I am Other. As a person of colour that label was my rite of passage into British society. Other, just like every other visibly non-White individual in this country. Other, one word to describe millions of unique experiences, ignoring the fact that no Other is the same.

My Other? Black. African. British. Woman.

Once British before I was African because I was born in London and it was the first place I considered to be home. Once British before I was African because I understood what it meant to be a British person in Southern Africa long before I understood what it meant to be an African woman in England. Once British before I was African because I felt rejection in my mothering country long before I understood that I had never truly felt acceptance from the country I first called home.

I am Other. I never saw that here because Southern Africa had the vim to baptise me alien upon introduction. Memories flooding in of an estranged relative asking me if I thought I was better than him because I was British. Another of a suited stranger welcoming me to the ‘third world’ when he found out I lived in London.

I never saw it because here, for the most part, we are subtle. None of my friends asking me if I think I’m better than them because I’m African (perhaps mainly because the West believes that anywhere not the West is a savage wasteland, but we’ll skim past that) and certainly no Canary Wharf blue suits welcoming me to the ‘first world’. Imagine.

Anyhow, today is different. Today I am African before I am British because when I refer to my mother tongue I note that the language I speak of does not originate on these British Isles. African before I am British because I was raised by a village and that village was raised in a land not born to, but colonised by the United Kingdom. African before I am British because it was in understanding this that I began to experience a greater sense of belonging to myself.

    

I am Black. It is the first thing that you see. By now time and experience has taught me that no matter how integrated in British culture you may be, no matter how palatable your straightened curls and no matter how ‘White’ your voice may sound when heard on the phone, first and foremost, when they look at you a Black person is what they see.

I am African, Southern African. It is the first thing I will tell you when you ask me where I’m from. By blood, by birth right and by assimilation. Of all the things that I have learnt while on this journey the most grounding has been that it’s easier to understand where you are going if you know where you’re coming from.

I am British. It is the first thing that you will hear. Given my appearance this may throw you, my accent betraying my African roots and negro stereotype. In time, I have learnt that my voice has been the key, the seat at a table my Blackness was not invited to.

I am a Woman. It is the first thing you will assume. By appearance and by sound, though there is nothing ambiguous for you to wonder. I am a Woman, a Black Woman, an African Woman, a British Woman, each identity with its own cross to bear. Each identity with its own triumph when claimed.

This is who I am when the world pauses to see my Other. It is the Other I claim as my own. It’s what the world experiences and it undoubtedly has shaped how I have experienced the world. None of this equal opportunity society bullshit. Don’t let them fool you, the body you were born into matters.

Regardless, this is not a blog made to cremate British White privilege one post at a time – though that would be fun, wouldn’t it? Instead, it’s about acceptance and creating a space for yourself in a society that hasn’t learnt to love you yet.

If you’re taking anything from this, other than a sarcy commentary on one version of the Black British experience, it’s that. Understand your experiences. Understand where you’re at fault for those experiences and where you’re not. Take responsibility. I note that they are not the same thing.

Regardless of the body that you were born into, the disadvantages that came with that and the depth of the pit the man is trying to bury you in, it’s your responsibility to Get Out.

Don’t make Jordan Peele make a movie about you.  

So yeah… Welcome friend! Sit back, enjoy, grab a biscuit, make yourself a cuppa or pour yourself a glass of wine. I hear it’s always better with wine!

And on that note, being Other doesn’t make you savage, eating pineapple on pizza does… Just saying. *Sips Tea*