By Rabbie Serumula
TWO French women greeted me, then started speaking to me, assuming I was French. I wasn’t offended at all. In fact, I don’t think it’s rude when someone greets you in their language, believing you are one of them. Especially when you’re all so far from home, laying over in Qatar.
Yes, we were the only handful of Black people checking in for a Qatar Airways flight to Istanbul.
But don’t we all, deep down, just want to belong? Isn’t that why, even after moving into your own home and starting your own family, you still present yourself to your father before travelling abroad? That’s what we do where I come from.
There are no exceptions to this rule, even if your father has passed on.
It’s a ritual, a reminder to carry the essence of your people with you wherever you go—a reminder of who you are and where you belong.
This week, I stood at my father’s tombstone and told him I had been invited to Istanbul, Turkey, for a conference. His silence was reassuring; I felt his blessings and well wishes.
The first time I presented myself to my father was about a decade ago, before a trip to Singapore. I’ll never forget his classic response: “Drive safely.”
This is the kind of wisdom we seek from our elders—their blessings and well wishes. To an outsider, it might seem odd for a wise man to say “drive safely” when I’d just told him about an international flight. But if you listen closely, you’ll hear the deeper meaning: “Travel well, my son. You carry with you my blessings and those of our ancestors.” That “drive safely” referred to the entire journey—from my house to the airport and back again.
It wasn’t rude of the French women to seek a sense of belonging in me, in my dark skin. It wasn’t rude of them to assume a unity rooted in the simplicity of sight—to believe our shared melanin made us kin. Because in some ways, it does.
What’s been taken from us, though, is the natural tongue of our mothers. Their greetings have been ripped from our mouths. They now speak French, and I speak English.
But they may have forgotten the truth of our people: our greetings are always in the plural.
We don’t say “hell is low” or “hello.” No. We say “rea locha,” humbling ourselves before you. We say “dumelang,” agreeing that we see each other. We say “sanibonani,” acknowledging all of you.