Author: Nomadobgyn

I’m unabashedly a daddy’s girl.  However, this in no way diminishes my relationship with my mother.  My mother and I are extremely close.  I will take my mother anywhere (and I have).  She chaperoned the prom and project graduation, went on college visits, we have traveled to Mexico, Hawaii and the Dominican Republic.  She’s been my plus one for more than a few weddings, she’s kicked it with me in Vegas and we’ve chilled in beach towns like Tybee, SC.  Most of my friends feel like she’s part of the crew and have grown to not only expect her but to ask for her if I show up sin mami.  Even with our unquestionable friendship, she reminds me quickly and often, She’s still the Mama!

That being said, It would only make sense, that since my dad dropped me off in Kenya, naturally, my mother would come and pick me up.  She was a little nervous about the long flight.  She doesn’t move as quickly as she used to after her knee replacement a few years ago.  And we all know TSA can be quite intimidating for the occasional airport traveler.  (If she could have gone to Kenya on a train, I think she would have).  To allay some of her anxiety, I coordinated her travel with some other friends who were coming to Kenya to visit me before I left.   She didn’t have to brave the distance alone.

Due to the length of their trip, I wasn’t able to introduce them to Mutomo, but I tried to capture the essence of what I’d grown to love about Kenya in 8 short days.  We visited the Giraffe Center and the Nairobi National Museum.  We ate at Carnivore, a restaurant known for showcasing a variety of meat and game and boasting the best Dawa in the country.  We had an unforgettable bottomless Prosecco brunch at Sankara, one of the five-star hotels in Nairobi.  The trip ended on the coast.  Two days of fun in the sun spent in Diani and a day of culture, learning the history of the port city of Mombasa.

I should tell you my mother has never met a stranger.  She has an infectious spirit, a big smile and an even bigger laugh.  She made fast friends on the plane and several more during the week.  She has a heart of gold, going out of her way to do for others, because that’s just the right thing to do.  She has been my constant supporter, reminding me to stay focused during those trying days of college and medical school.  She let me nap in her bed, no questioned asked, when I needed a little break from residency.  She has encouraged me to be me, unconventional, nontraditional, nomadic me, even though she worries 🙂

For that and all the other wonderful, thoughtful and sometimes unacknowledged things that you do…  Thank you Mommie.  I love you.

The community of Black Americans living in East Africa is thriving.  Those who have been seeking a real life Wakanda. A safe space where we are less likely to be judged solely based on skin color.  However, evidence of British colonialism is still alive and well in Kenya, as the country only achieved independence in 1953. The book Weep Not, Child, by Kenyan author Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o details how Kenyans struggled to reclaim their land that had been controlled by British or Mzungu immigrants in a brutal and demoralizing war.

Mzungu.  This Kiswahili word, originally coined to refer to those of European descent in East Africa, has evolved to include foreigners or more specifically light-skinned foreigners in the area.  More than once I have been taken aback by young children shouting “Mzungu!” as I walked or rode by. This has been an unexpected part of my experience being a light-skinned Black American in Africa.  At times, there are those who recognize me as that, especially once I start speaking. There are those who are confused by me, they know that I’m not white, but I don’t fit neatly in the black box either.  And some are adamant– my skin is not black, so then of course, I must be white.

To me, I look black.  I have broad features and kinky curly hair. There are no white people in my family, my parents are black, their parents are black, and their parents were black.  My great-great grandmother could pass for white; but nope, she was black too. Yet, in Mutomo, my racial identity is often a subject of speculation. Not just with Kenyans, but also with the foreign-born white people who either live or have volunteered here during my stint at the hospital.  Today, I will not go into a tangent on the social construct of race based on skin color that makes little sense outside of the confines of the Americas. But I will say, having to explain why I am light-skinned but call myself black can be tiresome. In one conversation of which I was a part, a few Kenyans and a couple from Denmark were trying to reconcile the hue of my complexion and remarked, “oh, like Obama.” Now, I will never rebuke any likeness to President Barack Obama, and in my exhaustion I conceded. But in reality, no, not like Obama.

At home in the states, I rarely get any questions about my race or ethnicity. Though one time that I did stands out in my memory. I remember in second grade, one of my classmates asked me if I was “mixed.”  I believe I asked him what he meant. My response, was, well let me ask. I knew I was black and that everyone on both sides of my family was black. But at the time, I didn’t know what “mixed” meant. That day, I asked my mother if I was or if we were mixed.  Her answer, — well, yes, the way most black people in America are mixed. She explained the African Diaspora in a way a seven year old could understand. She explained slavery of African people, the oppression of the Native Americans and the mixing of the native African people with the white immigrants, slave owners, and indigenous populations.  What I understand even more keenly now is that my coloring is not a consequence of a voluntary relationship borne out of love or lust between two consenting individuals of different backgrounds, it is a result of coerced, forced and often humiliating sexual relationships with enslaved or oppressed black women who arrived in this country as a consequence of American slavery.  We, Black Americans, are descendants of those who were brought here in bondage, and from that pain, was born the beautiful spectrum of blackness that is us.

Kenya is in East Africa, so it is unlikely that any of my ancestors came directly from here.  But I, like many Black Americans, still feel a kinship to the whole continent, to a people that we have been disconnected from for generations and will never have the opportunity to fully know.  Spending time in Kenya has not only helped me grow professionally, but it has allowed me to reflect on what it means to be Black, what it means to be American, and connected me to our shared African ancestry.  Kenya, when I see you, I see myself.

One of my friends asked me to tell her the one thing I liked best about my time in Mutomo, Kenya and one thing I liked the least.  I decided to expand the list and give you my 5 favorite and 5 least favorite things about my trip.  If you have been following my posts, you can probably tell that I had a wonderful experience.  However, spending 6 months in a remote town in a country that you’ve never stepped foot in, does bring a certain set of challenges.

My Favorite Things:

1. The People. I loved meeting and working with new people.  From the patients to the staff to the other volunteers and physicians and I can’t not leave off my CMMB family, learning from and with this group was definitely the highlight of my experience.
2. The Pace of Life. Living and working on the hospital compound definitely changed how I interacted with the workday.  The short commute.  Afternoon tea at the canteen.  Walking over to a friend’s house after work to chat or play cards, was a welcomed change from traffic, overpriced coffeehouse coffee and mind-numbing reality tv.
3. The Stars. The night sky in Mutomo is captivating.  Walking home after dinner and looking up to a bright moon and sparkling stars never got old.
4. The Weather. Even though there were days that I complained or when I sweated through my scrubs in the OR, I still prefer hot weather.  The temperature range was pretty narrow and it rarely rained.
5. I love Kachumbari.  It’s a simple dish.  It can be as basic as just tomatoes and red onions, lime juice with a dash of salt.  Or the way I preferred to prepared it, adding cilantro, hot peppers and avocado when they were in season.

My Least Favorite Things.

1. The Mosquitos. All in all, I saw more bugs than I knew existed, in Mutomo.  Every time it rained, a new variety of bugs would pop up.  Despite trying to be diligent with mosquito repellent and a mosquito net at night, I still received more than my fair share of bites.
2. Being so remote. At times, Mutomo feels isolated.  Being 5 hours from Nairobi, with up to 2 hours of that trip along a dirt road, travel required some preparation (both logistically and mentally).  The bumpy, dusty ride was also rough on the back and the sinuses.
3. The Language Barrier. The nurses and technicians were awesome in interpreting for me.  But I missed connecting with the patients on a more personal level.  I learned a few Swahili words over the 6 months, but I will definitely plan to have more formal lessons before I return.
4. Intermittent Electricity. Some days the electricity would go out for a few minutes or a couple of hours.  However, occasionally the electricity would go out for days at a time.
5. Lack of Diversity of Food. While I absolutely enjoy Kenyan food, nyama choma, ugali, chapatti and of course my beloved Kachumbari… I did miss having a big salad or pizza or greek yogurt or fried seafood, I could go on…