Long time no newsletter. I’ve been MIA for the past couple of weeks, but I’ve been working on some personal things - hopefully one of which I’ll be able to share one day. Outside of that, I’ve been resting, relaxing and spending time with my friends and family. No ragrets on my side.
I realise that pulling the emergency brake on writing in the middle of a two-part newsletter wasn’t great, I hope you’ll forgive me.
I wanted to write a tight, neat piece about cultural identity and the freedom it gave me but truthfully, that story is evolving. However, looking back at that moment in time I realise how poignant it was in my journey. Giving a title to my cultural identity gave a home to my sense of self. I was able to ground a part of myself that had been wandering.
In the genesis period of Letting Life Marinate, I wanted to articulate a sense of who I am, because it gives context to the food I eat and the way I interact with the world around me; the two main ingredients of these newsletters.
Re-introduction done, if you haven’t already read part 1 of this newsletter you can find it here. If you’re up to speed, let’s get back into it.
I was staring. Definitely staring. I don’t think she noticed me, but if she did then she didn’t mind. She wasn’t concerned about how she was being perceived. She existed and that was validation enough. Unapologetically herself. Graceful, as I remember it.
She wasn’t the first black woman I saw in Amsterdam, but she was the first woman I took notice of. Sat on a bench in Vondelpark, her bike on its stand next to her. She wore a yellow dress patterned with blue flowers. I remember the hue of that yellow fabric against her dark skin. She was radiant; her afro luxurious, grey strands speckled throughout, framing her face like sun rays.
I was staring. Definitely staring.
Moving to Amsterdam was like being given a blank canvas. I wasn’t fixed to any versions of myself that I had been or had failed to be. I could be anyone I wanted to be and the most honest version of me showed up.
I moved to Amsterdam on a whim. And by that I mean, I didn’t have anywhere to live for the first two weeks after I moved. Thankfully I was connected to someone who kindly took me in whilst I looked for somewhere to stay.
The first time me and J met, we clicked immediately. We sat in her living room eating fufu and peanut butter soup, talking about as much of our lives as would fit between mouthfuls of food.
English, Dutch and Ga danced comfortably around J’s living room, as she switched between conversations with me and her parents. I was jealous, I’ve always wanted to be able to speak multiple languages. Turns out J was jealous of me too. She had recently returned to the Netherlands after completing a master’s in London.
The way she described being black in London was amazing. She described it as somewhere you were free to be black in every nuance of the term; culture, race, orientation. Everything intersected and gave room to black identity. I understood exactly what she was saying. That there was this distinct black-British identity that I couldn’t see in Amsterdam.
I didn’t feel pressure to be a particular kind of black in Amsterdam, and J found the freedom to be black in London. Maybe it’s easier to find yourself in a context that isn’t your own.
Both being from Ghana, J and I had certain similarities but growing up in two different cities had obvious effects on us, and those effects cut deeply into our racial identities. It might sound silly, but I hadn’t thought of Ghanaianness outside of Ghana and the UK before. Until I met J and experienced just a fraction of the large Ghanaian community that lived in the Netherlands. And I was grateful that I found them.
To be Ghanaian isn’t to be black. It’s to be of a people that live where gold grows in the soil. To be Ghanaian is to be of a people who love to dance; we dance to celebrate the living and honour the dead. To be Ghanaian is to be of Ohenefuo and Ohemafuo. To be Ghanaian, descendants of West Africans, born near the centre of the earth.
To be black-British is to drop your t’s and elongate your o’s. To be black-British is to know a little bit about a lot of different cultures; ja-fake-an at Notting Hill Carnival and Nigerian at Everyday People. Wearing uniforms to school and snuggling up under a duvet in the winter. To be descendants of those who came, or were brought here and survived.
If you can’t speak your mother’s tongue but can cook what she ate growing up, what are you then?
If your skin is ebony but your passport is red*, what are you then?
You are a tapestry of times and traditions. Whole. Made with different threads.
Living in Amsterdam, gave me time to look plainly at the cultures that formed who I was. I could be anyone I wanted to be and the most honest version of me showed up - an African British babe. Whole. Unhyphenated.
I craved baked beans, porridge oats and breakfast tea in the morning. At night I was desperate for jollof, waakye and stew. I wanted peanut butter soup when it was cold and light soup when I wasn’t feeling well. I carted a new box of PG tips, and my mum’s homemade hair and body shea butter mix back with me after each trip home.
I was already existing as the product of the places that raised me. Just like that woman in sat inVondelpark: liberated, beautiful, flowing dress femininity, afro glorious, skin rich, deep and radiant.
In the words of this week’s artist, “We’re black and we’re British and African too”
If you’re interested in this kind of discussion. I highly recommend reading Afropean by Johnny Pitts and Natives by Akala.
A song to match the mood of this week’s newsletter.
Amaraaa! Thank you so much for engaging with this so deeply.
You’re right, there’s an erasure, a hostility and a forced assimilation that many of us have come face to face with here and the question that follows is what to do next? Everyone will respond to that as their heart, temperament and circumstances allow right?
Black-British culture is so meaty and intricate, even between generations I feel like there’s so much more nuance to it now than when I was young (*cough* colourism and the amount of shame around being African amongst black people) 👀
The perspective the term ‘Afropean’ gave me was really something I could have given myself really, but I didn’t know that back then. I think a lot of us travel to be free, and then, once we’re familiar, we give ourselves that freedom internally too. I think that’s why some of us “find ourselves” when we’re away.
Black-British food is absolutely ackee and dumplings with an English breakfast!! Why shouldn’t it be? There’s soo much more of Afro-European culture to explore. I think you’ll really like this book.
wow wow wow This really resonated. I have so many thoughts but firstly, thank you for offering a glimpse into your world and upbringing. " I could be anyone I wanted to be and the most honest version of me showed up - an African British babe. Whole. Unhyphenated. this line I felt in my chest." really spoke volumes.
I have a complicated relationship with the term 'Black British'. I don't like to use it because I think it can be used as a tool for erasure and forced assimilation in a space that doesn't mind being hostile towards us and benefitting from us in one breath. As you mentioned, many of us know exactly where we're from and to be "Black" in Britain is to usually grow up with one (or more) culture(s) at home and experience a different one outside of the home. I'm Jamaican British and I feel so grateful to be able to identify and reclaim that because why should we not take up space in our full identity?
I feel like witnessing Black British culture is a separate thing to living and identifying as Black British. Like I was raised on grime, love dub poetry, love the way we speak, love the way we have historically mobilised and organised up and down the nation, I love that I can get Nigerian food in North London, Caribbean take out in South, Ethiopian food wherever, and still indulge in the nostalgia of seeing a chippy. (Loool someone born in New York asked me the other day what Black British food is and I was like... it doesn't exist loool. But then after reading this maybe it could be classed as an English breakfast with ackee and dumplings or a Sunday dinner with jollof? What do you think?) I feel like being raised in Britain when you have roots and heritage elsewhere but aren't always encouraged to embrace that is why so many of us end up leaving that grey little island and find ourselves to be much fuller than we knew we were. So many of us were hit with "where are you really from though?" and over time I think that maybe we condensed ourselves. For some of us, travelling (or leaving) is a way to break that down (beyond the household because many of us are affirmed in the house but have to put on a different presentation outside). Song choice was top tier too btw.
OK, I just want to shout about how much of a vibe it must've been to experience Ghanaian culture so intimately in another city and home. I think that must've been so nourishing and it's not the typical experience that we are introduced to when people talk about living in the Netherlands. Afro-European culture is so vast and interesting. I felt this for the first time travelling in Paris and experiencing the African Parisian side to Paris vs the Paris that I had always seen. Thank you again for such a great piece, I look forward to more!! and potentially stories from the Amsterdam years too ...<3