I remember my first night in Africa.
I had just turned six years old about a week earlier, so it was that time of life when memories are short bursts–seconds, really–like someone cut a few frames out of an old-time movie reel.
I don’t remember saying goodbye to my grandmother; I don’t remember the plane ride or who picked us up from the airport. But I remember my first night in Liberia.
Those few seconds of memory consist of a mental image of my room–the bed up against the wall and under the window. A window screen separated me from the jungle just a few feet outside. It was almost dark. The air felt different, I remember. Warmer, heavier, richer. I don’t think I felt afraid, just interest, and curiosity, in all the strange newness that enveloped me.
Such lack of fear is the blessing of childhood. There was a hole in that screen about a the size of a quarter, and it made my mother very worried that a snake would come through that hole and devour her only daughter on her first night in Africa. Thankfully, no snake came in and ate me. Only mosquitoes did.
I am 43 years old, and I have spent 22 of them on the African continent. This year tipped the scale, just over half of my life spent there versus here. Other than those first six years before Liberia, all the other years in America were defined by my time in Africa. Ask anyone who knew me during the longest stretch I lived in the States–10th grade through college–and they’ll agree that I was single-minded in my desire to return to the continent of my upbringing. A guy told me in college, “No one will want to date you if your goal is to live in Africa.” I didn’t care. And he was wrong.
It won’t be long before the scale is tipped back to the American side. The difference this time is that I look into the foreseeable future and all I see is a life here. Of course, I know that might not be true; life in its twists and turns leads us all kinds of places. My children are international and will probably want to live international lives, so who knows where Gil and I will end up? But that is still a long way away. For now, I am here.
We moved into our apartment, so this week I’ve been finally unpacking all of the things I brought from Tanzania. The emotion of leaving so suddenly swept over me again, as I visualized the panicked hours spent stuffing those things into those boxes. I had to wipe dust off of the picture frames. I packed so hastily that I didn’t even have time to clean them first.
This is Tanzanian dust I’m wiping off, I thought. This is the earth of the continent I called home for 22 years. I wrung out the rag in the sink and watched the brown water seep away from me, into the Californian earth.
For the past three months, I have stubbornly refused to let go. I still had a job, and it was in Tanzania, so that gave me good reason to keep my mind and heart there. The bookmark in my planner is still stuck on the week of March 16, even though I kept using the rest of the pages. I unpacked my watch, and it was still running on East African time.
But now the time has come that would have been the end, even in that alternate universe. This day, or one of the next few days, would have been my last in Tanzania. I must now plant my feet firmly in this American soil, like it or not.
I don’t really know who I am in America. I don’t know what kind of American I’ll be, what with the 22 years of Africa stuffed into me. I never really belonged in Africa, of course, no matter what I told myself. It wasn’t mine to call my own. But still, the continent gave me so much: Unparalleled experiences. Courage to stretch beyond my naturally cautious instincts. Recognition of my incredibly privileged life. Faith that was battered and questioned and strengthened. Extraordinary perspective. Four remarkable children. It is impossible to imagine who I would be without Africa.
Somehow, I must figure out how not to just live as an American, but as an American who has spent 22 years in Africa. If my life were a book, Part Two would be just beginning.
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| Gil Medina, Mikumi National Park, Tanzania |
