My accent hovers high…
Caught in between airspaces, falling behind both at Danish and Swahili. On a downward turn. As a casual Tanzanian, located between Scandinavia and the motherland. Pronunciation leads to segregation. Putting me in a box, in “my” place. Devaluing me and degrading me. A jewel that’s lost it’s shine, son of mother Africa.
My accent is part of my story now on to…
I didn’t grow up in Africa, I came up on the Euro side, a real Scandinavian boy to some detractors, not Danish enough to other detractors. But I think my path gave me my power. So eclectic that electricity oozes from my brown skin. Neither description: boy or not enough, is an insult, you tried to hurt me and made my skin impenetrable.
I haven’t encountered what you’ve encountered but I have my own experiences. The truth is you haven’t experienced what I’ve experienced either. If I only lived in Africa it would have made me one way. But I’m grateful for the build up, my upbringing, all that is unique about me. I lived the way I did, you’re no better or worse than me, different sure, but not above or below. Respect me as an equal, I’ll respond equally.
Pro black but not immersed exclusively in a specific culture. It’s on me to network more, I’m rooting for everyone black, yet I don’t hang out with any one race exclusively. But that could be my strength, a man of the world, a chameleon who keeps his color but stays flexible and adaptable.