Member-only story
Am I African Enough for You — or for Me?
For those who belong everywhere — and nowhere — all at once.
5 pm. It’s rush hour on the streets of Nairobi.
The sound of roasted beef sizzling on a street vendor’s cast iron pan, the echo of voices in a crowded bus station, the smell of tropical rain mixing with dust and tarmac.
The African concrete jungle — chaotic, vibrant, alive.
Life pulses in three-hour traffic jams and roadside kiosks, in spirited church sermons, and in evening power cuts.
That was my normal. That was what raised me.
Then I landed in Canada at eighteen — coat zipped up, accent intact, and heart stretched between two continents.
I didn’t just cross oceans; I crossed into a new version of myself.
And that kind of transformation doesn’t happen all in one moment; it unfolds slowly, in a thousand quiet shifts.
Like the first time you instinctively say “sorry” before anyone bumps you or the way your name lands differently in new mouths. It’s the slow rewiring of familiarity.
As the years passed, the feeling got under my skin, and I started to wonder:
Had I left home behind, or was it slowly leaving me?
