Here I sit in a warm and inviting Nigerian restaurant, Karamo. The restaurant, bordered with bright yellow walls, is adorned with African masks, statues, and dark wood booths. The bar and stage are covered in mariwo – dried African palm fronds. Yoruba language flows like the River Niger. And although I don’t speak or understand the conversation, I am full of pride and longing. Yes, I am longing for food (smile – I’m really hungry), but also for this beautiful connection. See, a few years ago, my family contacted African Ancestry to learn our roots. Like so many African Americans, it’s been nearly impossible to determine our familial bond with Africa due to the absence of sufficient records. Now, I had the opportunity to connect to a specific group. After weeks of waiting for the DNA results, I learned that my father’s matrilineal lineage hails from the Yoruba tribe in Nigeria.
I recall sharing the news with anyone who would listen. Many of my Yoruba friends were completely unphased and unsurprised. “Of course you are Yoruba,” they replied. Each one said they could see Yoruba in my face. And today, in Karamo, is no different from that moment. I am surrounded by my tribe – my family. The Elder smiles and beams with pride as I embrace my legacy and finish off the plate of delicious and healing food made in the traditional way with ground melon seeds and bits of spinach, fish, and chicken. The waiter, quiet and humble, hesitates, but then says “You were born here. But, I can see Yoruba in your face.” I can only smile.
So it is. Yoruba is in my face. In my blood. In my Spirit. So, I enjoy my short journey to my Nigerian roots – filled with peace, surrounded by good vibes, and licking traditional Egusi with pounded yam from my fingers.
