Is who we are limited to where we come from? Do we hold onto
the same identity for life? Omo Osagiede’s time in Morocco got
him thinking how travel can up-end the very notion of who you are
Change your identity
ROTHER! BROTHER!
Don’t hide the good
stuff from us! Share
it with us, please!’
a young man whispered. I could
barely make out his face in the
soft glow of the lamps in the
tent. Oblivious of being the one
addressed, I kept talking.
Under two hours before,
I had experienced the most
amazing sunset I had ever seen.
As the sun cast its golden glow
over the Sahara, I suddenly
understood why our driver had
been in a mad rush to get
through our itinerary, and I had
only one sentiment: gratitude
to be alive that New Year’s Eve,
to witness the last sunset of the
year surrounded by red sand
that had swallowed kingdoms,
and given birth to them.
‘Brother! Brother! I’m talking
to you!’ the young man
entreated. He had been joined
by another, and their earnest
faces had taken on looks of
confused curiosity. They could
not understand why I, who was
dressed from head to toe like
a Berber, was ignoring them.
‘Show us where the oranges
are, please brother’, they
begged. By this time they had
gained my full attention.
Suddenly the truth hit all of us.
‘Ah! Brother! You don’t speak
Arabic? We thought you were
Berber!’ They burst into fits
of laughter.
‘Brother! We’re so sorry!
Where are you from?’
‘Nigeria,’ I replied, secretly
proud that I blended in well
enough to pull off my second
case of mistaken identity in
one night. Previously, a British
lady had mistaken me for
a Berber guide, asking if I could
help her daughter tie her shesh(traditional turban). The young
men hugged me, and in a flurry
of high fives and back slapping,
I learned that they had travelled
from Casablanca to spend New
Year’s Eve in the Sahara Desert.
There was clearly something
special about the place that
attracted even locals.
I grew up in Africa at a time
when the continent was
struggling to cast off the
confusion of colonialism, poor
leadership and endless
conflicts. That backdrop and
my Nigerian heritage helped
shape my understanding
of my African identity. From a
political perspective, the Africa
of my childhood was cast in the
shadow of legendary figures
including Obafemi Awolowo,
Thomas Sankara, Kwame
Nkrumah, Julius Nyerere,
Kenneth Kaunda, Archbishop
Desmond Tutu and the great
Nelson Mandela. History books
brought these characters to life,
creating for me an impression
of a predominantly black Africa
that was once liberated but now
‘burdened’ by independence.
From a literary perspective,
gifted African authors such as
Chinua Achebe, Ngũgĩ wa
Thiong’o, Cyprian Ekwensi and
Wole Soyinka further shaped
my impressions about Africa,
its peoples, its cultures, its pain
and its beauty. But reading their
stories, seeing the images
projected by mass media and
being raised in Nigeria did
not necessarily mean I fully
understood what being African
meant. I was African, but
my knowledge of Africa was
incomplete. The missing
ingredient in my understanding
of African-ness was travel.
In Morocco, my Africanidentity was reborn. Travelling
through its mountains,
valleys and deserts helped me
appreciate the rich diversity,
beauty, colour, character,
geography and history of my
continent of birth in a way
I never had. As we drove past
village after village of red
mud brick and free-standing
minarets in the mountains,
I began to weave mental threads
between Berber culture and the
nomads of northern Nigeria.
My Africa was born on the
shores of the Atlantic and rooted
in the forests of the ancient Benin
Empire, but was evolving as we
travelled through the Sahara
and the Low and High Atlas to
the Moroccan Mediterranean.
I saw that my Africa is black but
also white, brown, Berber,
Amazigh and Arab.
In Morocco I saw the
imperfections of my African
identity reinforced. But I also
saw its progressiveness. I saw
a people who mirrored that
unbowed spirit of thriving in
the midst of difficulty, which is
there in every African country.
Identity is a fickle thing,
as I remember reading on
a now-defunct Ghanaian blog.
Identity isn’t set in stone – it
is ever-changing, and no one is
ever enough of anything. And
I am OK with that.
F Berber-British partnership
Wild Morocco runs three- to
six-day treks into the Atlas
Mountains and Moroccan
Sahara following nomadic
migration routes (from £340;
wildmorocco.com).omo osagiede is a London-based
writer who runs the travel, food, and
lifestyle blog HDYTI (Hey! Dip Your
Toes In) with his wife, Eulanda.