Masai warriors and battling with my own skin
By: Joanne Sharpe
Tags: White Privilege, Traveling, Motivation, Wisdom, Learning

“Hey you, umzungu, come to the front of the queue!”

“No I’m fine here” I mumbled, feeling many curious eyes on me.

“No, no. Come!”

I tried to slink into the crowd by dropping my head and shuffling closer to the group next to me. While I don’t speak Swahili, I immediately understood the meaning of ‘umzungu’ as it closely resembles my home country’s Zulu word ‘umlumgu’ meaning ‘white person’.

Realising that I was likely to stand out on this trip, I’d done some prep to fit in — I’d dyed my hair dark brown, covering my once blonde mane, and I’d bought clothing that was more in line with local dress. It clearly hadn’t worked. Not even a little bit.

“Hey, it’s nice to be you. Look at this queue!” the friendly guy next to me pointed out, “and you can go all the way to the front” he added, pouring fuel onto my awkwardness and guilt.

“Well. Um. Yes. I can see that there are advantages to being me but I really just want to wait in line like everyone else,” I replied.

“Why?” He pressed, “you’re lucky and you’re not even enjoying it. Stupid! Hey, hey.”

I wasn’t enjoying it. I wanted to turn into a chameleon and blend into the beige and blue floor.

Adamant that I was to follow the order of things, and tired of yelling to me, the customs official left his post and walked right up to me coaxing me more firmly out of the queue. I went along with it because 1) I was now inconveniencing the entire, now static, queue, 2) I didn’t really know what else to do and 3) I was nervous that I was drawing unnecessary attention to myself as a young, lone, female traveler.

Privilege is often so naturalised that it’s invisible to those who benefit from it. We don’t see the more qualified person rejected for the job we landed based on our appearance, connections and background. When we’re stopped by the police and the interaction is polite and we’re given the benefit of the doubt, we can fail understand how terrifying this experience is for others.

To me, it was only when my whiteness was pushed overtly and excessively under my nose, while travelling through various African countries, that I truly began to understand how the lack of melanin in my skin impacts every aspect of how I’m perceived and treated, and all my opportunities in life.

The morning I landed at Julius Nyerere International Airport, in Dar es Salaam, I stumbled into a world I was not prepared for. I had a 6 hour layover before I connected to Zanzibar, with nowhere to wait in the airport. I found a corner on the street outside with a tiny patch of shade and I threw my luggage on the floor and jumped onto it, with book in hand.

Soon I spotted a tall man in red traditional dress quietly watching me. This man spent all six hours with me. When I moved, he moved. When I walked up the nearby stairs hunting for snacks, he picked up my suitcase and helped me along. I offered him snacks and he declined them, I offered him cash, which he also declined. As a lone, white, ‘rich’ woman, this beautiful Masai Warrior took it upon himself to be my protector and refused to accept any material form of gratitude in return.

Growing up in a ‘good’ South African household on the right side of the tracks I was completely immune to how the school and university listings on my CV, along with my Anglicised accent, had opened numerous doors for me too — finding my first job was easy and I’d landed numerous promotions through my career in Johannesburg.

On moving to the UK where neither my accent nor my educational background worked to my advantage anymore I learnt some tough new lessons. I had to hound recruiters daily to gain their attention. I kept reminding them of my name, my existence and my skillset during a time when the market should have been in my favour.

I’ve also found the working environment to be tougher than the one I left behind me. I often feel I have to prove myself in ways my local colleagues just don’t need to.

In my new land I’m often on the receiving end of silly assumptions — I must have had servants growing up (I didn’t) so I clearly don’t know how to do some things (I’m simply bad at some things!) And the worst assumption made is that I’ll enjoy racist jokes because I lived through the fall of apartheid — when in fact because I lived through this era, I could never laugh at the expense of another’s culture, history or misfortune.

While I have a long way to go to even understand the most simple layers of my white privilege, I know I need to keep working at it. 2020’s Black Lives Matter protests have pulled white privilege to the fore —like that customs official in Dar es Salaam. We’re finally moving into a time of seeking understanding, trying harder and doing better. We can do better.