on a time you were scared

this was written to be read. the prompt asked to write about a time you were scared. 

I never understood why they say you’re ‘scared’ shitless’, when shitting or the sensation of shitting is all you can do or think about. It was something we had planned for weeks. And for weeks, I had done my research. I had conversed with the company via email, I had discussed the details with my friends. I had watched videos on You Tube. I knew what the process was going to entail. But for some reason, as the boat heaved up and down at a speed that made me grab my seat desperately, and land grew further and further away and the temperature grew colder and colder, the fear grew louder and louder. My heart rate increased, my bladder filled and my bowels moved. The surge of adrenaline had put me in fight or flight mode and since there was nowhere to run to, I knew I had to go through with it.

As the boat slowed down, and the roar of the engine became a light murmur, the excited chatter of the passengers grew louder and louder. Stories were shared about previous similar adventures. I pretended to be engaged, hoping my fear was well hidden behind my ray bans.

As one guide announced that we were to immediately change into the diving suits, another pulled a frozen fish head, the size of a large watermelon, out of a cooler and attached it to a pole. Changing into the gear was the worst. The suit was damp, the floor was slippery and the tide caused the boat to lurch in a manner that disoriented me. Once half the suit was on, I learned with exhausting disappointment that it was too big and began to peel off the layers. I despised that moment. I wanted to be back in the hotel room, over 100 miles away, in the heart of Cape Town, sleeping in the warmth of the king sized bed. Not out in the middle of nowhere on a boat in the midst of pushing and shoving, struggling to get a suit on, feeling as incompetent as a 3-year-old. After much struggle, I was out of the large suit and in the right sized one. My travel companions- my sister and her best friend- were already in theirs, and enjoying selfies with the blue ocean gleaming behind them.

I decided I would go first. I had to get this over with. I had enough adrenaline in me for 5 small children about to get on their first roller coaster ride. I had to get it out. My insides churned again and I clenched in fear.

“Ok we got one!” screamed one of the guides “first group in!!”

I stood up with 5 others and goggles were thrust at us. My peers quickly put them on with the efficiency of people who were used to this kind of thing, while I struggled to find the right placement for my nose. So much talking, so much excitement, so much happening at once. Including the rise of my heart beat. I couldn’t think of the future or the past. This moment was my life. And I felt like it would never end.

With support from one of the guides, I was lowered into the freezing salty water, into the cage attached to the side of the boat. We were to float in the cage with our heads above water until the guide motioned for us to dive.

Because the boat was heaving, the cage was heaving and we were heaving. I began friendly conversation with the man to my left. I usually found that admitting fear calmed my nerves but it didn’t work in this scenario. I asked him to review the diving procedure with me, to help me identify the correct bars to grab during the dive. He was gracious. And I was half attentive. I already knew what to do. I just needed to be calmed down. As we waited for the shark, which was being baited with the frozen fish head, I discovered he was also from California, and he discovered that I couldn’t swim. I always found it best in bodies of water to warn people of the handicap in case of emergency.

The trembling, the heart rate, the adrenaline.

The cage, the heaving, the ice cold water.

The chatter, the fish head, the imminent dive.

And then it happened. As quick as my next heart beat, I felt my chest and stomach tighten and my head lurch forward as I disposed into the water last night’s dinner. My eyes watered as undigested chunks of garlic nan and shai paneer gathered on the water’s surface.

“Ok, everyone, just push the pieces out of the way” I heard a voice say from the above. And the 5 other divers with support of the current moved the vomit away from them. I apologized as I used the salt water to clean my mouth and wipe my face down. My heart rate had slowed but the fear was still there.

About 4 minutes later, it arrived, and we were told to hang on to the internal bar, dive and look right. And there it was clear as the day above us, just inches from my face, a great white shark. After 2 more dives, we were extracted from the water so the next group could go in.

My heart had definitely retuned to normal. I began the impossible task of changing out of the suit praying to God that I didn’t soil myself in my moment of despair. I hadn’t. But I wouldn’t have been surprised if I did. Before we headed back for shore, I vomited twice more and in the process lost any integrity I had boarded with. Upon arriving at our hotel 4 hours later, I ran to the bathroom.

Weeks and months later I would reflect on the moment and recall how despite my fear and the endless vomiting, at least I had the restraint and decency to clench and hold it in.

on remembering i’m black

I’d like to speak for all black people and say that we don’t remember we’re black until something or someone reminds us that we are. A poorly thought out ad campaign, an offhand joke, a comment in the break room, the lack of representation at your favorite clothing store, black history month, Obama, black panther. We don’t go around thinking we’re only black. We walk around like everyone else. Normal. Then, just like that, more times than not, we’re reminded.

I actually almost forgot. Until Lafiya reminded me.

I work for an International NGO based in Washington, DC. We do development work and respond to emergencies around the world- Africa, South America, Asia- we’re there. We’re building water systems, training a young workforce of future leaders, engaging policy makers and local leaders, supporting small holder farmers, and young female entrepreneurs. Our portfolio is vast.

Now, we’re currently working on expanding our reach into West Africa by way of Niger. Niger is a sub- Saharan land-locked country that sits of north of Nigeria. The superlatives are endless. It has the youngest population in the world with over 80% of people under the age of 30. It has the highest fertility rate in the world and it is the poorest country on the continent. Nigeriens are mostly farmers and pastoralists, mostly uneducated (literacy rates are even lower in women), and mostly Muslim. It is the worst-case development scenario with many factors such as governance, religion, social norms, climate, and the influx of the terrorist group Boko Haram, intensifying already tough conditions. Because of this, we have invested a large chunk of money in understanding the context. Many of us in the last 4 months have taken several trips to Niger. I was there twice in January. I sat with people in the most remote villages and asked them what development means to them, what health care looks like in their villages and what it would take to reduce the very high malnutrition rates that claim the lives and stifle the growth of children in their communities.

We’ve begun to develop a health, livelihoods, adult literacy, agriculture and resilience strategy to implement a 5-year 50 million USD initiative. Over the last few weeks we’ve gathered all our data, looked at all the research and are in the process of designing a project that will be impactful and sustainable. This morning, the health team (which is the team I sit on) had a meeting to discuss our strategy and potential activities.

One of my colleagues thought we’d introduce a behavior change marketing brand. The idea was to use a caricature of a Muslim girl who would be incorporated into all of our programming and activities. The girl would be a representative of the “ideal” Niger girl. She would be healthy, because her mother exclusively breastfed her early in life, took her to get all her vaccinations, and went to the health center when she was sick. She would be enrolled in school, wash her hands after defecating (in a toilet), would eat a balanced meal and have a strong relationship with her parents and siblings. She wouldn’t marry before 18 and when she did, it would be to a man she chose. The idea was that this girl, who my colleague named “Lafiya” (Peace in Hausa) would be included on our print materials, would have a story line shared on weekly radio shows, and would be represented in our adult literacy activities as well. It’s a bit like how you see Elmo or Barney on everything and are immediately reminded of all the positive behaviors they try to extend. It’s actually kind of brilliant when you think about it.

So, this brilliant colleague presented the write up this morning. And this was Lafiya:

Yes, Lafiya is white, or at the very least, not black.

Oh, in case I forgot to mention, Niger isn’t one of those countries like the US, or South Africa or the UK where its citizens all look very different from one another. In case you don’t know about Niger, in case you’re wondering: Niger is a homogenous country. Nigeriens are black. Very black.

My colleagues provided feedback about the write up that accompanied the photo. Components of the write up were critiqued or praised. No one had anything to say about Lafiya’s skin.

I lost my patience. “Can we use a black girl?” I say. “She doesn’t look like she’s from Niger”.

Silence ensued.

The murmured agreement of the 5 white women on the health team followed

“I just don’t see the donor responding well to this” I said “It’s the first thing I noticed”.

The girl who developed the strategy (who has about 2 decades worth of experience in the development and relief work) spoke up, “I tried to find a black one but I couldn’t. I actually paid $10 for this image”.

My supervisor was shocked.

“Why did you pay for it?” she probed “we could have had someone on our design team draw something up.” (it seemed silly, why pay for something that was so wrong. Especially when no one asked you to do so).

Another began to google “muslim girl black” and jokingly confirmed that there were no images that would work.

“Worst case scenario, I’ll have a friend draw something up”, I said completely disgusted and at my wits end. I am the youngest on my team with the least amount of experience in this line of work. Yes, I lived and travelled in West Africa for almost 4 years before moving back to the States but some of these women responded to Haiti, to Haiyan. They worked in Afghanistan and consulted on the West Africa Ebola crises. One is married to a Peruvian and another has a baby adopted from central America. Yet not one, not a single one of the 5 women, saw immediately that the photo was not representative. They began to throw around ideas to change Lafiya. GIMP was suggested along with contacting our graphic design team. My face burned with embarrassment.

In one fell swoop, Lafiya reminded me I was black. Though, funny enough, she didn’t even have to be black to do it. But isn’t that always the case? The absence of black tends to remind you of your blackness. “Where are the black people in this movie”, you ask yourself? Why am I the only black person on this flight? I am the only black person in this Bible study group. I am the only black person in this store. At this meeting. I am the only black person eating here. Sitting here. Living here. Vacationing here. Working here.

I am the only African American in my office, and thus, the only one on this team. I am the only one who saw that a 50 million USD strategy that was intended to impact the poorest country on earth over a 5- year span was not representative of those people at all.

Lafiya me reminded that I was black.  She reminded me of my early college years when Cover Girl didn’t have my foundation color and MAC was too expensive. Of my years in the Peace Corps when I had to constantly explain the color of my skin. Of that time in Memphis working in the St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital, and being introduced by my supervisor to one of the elderly volunteers, who responded with, “this job will definitely keep her busy and off the streets”.

She reminded me. And now, I won’t forget. At least for the next couple of months. But soon after, I’ll go back to my life, to being just human. Normal. Then, I’ll be reminded again, by something equally as ignorant and by the absence of what should be, that I am different from what is.