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.
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