Black African Girl

I was born from the black soil of my ancestors, the Maasai people, where the wind whispered of rain long before the first drop ever kissed the earth. My childhood was woven with barefoot chases through sunburnt fields, where laughter cracked through the air. Nights belonged to whispered stories shared in the glow of a fading fire, and the sky stretched endless above us, heavy with stars that looked close enough to touch.

In our manyatta, there was no mirror large enough to show me the fullness of my existence. The only reflection I ever knew was

the one I caught in my mother’s eyes, dark, deep, and knowing. My black skin carried the richness of my people, a hue kissed by the sun itself, yet the world beyond our village had a different story to tell.

We had an old black-and-white television, a stubborn relic that flickered to life only when the universe felt generous. On those rare days, it became a portal, a crack in the walls of our

small world. It showed me places where people lived in glass towers that stretched toward the sky, where streets shimmered under neon lights and the cities that life was truly life. I wanted in, not just to see it but to belong to it.

Then came the night the Green Card advert flashed across the screen. It was not just an opportunity. It was destiny sliding its fingers beneath the door, slipping me a key to a life

beyond the limits of my village. My heart hammered so loudly I thought it would burst.

The next morning, I walked into a cyber café, my fingers trembling as I filled out the application. Every keystroke felt like a prayer sent directly to the gods of fate. The cyber attendant barely glanced at me. “If they accept you, you will get an email.” That was it. No fanfare. No divine confirmation. Just an email.

So I waited. And I prayed. Each morning, before the first light cracked through the horizon, I whispered the same words to the sky “Let today be the day” My old Nokia touchscreen, held together by suffering and misplaced faith, became my most-checked possession. It restarted when it pleased, froze in the middle of my prayers, and shut down at ten percent like it had lost the will to live. But still, I checked.

And then on an afternoon drenched in dust and routine, it happened. I was out milking cows, the warm froth foaming between my fingers, when my phone vibrated. I almost ignored it, but something told me to look. I wiped my hands, pulled out the phone, and there it was. Congratulations, you have been selected.

My world stopped. The air became too thick to swallow. My knees nearly gave out. The cow flicked its tail in my face, breaking the trance, but I barely noticed. My hands were shaking. My heart was racing. I read it again. And again. And again. It was real.

That night, my mother braided my hair in

the dim glow of our kerosene lamp, her fingers moving with the care of someone sculpting memory itself. Every so often, she would pause, sigh, and press her palm against my head as if sealing a silent prayer. My grandmother sat nearby, pretending not to listen, her hands peeling maize in slow, deliberate motions.

When the last braid was done, my mother

cupped my face. “Sleep well,” she whispered. But we both knew that sleep would not come easy. Because tomorrow, everything would change.

Morning came with the weight of a thousand unspoken goodbyes. My grandmother pressed a small coin into my palm. “For luck,” she said. But we both knew it was all she had left to give. My mother stood behind her, twisting the fabric of her kitenge, her lips pressing together in an expression I had seen only once before, when we buried my father. She did not

cry. She did not beg me to stay. She only whispered, “Do not forget who you are.”

The airport was a world of its own. Glass walls swallowed reflections whole, making my black skin stand out against the sterile white lights. Voices rose and fell in languages I did not

understand. Screens flickered with the names of places I could barely pronounce. At customs, an officer scanned my passport, his eyes flicking between me and the picture. He held my gaze for a moment too long.

“Purpose of visit?” “Work.” “How long

will you be staying?” I swallowed. “As long as the world will have me.” I meant it as a joke but he didn’t laugh. With a curt nod, he stamped my passport and waved me through and just like that, I was in.

Midway through the flight, the plane

trembled, and my soul nearly abandoned ship. My grip tightened on the armrest as I whispered a quiet repentance, preparing for the heavens to open and call me home. But when I looked around, no one else seemed concerned. People scrolled through their phones, sipped their drinks, completely unbothered. I stared in disbelief. Was this sorcery? Did they not feel what I felt? My heart pounded in my throat as I braced for the worst. Then, as suddenly as it started, the turbulence was gone. Silence. Five minutes of sheer survival, and now everything was fine? I exhaled, pretending I had never panicked, but God and I both knew He had just given me another chance at life.

Later, a flight attendant handed me a

small packet. I accepted it with gratitude, nodded, and tucked it into my bag, assuming it was a snack. Only when I noticed others unfolding theirs and wiping their hands did I realize my mistake. My stomach sank. I yanked mine out too, but the damage was done. The scent of fresh lemon clung to my bag, exposing my ignorance. I wiped my hands slowly, as if this had been my plan all along, but deep inside, I knew—I had been humbled by a wet wipe.

The first thing that hit me when I landed was the cold. Not the kind that nibbled at your skin but the kind that gripped your bones, sank into your soul, and made you question your life choices. I wrapped my coat tighter, trying to act unbothered, but inside, I was fighting for my life. And then I saw it. Snow. White dust falling from the sky, soft as whispers. I reached out to touch it, half expecting it to burn, instead, it melted on my skin.

After getting my bags, I had to find a taxi. The way I clutched my luggage tightly, you’d think I was carrying gold bars. I walked outside confidently, expecting to find a matatu shouting my destination. Instead, I saw sleek cars parked in an organized line. No conductor? No shouting? Girl, this was not Africa. This was a white man’s land—beautiful, unique, and definitely too cold for me.

When I finally found a cab, I hopped in and greeted the driver with a cheerful “Jambo!” He turned around and asked, “Where to?” That’s when it hit me—I had no idea how to say my address properly. I tried reading it off my phone, but my mouth refused to cooperate with these foreign street names. The driver waited patiently as I butchered the pronunciation, nodding like he understood. I did not trust that nod.

Driving through the city, I couldn’t stop staring up at the skyscrapers. They were so tall, buildings I had only seen in movies. At some point, I leaned out of the window, my neck fully stretched, mouth slightly open, just taking it all in. The driver glanced at me

through the mirror, probably thinking, First time? I quickly sat back like a serious person, but my inner villager had already been exposed.

I finally reached my studio apartment, I opened the door… and stood there in shock. The whole place was so quiet. Back home, I was used to hearing chickens and kids shouting in the distance. Here? Just silence. I whispered a soft hello just to make sure the room wasn’t haunted. The echo that came back? Terrifying.

I dropped my bags and sat on the tiny bed, staring at the ceiling. Wow, I really made it. Then my stomach growled. I realized I had no food, no idea where to get food, and no energy left. So this is adulting? No mom shouting my name. No familiar smells of ugali cooking.

Just the distant hum of a city that didn’t even know my name yet. For a moment, fear crept in. What if I don’t make it? What if this place is too big for me?Then I remembered: I’m still a tenant on Earth, just the same old gravity keeping me in check!

I was in a different world. But the world had not prepared itself for me. At first, I ignored the stares. But they lingered. In the supermarket aisle. On the subway. At the cafe where I sat drinking tea. Some were curious, others cautious. And then came the words,

wrapped in politeness but laced with something else.

“You speak so well.”

“Where did you learn English?”

“Can I touch your hair?”

The first week, I was fueled by pure optimism. I had my portfolio ready, outfits planned, and a dream in my heart. I just knew that agencies would take one look at me and say, “Where have you been all our lives?” Reality had other plans. I realized that my existence was a

fascination. A puzzle people felt entitled to solve. A walking question mark. At first, I laughed it off but then came the rejections. My dream of becoming a model dimmed daily.

The first agency I walked into smiled at

me before saying, “We love your look, but we’re not casting for your type.” I did not know my type needed permission to exist in spaces I had dreamed of. I went to another and another. Each time, the same words, rearranged in different packaging.

“We love your energy, but we’re looking

for something different.”

“We’ll keep your profile on file.”

“The industry is tough for your kind of

beauty.”

They used the word different like it was

a flaw. Like my blackness was something to be overcome rather than celebrated. At one casting, a man tilted my chin up, examining my face as if it were a painting he was unsure of. “Your features are striking,” he murmured. “Maybe too strong for the campaign.” Too strong. Another time, a stylist ran her fingers through my curls, frowning, “Your hair is… voluminous,” she said, as if my existence required taming. My skin, my hair, my lips—always too much or never enough.

After another rejection, I slumped onto the steps of my studio apartment and wept, tears that shook my shoulders and left me hollow. I pressed my forehead to my knees, silently questioning why opportunities were closing before I had a chance to knock. I longed for home, a return to Africa, where the sun on my skin wouldn’t be a political statement. I yearned to walk into a room and feel fully at ease, not like a stranger in my own body.

After being rejected by every modeling agency in existence, I gave up. I got a job at a coffee shop just to survive because life was no joke. But one day, a fancy Canadian woman walked in, ordered a cappuccino, and stared at me like I was some rare artifact.

“Your skin! Your hair! Are you a model?” she asked, her eyes wide with disbelief. I laughed so hard, I nearly choked on my own broken dreams. “No, but I auditioned for every agency, and they all said no.” She looked at me, unimpressed by the failures of the past, “Well, they’re blind,” she said, snapping a, picture of me, “Come to my office tomorrow.”

The next thing I knew, she handed me her business card. Turns out, she worked with major brands. A week later, I was in a studio, getting my makeup done for my first real shoot. One campaign led to another, and suddenly, my face was everywhere. Billboards. Ads. The same agencies that once ignored me were now sliding into my inbox like an ex who

finally realized what they lost. The first time I saw my own campaign in a store window, I stood there, staring at my reflection like a proud mother. Life had flipped, and all I could think was, Damn, they really tried to dim my

light… but here I am, shining anyway.

Now, I sit in a cafe in Dubai, sipping my hot espresso. If I wanted to, I could sip it in the cold lands of Europe, preferably in a fur coat, just for the drama. My black skin glows under golden lights—rich, unbothered. The same black skin they tried to erase is now a vision they can’t escape.

I travel. I am on billboards. I built a house like

the ones I once admired for my mother and grandmother. Life is beautiful. I didn’t just walk through white streets—I made them remember me. They called it “diversity” when they needed a momentary splash of color. But I was never meant to be a trend. I am the whole damn movement. Black skin? It’s a manifesto.