In the seventies my parents and brother and sister, embarked on the cross-continental journey from West Africa to North America. My father had chosen Carleton University in Ottawa, Canada, for his master’s degree in Journalism.
About 2 years after their arrival in Ottawa, I emerged as their unexpected surprise – making my way into this world via Civic Hospital.
A few years later, with Ph.D. and Masters in tow from both Carleton and Syracuse Universities, my parents left the shores of North America on their journey to build their careers.
My placenta had me tied me to North America, yet my ancestors had me connected to West Africa. I spent my childhood following my parents wherever they went, and eventually found myself in Africa as a teenager.
As a teenager, I always yearned to discover more about the land of my birth. It was an itch that wouldn’t go away, so, with five hundred dollars in my pocket, I set off on the trip to Ottawa.
All alone, and filled with fear, excitement and anticipation – I had never imagined that this journey in discovery that I had undertaken as a teen would take decades.
This summer, almost 30 years after I got on that plane alone, I journeyed with my son to rediscover the land of our ancestors.
I looked down as the plane began its descent towards West Africa, it quickly dawned on me that my lenses were no longer those of that teenager alone on the plane.
The last 30 years of growing up and becoming the Carleton University graduate, the Canadian Public Servant and the mother of a Queen’s University alumni had definitely re-shaped my lenses.
It was time to get reacquainted with the other half of my story.