had to fill out an individual identity wheel and there it was — a slice of the cone on the edge of the huge circle, taunting me with the question: “Ethnicity, Race, Nationality?”
It took up a small section of the circle compared to what it should have; in my opinion, it should have been at the very centre. From where I was in this particular country, existing in this continent, race defined my identity. It defined all the other cones in the circle, from education to social groups to even sexual orientation.
Filling out the identity wheel, I put down, Black/African/Tanzanian/Chagga. Had I been asked to fill the wheel while in my home country, Tanzania, my straight answer about my ethnicity would be Chagga, my ethnic group, a people from the slopes of Mount Kilimanjaro, with a shared history, language and practices. There was and is a commonality in what it means to be Chagga — a uniting factor.
Being Black, on the other hand, the commonality is harder to find. It's not like all Black people speak the same language — “the Black language” — or have the same culture or norms. No, the only thing that unites Black people is the pigmentation of our skin, that is, what makes us identifiable by others who are of a different race.
However, amongst ourselves, I have come to discover my own definitions of what it truly means to be Black in a western country.
To be Black is to exchange acknowledging nods with other Black people as you walk down the street, a greeting that surpasses acknowledgment, that says “I see you my brother/sister, and in case anything were to happen right now I got you.” That is what those pleasant nods with strangers turned family in the middle of the streets mean to me.
It is to walk down streets, roads, rooms and buildings and notice there is no one remotely resembling you, and not just in racial view but in your experiences.
It is walking or sitting in buses alone with no one next to you and having to force your mind not to wonder, Are people purposely not sitting next to me or am I exaggerating things?
To be a Black woman is to endure and smile when asked, “Is that your hair?” “Did you cut your hair?” or even, “Are you going to go out with your hair looking like that?” when it is at its God-ordained state. It is knowing that, because your hair defies gravity, it may intrigue or intimidate people. It is having to endure the stares of strangers while doing the most basic things, like walking down the street with hair combed and dried up.
It is being calm when offended while expected not to be offended because then you are being sensitive or even worse an ‘angry Black woman’ — and no Black woman wants to be labeled as the angry Black woman.
Meanwhile being Black, a woman and a student brings another definition. The added pressures of your race and gender are still present, and yet you are also expected to perform as a scholar. It means having questions that have to do with race, why it matters or doesn’t matter, and wanting to ask them but instead feeling like you have to be quiet because women are supposed to be quiet and at the same time a glance around your lecture room reveals you are the only Black person there, so now you feel as though you ought to say something because you have to represent other Black folks, and you cannot possibly be the quiet Black student who never says a thing, can you?
Being a Black woman scholar navigating the world is to be paralyzed with indecision between who you are supposed to be and who you are. It is to feel the expectation to "be yourself" and yet there is a roadmap — or rather, many contradicting roadmaps — of how you should behave.
Being an African woman from a colonized country and choosing to move to the West is recognizing that at home you will face colourism and while abroad you will face racism. Neither is better than the other, no lesser evil, one devil applied by your own people and the other applied by the people who sold the first devil to your people.
Accepting this reality is hard but it is through accepting this that I can truly navigate life as my true self and not as what others impose on me.
With these experiences, I have come to learn that for people — white, black, brown or pink — to truly empathize with one another about the social constructs that make our world go round, we need to be able to communicate our experiences. But alas, communication without comprehension is nothing; we need to feel each other’s wounds and share the pain.
I can imagine what white privilege is because I have been on the receiving end in a colourist society.
I also know what being Black is, having countless debates in my mind of whether to speak up or shut up because, on one hand, I don’t want to be “that Black person,” but on the flip side, as the African-American quote goes, "my ancestors walked so that I could run." Or in my case, my ancestors were colonized and robbed of their land and possessions — not for me to stay silent and watch as it continues to happen decades later.
As individuals, we are called upon to do more and be better.