I leave for the 13 hour flight on the 24th. And I am petrified.

First there is the issue of the abuse I suffered there as a child when my family lived there from 1982 – 1984. I’m only now feeling like I’m okay enough with everything that happened to go visit.

Secondly, I have no idea what to expect. My memory of what it was like is outdated. I remember constant electrical power outages, having running water some days and others having to go to the water pump downstairs. I remember surviving malaria.

I remember sunshine, and cabs. I remember delicious food. I remember paved roads in the city and unpaved roads on long trips. I remember flawless indoor plumbing and an expensive water softener in each of the houses with marble staircases and floors. I remember toilets that didn’t flush and being expected to use them without vomiting.

I remember people living on the side of the road, in makeshift shelters. I remember being able to smell the heavy morning mist carrying a floral scent that made me feel high each morning.

I remember masquerades (not in the traditional sense of the word– they’re like roaming street carnivals). I remember parties where the streets would be blocked off that lasted for days.

I remember seeing a tank go down the street and feeling the air go from democratic to militarized. I remember my mother conflicted, my father fearless, them apart, them together.

I remember not seeing a person a different shade than me for months. I remember having my self-pride happily divorced from what other people judged based on my color.

You wouldn’t think a 9/10/11 year old would remember that, feel that. It only goes to show you how deeply permeating racism is, that I remember vividly what a lack of it felt like.

I remember my grandmother’s bakery, at the back of her house.

So many memories has Africa to live up to, or to live down. I want to buy a house there at the end of the year. I can buy a plot of land and get a McMansion custom built for a steal.

I’m hoping to employ people for my business, who my sister can watch over for me when I’m spending my half year in the States.

I’m afraid I’ll fall in love with a man there, as someone my shape is in heavy appreciation there. Someone educated in Europe who is also a world traveler, a Christian to guard against the notorious sub-culture of polygynous men with multiple wives or several lovers on the side.

I’m afraid living like a princess will make me content to work 3 days a month, slacking off after I make $1000.

I’m afraid I’ll get there and hate it, and it will be every worst thing I remember.

I want it to be fantastic or horrible. I want to never want to go back or want to live there 6 months a year. I want to be able to visit my sister and mother, who are moving there with my sister’s two sets of twins and her husband.

I remember palm trees lining the runway, turning to my mother and saying, breathlessly, “It’s beautiful.”

To which she replied “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

Indeed…

I’ll be filming and snapping everything that moves. :) Watch this space for updates, and especially photos.