Yo Taxi!

There’s a running joke truth that a Black man (in America) can’t get a cab. For me, that’s rarely the experience but friends and other Black folks have experienced this first-hand, on a regular basis. I’ve been in Mumbai for a few days now. It’s a culture shock in many ways. There are around 18 million people in this city. It’s the most populous city in India, and one of the most populous in the world. There are many languages being spoken including Hindi (a national language) and Marathi (the state language for Maharashtra, where Mumbai is). The food is jumping with various spices and flavors. The traffic is busy. Crossing the street is an exercise in physics calculations and wishful thinking. Nevertheless, I digress.

To get around everywhere in Mumbai (outside of South Mumbai), many people use rickshaws. They get you where you need to be relatively quickly. More of them can fit on the congested streets. They’re perfect for city travel around Mumbai. On a few occasions now, I’ve approached a rickshaw driver to get transport to my destination. Some drivers shake their head to say no, while others verbally say the same. I don’t know if it’s more of the same “Black man can’t get a cab” type racism or if people would rather not deal with a foreigner who doesn’t really know the city nor the language(s). In the mean time, I’m trying to learn some of the local languages, so that I can communicate with drivers. We shall see.

Be kind to yourself.
Onward.

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​Umlungu myama – What They Call Me, Part Two

Last week, I started delving into what people call me and how I am addressed here in Swaziland. You can check out that post here

On more than a few occasions, people have questioned where I am from. When I respond that I am from Washington, DC, sometimes, I’m asked from which country (in Africa) my family and I originated. I’ve been told, by various folks in Swaziland, that I must be from Nigeria. I’ve also heard that I am Swazi. I’ve also been told that I from various other places. When I respond that I don’t know where our African origins lie, folks look closer to try to figure out where I am from. Some tell me that I couldn’t be from America. 

This typically leads to conversations about race and diversity in America. For some people who aren’t unaware of the presence of Black people in America, they may refer to me as umlungu myama (pronounced om-loon-goo mm-ya-ma). I was initially told that this means Black American. It was surprising to learn this because myama means black and umlungu means white person. When I first heard the term, I was confused as to how I could be a Black white person. Umlungu has since been clarified to also mean boss or foreigner. Umlungu myama makes a bit more sense, as one gentleman still thinks that I am of Nigerian origin.  In that sense, umlungu myama would mean Black foreigner. I’ve also heard Swazis use the term when describing me in siSwati to someone else. 

In the rarest of occasions, I’ve been referred to as umlungu, without myama. The person shouting in this instance is typically a young man trying to sell me something. I tend to ignore these instances, especially since it usually happens in a big city centre that I don’t frequent. Some things aren’t worth the bother. 

Be kind to yourself. 
Onward. 

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