The Fabric of My Swahili Identity

Introduction: Wakina Mama wa Kanga

From the 1600s to the late 1800s, captives from East Africa were brought to the island of Zanzibar and sold into the Indian Ocean slave trade. Those who became slaves in Zanzibar were known at times to wear an unbleached cotton cloth known as “merikani”. After the abolition of slavery in East Africa in the late 1800s, merikani became stigmatized for its connection to slavery. To free themselves of this stigma, formerly enslaved East African women began decorating their merikani cloth with dyes and patterns symbolic of their newfound freedom (Ong’oa-Morara 2014). What was once a blank cloth began to undergo a cultural evolution.

Fast forward to today, and this fabric is now known in East Africa as “kanga.” The Kanga has drastically changed from its origins and now embodies the cultural identity of East African women.

When I think of the kanga’s origin, I’m inspired by the women who somehow took a blank cloth and crafted their identity. That left me wondering, what would I learn about my identity if I were to make a kanga?

Thanks to the Newman Exploration Travel Fund, I visited various places in East Africa on a journey to make a kanga. Along the way, I learned that being Black means weaving my identity through language, time, and place.

“Mambo”: Memories of Arusha, Tanzania (Part I)

While on the flight to Arusha, Tanzania, I remembered an embarrassing moment from my first time in Arusha. It was the summer of 2019, and I was an undergraduate student traveling abroad for the first time to participate in an intensive Swahili language program. With only two years of experience studying Swahili, I was nervous to talk to native speakers. When I first approached someone and they asked me, “Mambo?”, I said, “Mambo.” right back. That’s like someone asking you, “How are you?” and you reply with…well you get the point.

However, I learned to embrace that embarrassing moment and became comfortable with making mistakes. The result was a summer experience that drastically improved my confidence in Swahili. Unfortunately, when I left Tanzania to return to the U.S., I didn’t realize I would be leaving a portion of this confidence behind. Without consistent exposure to Swahili in the U.S., my language skills worsened with time. This was especially the case when I started a Ph.D. program at WashU, as I had even less time to upkeep my Swahili. Making this sacrifice was draining, so I knew I needed a change.

When I applied for the NEXT Award, I remember how excited I was for another chance to prioritize Swahili in my life. I remember how hard my heart was beating through my chest when I learned I won the award. But ultimately, I remember how much peace I began to feel when I started my journey of reviewing Swahili to prepare for my trip. So while I descended towards Arusha reflecting on that embarrassing moment, I still felt at ease. I knew I was returning to all the mistakes, growth, and confidence that I left behind.

‘Tales of a Somalian Mfundi?’: Arusha (Part II)

Starting my trip at ease brought an unexpected experience I didn’t previously have my first time in Arusha. When talking with an airport employee to exchange my money, we talked in-depth about my heritage. She was convinced I was Somalian. This was shocking for me because I can only trace my heritage back to Mississippi and Alabama.

For context, I’m a 6-foot, 170-pound, dark brown-skinned Black man with a beard and a nappy, short afro. There are a lot of Black men across the world who fit this description. However, to the airport worker, with the additional context I didn’t speak native Swahili, I couldn’t have been from countries like Tanzania and Kenya where Swahili is predominately spoken. Nor did I speak broken Swahili akin to a tourist. Instead, I confidently spoke a unique level of Swahili as if I were from a surrounding East African country influenced by Swahili, and Somalia felt right for her.

Hearing someone wonder so genuinely about who I was as a Black person was a stark reminder of the different perceptions of Blackness in Africa. In non-Black spaces in the U.S., questions about my Blackness feel conditional. People seek to know who I am as a Black man if and only if the criteria are to their liking. One interaction in Tanzania already began contrasting years of conditional actions I’ve been predisposed to. As I boarded a taxi to head to the language school I previously studied at during my first trip to Arusha, I was excited for more genuine interactions to come because of my Blackness.

Once at the language school, I walked around wondering if people would remember who I was. As I passed a stall where locals sold handmade crafts, a woman greeted me with, “Habari za siku nyingi?”: How have you been? She remembered me without hesitation, and I remembered her too. She was a local who sold handmade fabrics. As we chatted and caught up, I asked if I could visit her home to learn to make a “kikoi,” a cotton fabric that could serve as the base for my kanga. She gladly accepted and we made plans for me to travel with her family to visit her home.

The following day, I met the woman’s daughter and we traveled to their home workshop. Next to a farm of banana trees was a concrete shed. Inside was a young man, most likely in his early twenties, working in harmony with a weaving loom. The daughter told the young man to teach me to be an “mfundi,” an expert, with weaving. I felt like an apprentice as the young man showed me the various steps involved with weaving; from dyeing and spinning the cotton to loading and rhythmically operating the loom. Your hands pull left and right to move a shuttle that carries the thread. Your feet move up and down on the various levers which dictate the stitch pattern. “Moja (one), nne (four), mbili (two), tatu (three). Moja, nne, mbili, tatu.” These were the numbers I repeated to myself to remember which levers to push.

While I didn’t have enough time to make a full kikoi, I purchased a blank, white one from the family. Not wanting to impose myself anymore, I thanked them for their hospitality, and before I could mention I’d be leaving, the daughter said, “Tumekupikia chakula”: We’ve cooked you food. As we ate together, my once blank kikoi was already starting to accumulate stories.

Islam and Fishermen: Mombasa, Kenya

Waking up from what was most likely my twentieth time dosing off during an 18-hour bus ride from Arusha, I was so happy to reach Mombasa, KE. I didn’t think I was going to make it, as I was almost left behind after a prolonged immigration screening to enter Kenya, I only successfully transferred buses in Nairobi, KE due to the help of an elderly Kenyan man who shockingly reminded me of my late uncle, and most importantly, because I couldn’t take much more time in a bus seat. Stepping off that bus came with a feeling I would come to learn is best summed up by a phrase said in Mombasa, “Mashallah”: Allah has willed it.

With its location on the East African coast making it a viable port city, Mombasa historically was influenced by ocean-traveling populations like the Portuguese and Arabs. This gave rise to Swahili culture, which describes a unique way of living for Swahili-speaking people in coastal areas. This history attracted me to Mombasa, as the kanga is thought to have evolved in parallel with Swahili culture. I wanted my journey to evolve similarly, so I visited a historic part of Mombasa known for its physical manifestation of Swahili culture, “Mji Mzee”: Old Town.

In Mji Mzee, history coexists with the present. Strolling down the town’s narrow streets may lead you past Muslims praying in a mosque built in the 1500s. Or you may end up at a beach with kids playing soccer near a ship as old as the wood it was built from. It was also on these streets where I met Anwar, a Muslim fisherman.

Our story began when I greeted Anwar with, “Niambie! Za leo?” I didn’t use any Arabic, so Anwar immediately knew I wasn’t accustomed to the Swahili culture of Mji Mzee. He wanted to teach me the way of living for Swahili people, so he asked to show me around the town. While walking with Anwar, we would often pass people he knew. He spoke Swahili to people whose Arab appearance contrasted with my expectations of Swahili speakers. He used Islamic greetings to people whose dark skin contrasted with my expectations of Muslims. Through Anwar’s faith, I was viewing life as a Kenyan Muslim man. Within this context of the Swahili culture, I was beginning to reframe what it meant for myself and others to be Black.

After walking together all day, the last thing Anwar wanted to show me was his fishing boat. He introduced me to the captain, and we all sat together as they shared fishing stories. We talked about their trips to places like Zanzibar and Somalia, the latter of which sent my mind back to what the airport worker in Arusha had told me. Lost in thought, I remember having to ask Anwar to repeat a question he had just asked me. He asked if I would want to join them on a fishing trip tomorrow. They planned to sail out into the Indian Ocean to fish all day and night. Something inside of me wanted to say yes so passionately, but for the sake of the loved ones in my life, I knew it wasn’t a risk I should take. Saying no was hard. I wanted to experience that fishing trip to settle this sudden feeling I had. The feeling that…. maybe I come from a lineage of Somalian Muslim fishermen?

“Welcome to Zanzibar”

My time in Zanzibar further complicated my newfound reflections on my Black identity. Like with Mombasa, I visited Zanzibar to experience a coastal area with an abundance of Swahili culture. Seeing the narrow streets, historic buildings, boats spanning the coasts, and the prevalence of Islam, it felt strikingly similar to Mombasa. However, one key feature distinguished the two: white tourism.

In Mombasa, I rarely saw a white tourist, but in Zanzibar, they were everywhere, especially in the historic area of “Mji Mkongwe”: Old Town. They came in masses from Europe and the United States, and their presence influenced Swahili culture. I was so frustrated with how often locals from Zanzibar would approach me and speak English. I wasn’t frustrated with them, but rather with the overpowering influence of whiteness to dictate the perception of my Blackness.

Some locals were so keen on finding tourists that they would prioritize English over Swahili. As I didn’t want to use English, I lost so many opportunities to connect with other Black people. It was dejecting to have my identity as a Swahili-speaking Black man overlooked by locals. Further worsening this alienation was the realization that many of the white tourists overlooked my identity as an English-speaking Black man. To locals, I was a tourist. To tourists, I was a local. My Black identity was constantly being tested by the ongoing dynamics between language, time, and place. Just as I thought Zanzibar had given me enough to ponder about, while taking one of my walks around the city, I overheard a woman whisper something to the person beside her, “Msomali yeye”: Look at that Somalian.

“Karibu!”: Dar es Salaam, Tanzania

On the choppy ferry ride from Zanzibar to Dar es Salaam, I realized immunity to seasickness wasn’t passed down in my hypothetical lineage of Somalian fishermen. The ride was enjoyable nonetheless, as approaching the city skyline at sunset was a beautiful yet unfortunate reminder that my trip was coming to an end.  

I arrived in Dar es Salaam with my kikoi and a new perspective on Black identity due to my interactions with Swahili culture. All I needed now was a way to combine both into a kanga. I wish I could say I had an elaborate plan, but all I knew was that in a city of eight million, there had to be one person who could help me. This mindset took me all over Dar es Salaam, from bustling local markets to serene, rural areas. Each location connecting me with people who helped me reach a place where I first started this journey—a family’s home workshop.

I realized this was my last opportunity to make my kanga. The next day was my flight back home. I pushed those concerns aside and let Swahili guide me. “Hodi! Hodi!” I asked for permission to enter. “Karibu! Ingia kwa nyuma.” A voice told me to enter through the back. When I passed through the back gate and entered the workshop, I felt so much joy.

Surrounded by handmade fabrics of various colors and patterns was a multi-generational family consisting of a grandma, her daughter, and her grandchildren. They all lived together, and the grandma and her daughter led the workshop. I asked if they could help me design my kanga, and they graciously agreed. We talked over my design, planned our approach, and got to work.

I ended up staying all day with the family, as we spent as much time learning about each other’s lives as we spent turning the kikoi into a kanga. I wouldn’t have had it any other way, because this kanga represents so many collective stories.

Our Kanga

As an American descendant of slavery, my heritage is lost in time. However, this heritage still lives with me in a complex way—my appearance. My appearance has affected every interaction in my life. Interactions that have accumulated into a journey where a Black boy from Wichita, Kansas decided to learn Swahili and travel to East Africa. A unique combination from which evolved my Swahili identity. This Swahili identity underpins my Black heritage, so I will always proudly be a Black boy from Wichita, Kansas…who potentially comes from a lineage of Somalian Muslim fishermen.