Today on Flickr, a young man from Kigali, Rwanda invited me into his circle of photo-friends. I haven't yet responded, but I was suddenly reminded of how few Africans I meet from off this continent. Here in cyberspace, I'm only in odd moments of communication with Abiola. Basically I read his blog and occasionally comment. He's one of the more intelligent folks anyone is likely to meet. But the prejudice I have is the wonderful character of the African.
What I'm thinking about is generosity and kindness of the sort that is noticable. I'm thinking of a guileless sweetness. I haven't met any African like that and yet it is something I'm expecting to find in large quantities somewhere. I should know better, perhaps. And yet the idea is still strong with me. I expect to find an African child who would be incorruptable and unspoilable here in the US were I to adopt him.
I don't know where these ideas come from exactly. Perhaps Ladysmith Black Mombazo or the film Sarafina!. Maybe it was the surprisingly soft sound of the Ibo language on my friend's tongue that night of beers at Friday's. Maybe it was my Ethiopian friends from the 80s. They were royalty, and so they seemed, all British educated. Perhaps it was the simple naivete of Mark Mathabane who came to America to play tennis and escape his world.
Somehow I've always felt responsible to Africans with whom African Americans are on notoriously bad grounds. One can hardly expect us domestic blackfolks to control an agenda around our image. It's impossible. And so everybody comes here to the US with old lies about who we are and what we do. They get updated with fresh lies and headlines. And so I've noted the kind of surprise with which I have been greeted by some Africans over the years. Maybe I've wanted to get some of that African goodness. I don't know. I haven't thought about it in a long time.
The long time has been defined by a brief affair with an African woman way back in the 90s - a time when the phrase 'New World Afrikan' was in vogue. I recall a trip to Paris in the days when hiphop fashion was just beginning to hit haute couture runways, and the models were (as models tend to be) young and hot. I remember trying to assume a place in that international jet set, just as some of my friends in academia were eager to parlay the Brixton chic of the day. We were the guys whow were going to be more serious than Milli Vanilli and that Fine Young Cannibal. We were going to be New Generation. Very little of that happened, not that I had the dough to sustain the illusion. Sure I got invited to the Hamptons once, but I was a bit too busy being boho and wearing my baseball cap backwards to face that crowd. Yeah I met a son-of-a-diplomat and he promised to show me the 'real' Africa. I was close to some aesthetes who dreamed of revolutionizing the style of the young, gifted, moneyed and black, worldwide. But I missed the boat that Puffy sailed in on. I like to think that if we would have had our way, things might have been a bit more sophisticated and bouyant. A bit more Angelique Kidjo, a bit less Notorious BIG.
Now I have no idea what American and African black money looks like in the fashionable spots. I have no illusions about the political and economic impact of our emergence, and I don't have the phone number of that incredible dark, tall, model from the fashion show in Paris. My French has degenerated and I wear red plaid boxer shorts more often than even bloggers should admit.
I just spent the last four days in the 115 degree heat off a lake in California admitedly jealous of blacknecks and rednecks with fishing boats, huge trailers and dually Dodge trucks. I enjoyed myself as only BBQ loving guys who love to wear boots and sleep under a million stars do. But I'm thinking about those Africans. I'm thinking about myself as an African and if I was (or am) part of a positive difference for the ideas and images we inherit and create.
No conclusion.
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