The crashing waves of anxiety roared in Tiwa’s head. A cherry flush rose from her bronze-colored cheeks as she drowned herself in her midnight blue pillows. She was too embarrassed from her first day of high school in the U.S.A. She would have never been so… insensitive, if she only knew what she knows now. The night before, her mom stayed up to comb through Tiwa’s long, soft curls; she braided Tiwa’s hair to the side, a hairstyle commonly known as Lemonade braids.
Tiwa and her mother, Amina, had moved from Gambia to the U.S. that past summer. They landed in the city known as The Melting Pot. For years, New York City has represented the land of opportunity. Tiwa figured that if this place were as colorful as rumored to be, she would find someone who shared her ethnic traditions, too. This was not as simple as she believed.
Amina, who was lively as birds on a Sunday morning, kept her fingers in a tight clutch to finish the last braid running down Tiwa’s scalp. She poured a smooth oil between the partings of the braids. Tiwa pleaded to her mother as she crouched like a withered flower.
“Màmá, I-I’m worried about going to school tomorrow.”
“Ọmọ mi, you must keep your head high to wear your crown.” Amina then gently kissed the top of Tiwa’s head. “I promise you everything will turn out for the best.”
To calm her nerves, Tiwa began reading a book titled, The Yoruba Pantheon: Olorun, Creator of the World. In Gambia, she always admired her mother’s stories of the West African gods. She fell asleep only minutes later with the book laid on her chest.
On the morning of her first day of high school, Tiwa arose from her bed and took a deep breath. Of course she was anxious! Who wouldn't be when one finds themselves on a completely different continent? But Tiwa chose to be optimistic. She valued the knowledge of others and desired to meet people from various cultures. However, in her heart, she dreamed of finding a person or two who spoke her native language, Yoruba. Hopefully, then she could truly feel at home.
When Tiwa entered her first block classroom, she saw no one wearing the Asoke fabric she had frequently seen in her hometown. Tiwa swallowed the lump in her throat that passed like shards of glass. She pulled her cream-colored sweater close over her chest, almost dissolving the vivid colors of her African-designed sundress. However, Tiwa walked towards the front of the classroom, remembering the “crown” on her head.
Next to an empty seat, there sat a handsome young gentleman who caught Tiwa’s eye. He had short, coiled hair; His skin tone matched the color of the obsidian rock; His jawline was sharp, as a freshly cut diamond. The entirety of his face, especially his cheekbones, radiated a golden glow from the sunbeams that peered through the classroom windows. Tiwa then jolted down in her seat. She bit her tongue, regretting the loud thud she made from slamming her seat against the floor. Tiwa and the young man shared a brief glance. His deep brown eyes mirrored her grandfather’s gentle eyes, almost as if the young man welcomed Tiwa with a warm embrace. He was seated with poise and confidence as he read a book titled: The Immortality of West African Mythology. Tiwa was enthralled! What if he shared her interest in African folklore? She believed they were just as captivating as the stories of the Greek or Norse Gods.
There was a warmth to this young man, from when he held the book in his hands with a graceful grip, to how he delicately turned every page so the paper would not tear. Tiwa felt compelled to speak to him. “Finally,” she sighed in relief. “Finally, I have met someone who would understand me.”
Tiwa said to the young man, “Pẹlẹ o ọrẹ mi, bawo ni o ṣe n ṣe?”
The young man was perplexed. “What did you say?” the young man replied.
Tiwa, assuming he just didn't hear her, repeated herself. The young man remained baffled by his thoughts. What was this beautiful young woman saying to me? He loved how her hair was braided to the side and shimmered from the sunbeams’ embrace. Finally, he said, “I'm sorry, I don't understand what you are saying.”
Tiwa felt the heat from her lava-red cheeks. “Oh, I'm sorry, I was just asking how you were doing.”
“Oh well, I'm doing fine. How about you?”
“I’m fine.” Tiwa screeched as high as a dog whistle.
She was intimidated to speak now but persisted to get to know him.
“What’s…your name?”
He smiled at the fact someone took interest in him for once. But she didn’t know that.
“James,” he said.
“Oh-well-hi, James. And um- I’m sorry again. I just thought you spoke Yoruba.” Tiwa laughed nervously.
“No. Why would you think that?” The smile was quickly wiped from his face.
No one had ever assumed such a thing about him before. Should I take it as a compliment? So, he just blinked at her with a steady pulse.
Tiwa clutched a loose thread from her dress and wrapped it so tightly around her index finger that it turned blue.
“I-I don't know. I just saw you and thought…you could be from Gambia.”
“Ah, well funny to think, I know that some of my ancestors originated somewhere in West Africa. So… it is a possibility.”
“Oh.”
“But either way, my family does not speak any African languages.”
Tiwa scoffed. “Why? Is it forbidden to speak it here?” She giggled as her ignorance flashed through her teeth.
“No” the boy hesitated, “It was forgotten.”
