Name: Malik M’bayo
Parents country of origin: Sierra Leone (father) and Guinea (mother)
Age: 12
There’s an African proverb that goes, “Milk and honey have different colors, but they share the same house peacefully.” For centuries, indigenous Africa has been a testimony to the full spectrum of diversity and history. Thanks to Malik M’bayo’s family, I got a chance to see that even when immigrants of African descent move across continents, they carry their wisdom and strength along other intangible assets.
An only child of Sierra Leonean and Guinean parents, Malik, whose name means “the king of kings,” was welcomed to the world 12 years ago in Michigan. During our first meeting, Malik’s father, Tamba, chronicled the journey he made more than two decades ago from Sierra Leone to the United States.
In the wake of the civil war that engulfed Sierra Leone, Tamba moved to Togo where he worked as a teacher at an international school. A suggestion made by an American colleague he was working with at the time led him to consider pursuing a graduate degree in the United States. Growing up in Sierra Leone, a former British colony, Tamba was accustomed to the British educational system, so the idea of coming to the U.S. was never on his radar. He decided nonetheless to give it a try. Securing an acceptance into a master’s program in comparative history at Miami University in Ohio, Tamba moved to the U.S. in 1998. Few years later, he earned a Ph.D. degree in African history from Michigan State University then joined West Virginia University as an associate professor in the Department of History. “I never went back to Sierra Leone,” he said.
Admittedly, hearing these last words, I couldn’t help but to wonder, is the sentence “out of sight, out of mind” true, or does spatial distance make the heart grow fonder? Stepping into their house, I got the first clue. The sights, sounds, tastes, and smells of Africa conjure this family’s residence. African flavored art pieces in vivid colors combined with earth tones decorate almost every wall. Attesting to the powerful presence of music in the African culture, several music instruments, played by Tamba and Malik, are spread across the dining and living rooms. One particular instrument caught my attention due to my unfamiliarity with it. A later Google search and a further demonstration from Tamba solved the mystery: it is called djembe, a form of drum that consists of hide stretched over a curved piece of wood played with bare hands.
Over the course of my visits, the aroma of soups and stews, typically prepared across African nations, permeated the air of their warm house. As the gatekeeper for these particular culinary incarnations, his mother, who was visiting her family in Guinea at the time, stacked the freezer with some of those meals. “My favorite is Cassava leaf soup,” Malik said.
Beyond these sensory signs, Tamba explained that he has always been unwavering in his desire to teach Malik about his African legacy. By talking, and most importantly listening to Malik, I was able to see that his parents’ efforts bore fruit. “I Consider myself African first because that’s my heritage,” Malik said when I asked him about which identity takes precedence in his view.
Malik feels the tug from the United States, his home, and the tug from Sierra Leone and Guinea, where his parents were born and raised. Like any typical American boy his age, he loves video games and labels it as his favorite thing from the American culture. “I want to work as a game tester one day,” he said. He doesn’t celebrate Christmas but celebrates the standard American holidays like New Year alongside Islamic holidays that speak to the family’s faith. His idea of Africa is built on his recollections of his sole trip to the African continent where he visited his mother’s home country, Guinea. The overarching memory of widespread land and busy roads is what he remembers the most.
One tangible thing that ties Malik to his parents’ culture is soccer, the most popular sport in Africa. Motivated by his father’s passion for the game, Malik started playing soccer at the age of four. Today, in a weekly ritual that defies weather conditions, the duo heads to a recreation area where they play with a group of soccer fanatics in Morgantown. Attending one of their games, I saw them communicating through their bodies. Their faces lit up, their eyes sparkled, and their calm composure seemed to fade into the soccer field, the place where their love for the game and their bond converge.
Malik’s relationship with his parents’ roots isn’t, however, identical to his relationship with their native language. Although English and French are the official languages in Sierra Leone and Guinea, respectively, these countries display a rich linguistic diversity. For instance, Krio is the most popular language, mostly spoken in the Sierra Leonean capital, Freetown. The idea of learning Krio, his parents’ language of adoption at home, never seemed to entertain Malik. He showed instead a growing interest in other languages. “I speak Spanish, Chinese, and a little bit of Japanese,” he said. And as firm believers that the African identity is not confined to a language, the parents didn’t try to impose it on their son.
To Malik, growing up between three countries not only meant navigating several cultures but also straddling the lines of definitions. When you are a person of color living in America, it is tempting to postulate that you are African American as opposed to American of African descent. This constant refrain of Malik’s early childhood years sparked his questions about race, complexion and heritage. He turned to his parents for clarification on what they should be called and they, in turn, helped him understand the different strands of his identity.
“African Americans are people who are descendants of enslaved Africans that were brought here then were freed over time; it’s quite different,” Tamba said. “I always tell Malik you have to say you are African American, but follow that up with an explanation: your parents are originally from Africa, but you were born here.”
Tamba’s openness and wisdom navigating the race issue tempted me to ask him about some of the social and psychological challenges associated with immigration. More specifically, I asked him if he ever felt like an outsider or fought to claim his place in the American tapestry. “I really don’t dwell on stuffs like that because for me, you are the one who can make your situation good or bad and it’s really up to you where you consider yourself,” Tamba said without hesitation. To him, the fear of exclusion is not an option, perceptions or hardships notwithstanding.
Another aspect caught in this duality is exemplified in the definition of home. As tamba explains, choosing between countries and nationalities is not a zero-sum game where he has to choose one over the other. He can’t forget the place to which he ascribes his personality, mannerisms, culture, and outlook. He simultaneously regards the U.S. as his home, a place where he feels comfortable, makes a living, and raises a family. According to him, the current circumstances blur the distinction of where home is. “That’s what we have to contend with as the world becomes more globalized and people have to make choices between living in their native countries or moving abroad,” he said.