Diaspora Grief – Notes from the dark continent

He asks me where I am from and I tell him, Kenya. There is immediate sadness on his face and after looking at me directly through the reflection in the mirror, he offers an unsolicited diagnosis.

 You look like someone suffering from a compendium of diaspora grief symptoms.

I hadn’t the vaguest idea what he was talking about until the questioning started. 

I met a philosopher, who cuts black hair in Amsterdam.

Free advice brother, he said, and before I could nod, he’d already laid out the sentence. You need to go back to Africa.

From that moment, the barber, an African like me, started talking, not to me, but through me, right to the final snip.

He was staring at the street facing window as he fastened the apron behind my neck.

I tell you, the reason I detest autumn more than winter, is not the cold. It is always cold here even in the summer. The cold, you can adjust to and learn how to dress properly.

You can stay indoors and watch Netflix. It is this season before winter that is dangerous. At least when winter arrives you can start counting down to spring but autumn comes with something else that they don’t tell you about.

He was quiet for a moment as he got his tools ready and then he continued.

It is the darkness. They don’t tell you about this.

Look at the time? The wall on the clock read 4.45pm. It’s starting to get dark already. When will we see the light again, he raised his arms, 8.30am!

This darkness, I have had enough of it in this dark continent. 30 bloody years. Who can I blame this on? It is all my fault. I wasn’t forced here. I came on my own volition in a plane with a valid visa, I may add.

He asks me where I am from and I tell him, Kenya. There is immediate sadness on his face and after looking at me directly through the reflection in the mirror, he offers an unsolicited diagnosis.

You look like someone suffering from a compendium of diaspora grief symptoms.

I hadn’t the vaguest idea what he was talking about until the questioning started. He asked me about my Dutch and I said, a little, and he added, basically too little, hardly enough to describe a simple emotion like sadness.

I pity you, to get to your age, a grown man existing in a country where people keep wondering why you haven’t learnt our language?  He went on to tell me that I was condemned to a life without humour. He had a joke about the darkness but he wasn’t going to bother because it would be lost in translation.

The truth is, he said with finality, you will never be fluent in the language. It’s not your fault that you will never know that these folks have proverbs and dialects. Forget any chance at banter which is only going to increase your loneliness tenfold because none of your neighbours wants to practice English with an African when they have a whole bunch of English men for that.

They won’t talk to you, not because they do not like you but just as a daily reminder that they won’t be inconvenienced and taken out of their comfort zone for the sake of social courtesy. English, only good for buying stuff because when it comes to exchanging cash, language is no barrier.

He told me about his own daughter, when she was barely four years old, making fun of his lack of fluency. Wondering why he could not speak a language that everyone else around them spoke.  In his house, he couldn’t march the proficiency of his children and it pained him that he still needed them more than ever to navigate the system.

How are you going to deal with the bureaucracy, the paper work, the things to apply, renew, translate, notarize? I would drag them to the Gemeente offices as official translators. When the official asked me a question, I would turn to my ten year old and say, talk to the man.

The food. Have you found your substitutes? They say there is hunger in Africa. Here in the dark continent, flavor deprivation is a real condition. Are you used to bland bread with a slice of cucumber? That’s a meal here. In my house, my wife, who is black by the way, has to cook two meals. One for the kids and the other for us. Because the kids won’t eat ugali. They don’t like hot meals. They want their meat flat, cold and aged.

As he continued rambling, I realised to my horror that immigration grief was a thing and that I had all the symptoms.

He stressed. At about the three year mark, the immigration grief checks in properly and this dark season is the trigger. This lack of sunlight.

They don’t tell you this.

Then he mentioned that it wouldn’t be long before my identity was completely erased as a man living in between worlds. Split into two.

You will never fully integrate in this country of residence and the longer you stay away from home, the more unfamiliar home will become and soon you will start seeing home through Western eyes, talking about corruption and systems that don’t work.

Your kids will feel it more when they get past 18. Then they will realise they do not belong neither here nor there and blame you for not teaching them their mother tongue and taking them back to their home country regularly.

He nudged my head gently to the side and started working on my side burns.

What’s left but to romanticise home and to become a social media activist who is always complaining about corrupt  leaders holding our people back?

You will start to question why you came to this darkness. You should have stayed.Your status from back home means nothing here. All that good English, work history, null and void. A few years of trying to fit in before you realise that an uber driver is not a bad option. Maybe you can upgrade to something noble like a bus driver.

This is the reality of life in this dark continent, I bet no one warned you about the darkness.

What’s your name? I told him. Do they even pronounce your name right? I didn’t think so. Might as well call yourself Tim or Ted. Safe names. Think of the number of interview calls that will be repelled by a name like… Ochuodho.

Give it up. It is a concrete jungle, and it takes a level of cunning to survive it.

Here is the other bit, if you succeed, do well, then you suffer from success guilt. It is a thing, because many of our people aren’t doing so great here. They survive, they get by but prosperity in Europe is not living in a cramped two bed social box apartment that feels like a tomb with an ancient heating system, and Ukrainian neighbours, barely one year in, who keep questioning how you got the house. By the way, no one tells you this but they are waiting for you to die so that they can give it to a more deserving immigrant.

This place will make you stingy. You probably don’t send as much back home because, let me guess, you have been cheated on before by your family and you don’t want to enable the behaviour. Black tax you call it now so you hand it all to the system hoping for a pension. Sad existence, my brother.

But you know the worst thing through this darkness, is the mandate to be grateful. You live here. You cannot complain because they won’t tolerate it. You must always remember that people are dying crossing the Mediterranean to be in your position. You must be thankful for the little comforts even in the dark.

How old are you? You look 50 plus. Looking at your skin texture, probably on the slippery slope towards becoming a seasonal alcoholic, thinking that cheap supermarket booze you down every evening from Albert Heijn, is a civilised way to numb the constant discomfort.

Do you get random headaches, listlessness? That is the lack of Vitamin D, my friend. You have to take your pills to get through the darkness.  Don’t forget to moisturise. Your black body does not do well in darkness.

This darkness, worse than the cold. They never tell you this.

That’s your coat? He was looking at my black long jacket draped over a chair. Ever questioned why everyone wears black here?

He was going to tell me anyway.

It is the color of depression. Sad people wear black. These are clothes that perfectly match the darkness and it is coded in the behaviour, a cultural leaning towards gloom. Now you probably believe, you have to wait for those two weeks in summer, in July, to light up your life again.

How long have you been here brother? Five years!

He screwed his face.

Sorry to welcome you to the land of eternal night.

I bet no one told you that you have entered the heart of darkness. It is a test of endurance and a journey to the very edge of sanity.

He gently lowered the clippers and drew a deep sigh.

I hope you believe in God. I nodded.

Good. He said, holding my head upright so I could see my cut.

You need the light here.

He stopped talking. As if on cue, we all turned and stared out through the big display window. It was 5.15pm, the streets all lit up and buzzing with activity.

It was dark outside.