By Kamdi Okonjo

On Medium

That final word in that sentence is loaded with significance. When you read it, your heart probably dropped. You were shocked. That’s why you’re still reading.

‘Death’. That five-letter word, a noun, is quick to say, yet carries a great deal of meaning. It denotes the end of one’s life or the beginning of a new one. To allay your fears, in my case, it was not physical death, but rather the death of a mentality. The death of my naivety. It was a watershed moment in my life and the catalyst for me to realize that the world I had been viewing through a very colorful lens was actually more black and white.

…

When I was a child, younger than twelve, I lived in Lagos, Nigeria. I don’t remember the city life, but I remember my little life. I would come back from school dressed in my dainty school uniform, covered in dirt from my fights on the playground. I had a nemesis back when I was younger. The classic hero versus villain story. I considered myself the hero, the upright protagonist. Others, on the other hand, did not necessarily concur. That did not matter to me. As long as I won, I was fine. There was something extremely satisfying about defeating a boy in front of everyone on the playground. I did not know what feminism meant, or what it was. At that time, at that age, everyone was equal in my eyes.

We had a well in the garden. A really deep one. Right next to it, we had a cacao tree. I can still see the beautiful, lush, dark green leaves emerging from their hazel branches, and from those branches, almost covered in the leaves, the cacao.

Due to my short stature at the time, I would usually run to my parents and ask them for assistance in plucking one cacao pod after failed attempts to get one by jumping several times on my own. It was usually my dad that would succumb to my relentless nagging and help get the much prized pod off the tree. A hit on the wall was all I needed then to crack it open and enjoy the delicious cacao fruit. The soft white flesh was always enticing, and when I cracked the cacao, my excitement level soared. I saw it as a challenge that I willingly accepted. When it cracked, I would dash off and lick everything I could in secret, as quickly as possible, so my sisters would not suspect me of betraying them by not sharing.

Even till late, I could still taste the cacao fruit and savor the feeling of elation I got by hitting the pod against the wall. I can remember me dusting off the dirt from my school uniform and going to the bathroom to remove the dirt from my face. I can still recall me sprinting down the red-tiled school stairs with my best friends, clutching my navy-blue bag-pack and laughing so hard that we could not handle it. Of course how could I forget the incredible excitement I felt as I headed down to yet another famous hero versus villain match. All these memories are still very present in my mind. The most striking feature of these memories, however, is their vibrancy and abundance of color.

I have been told that when one is close to death, they have snapshots of their entire lives racing through their minds. It is at that time that they truly realize whether their life was worth living, or whether their lives were filled with regret.

Although I have not personally experienced the so called ‘near-death experiences’, for which I am extremely grateful, I believe that for metaphorical ones, those final moments preceding those ‘deaths’ are extremely impactful. It takes time to grieve them, to mourn your former self. They have burials — metaphorical interment of memories from the past, sometimes commemorated in the quiet moments of that person’s life after their death. Those memories before that person’s ‘death’ are the defining moments before that person changes, for better or for worse.

Before I was twelve, I saw color, but at the same time, I didn’t. My view of color was very different from the world’s view of color, and unfortunately, those two views did not mesh well together. I adored the vibrancy, the significance of the various colors I saw. At the time, color was both beautiful and meaningful. Green, in harmony with nature. Yellow, radiant with joy. Brown was endowed with beauty, and white meant innocence. These were the colors I saw the most in Nigeria. Red was one of my favorite colors. I adored and continue to adore the color red because it represented confidence, beauty, and a desire to excel. Additionally, it was the color of love. This was the color I saw the most during the stories or folktales told to me by my mother, occasionally by my grandmother, on a mat on the balcony, next to a lamp. But then came the age of twelve and I was no longer in Nigeria. I was in uncharted territory.

…

My family moved to South Africa when I was eleven years old. A stunning country, brimming with incredible opportunities and teeming with breathtaking scenery. While it was saddening to leave my lovely home, I couldn’t wait to see what South Africa had in store for me. I was so excited to put myself out there and begin my new adventure. I remember receiving my new school uniform. It was a dress. Light blue with white stripes. I had large brown shoes and a huge lunchbox.

I remember entering the car with my dad and my sisters in this new country and driving to school. I remember coming out of the car, really nervous, but also really excited. I was prepared. However, nothing could quite prepare me for the strange welcome I received. I entered my school and said goodbye to my dad. I recall my science teacher escorting me to my first class and speaking to me at the entrance of that class. When I peered in, I noticed that there was a difference in the class, but I could not quite pinpoint what it was.

In South Africa, I was forced to see color in a completely different way. I was compelled to acknowledge a distinction I was unaware existed. That was the beginning of the death of my innocence.

At eleven years old, the word ‘black’ was used to describe me for the very first time. I did not think I was black. If anything, I thought I resembled the soil on the ground. I imagined myself to resemble hot chocolate, my favorite hot beverage. I believed I looked like the delicious milo cubes I frequently obtained in Nigeria. The ones I would eagerly consume. As a result, I was perplexed that someone would get my color wrong and refer to me as ‘black’. Then I realized I wasn’t the only one who had been completely mischaracterized. My classmates were referred to as white, while the rest were referred to as black. I was perplexed. Why would someone who is brown be referred to as black, while someone who is peach be referred to as white? Why were the ‘black’ children seated in the back, while the ‘white’ children seated in the front? What distinguished me from the other children?

Then, all my questions were answered. I was told by someone important that because I was black, I did not belong. That because I was black, I was a failure. I recall the mental battle that ensued after this occurred; when I was sitting down during break time, in a ‘black’ circle of girls, eating my lunch. I was sad but didn’t know exactly why and so, in order to comfort myself, I decided to think of the times I saw color but didn’t. But as much as I tried, I couldn’t remember.

I remembered my experiences, but they were all in black and white. I wanted to experience the last memories before everything suddenly dimmed, but I couldn’t. I remembered running down the tiled stairs with my friends, only this time, I remembered their color. They were white and I am black. I remembered fighting on the playground with my nemesis. He was black, and I am black. I wanted to remember the colors of the walls and the colors of the leaves on the cacao tree, but I couldn’t. Those colors dimmed and turned into black and white. Exactly like my new perspective on the world. One of my favorite colors, red, was no longer visible. As with the other vibrant hues, it elicited hostility. I wanted to keep the color red and protect the color red, but the color red could not protect me because of the black and white society.

As with any other death, I grieved my loss.

I was young and innocent, and as such, my brain could not process the death, so it was easier to deny it. I refused to believe that the innocence I had unknowingly cherished had been snatched away by a single remark about my ‘skin tone.’ I couldn’t understand how a once-beautiful color could be reduced to something so ugly. This denial phase lasted several months. It was difficult to deny the black and white society existed when everyone kept reminding me that color had only one purpose: to create two social ‘classes’.

After that ‘death’, all I could notice was how different I was from the ‘white’ girls. So I became anxious. If I was ‘black’ and if this was associated with ‘failure’, then my reasoning at that time, was that I was not smart. Although this was a lie, it was a lie the ‘definers of class’ wanted me to accept. Subsequently, my grades dropped. The drop in my grades was the evidence of the potency of this lie that had subconsciously permeated my thinking. Of course, my failures just cemented the lie they had of ‘black’ girls. Every attempt I made to step out of that box was unfortunately shut down. The black and white view of society was all I could see, and memories that I tried to hold onto, disappeared.

As a result, I decided to attempt to regain control of the situation. I began negotiating my way out of it. I’d sit down and consider the various ‘If Onlys’. I recall quiet moments in my room thinking, ‘If only I were white, they would see me as intelligent.’ ‘If only people could see me for who I am, not my color.’

‘If only I were not black’.

I had never felt ashamed of my ‘blackness.’ I was in love with my skin tone. I adored the brown because it conjured up images of beauty in my mind. However, those “If Only’s” were constantly present and I had to accept the fact that to them I was not brown, I was black.

I could not do anything about my color. Wherever I went, it was something everyone immediately noticed. People associated it with ‘bad’, and that stuck with me. I became despondent, because what could I really do? I could not change my color, I would always be black, which meant, that according to them, and in their eyes, I would always be that failure. There was no win.

I refused to accept that I was a failure, but I did accept that this was the state of the world. A world in which there were only two colors: black and white. They were content with the black and white society they had established, and so I was forced to coexist with it. Regrettably, the young girl who saw color as beautiful and meaningful had long since passed away. I began to view color as something I had to live with and had to rewire my brain to become proud of a color I had not originally considered myself as.

When I was twelve years old, I died. Yet, I live.

I believe that everyone experiences those ‘deaths’. Whether they are for good or for bad, they always leave an imprint on the person; a shift in their way of thinking. In a way, sometimes these ‘deaths’ occur so that we can experience a different kind of freedom. For me, it was the freedom to knowingly love my color in-spite of the color barrier.

I sometimes remember the green leaves and the dark hazel branches. However, they are no longer vibrant hues. They are dimmed by the fact that I live in a very color coded world. Although black, white, brown, and every other color in between exist, that does not change the fact that I am one color and my friends with whom I ran down the stairs are another.

I miss the times before that death. I miss them a lot. Sometimes, I sit down and wonder what would happen if people did not create that black and white society. What would happen if people still saw the beauty in color? Occasionally, those memories flood my mind, and I respond with laughter, because this is the world we live in.

Even though I yearned for the times before that death, I was forced to create a life after that death, and I am not the only one who has had to or will have to do so. Death is not always easy, but it is an inevitable part of life. It is a natural byproduct of change. Everything is in constant flux. Similar to butterflies, we must die to ourselves in order to begin a new chapter of our lives.

The best we can do in life is look on the bright side and live our lives, before those deaths and after those deaths, to the fullest.