Sankofa: (an Akan word)

"We must go back and reclaim our past so we can move forward."

Looking back now, my black history project began when I was about ten. While spending a summer with my aunt in Maryland, we'd befriended a sista from Cameroon, who had become our downstairs neighbor. A ritual was soon born: Almost every evening, my cousins, friends, and anyone else within the apartment complex were invited to gather; to sit on the floor around a community bowl big enough to fall in (my perception) to eat with our bare hands; to laugh and fellowship while devouring the delicious, spicy rice dishes Ishtu would make for us to enjoy.

One evening, an elder joined us. I was told he was a "wise man," a relative of Ishtu's. After dinner, the children politely gathered around. We took turns kneeling in front of him. He took each of our hands, would look at us thoughtfully, then spoke:

"You," he said to one boy, "are Ibo." "You are Hausa," to another. Soon, it was my turn. I took my place in front of him. He studied me, then leaned forward and smiled.

"You," he said, "are Fulani."

We all giggled; these words sounded so strange to our young ears.

"Come," he said. I followed him over to a giant shelf. He retrieved a book, opened it, pointed to a picture of a girl. "There. You see?"

I stared at it. And wondered how a picture of ten-year old me somehow got in this book Ishtu's wise relative was now holding. It was the first moment I actually seemed to make the real connection that somewhere, at some point in time, my relatives where there, before they were here. That my lineage stretched all the way back, back over and across the Atlantic, to another continent. It seemed to me a distant, magical place.

Africa.

***********

This is my beautiful mom. ( She's where I inherited the Supa gene)

For as long as I could remember, people would notice her queenly presence, and stop to ask where she was from. Ethiopia, maybe?

"You definitely come from the East," we'd hear (constantly), from those folks familiar with people on the continent. As I got older, people began to ask the same of me. Depending on how I was rocking my hair at any given moment, people would guess, Trinidad, maybe? Ethiopia, Indian (dots, not feathers)? "Nah, I'm authentic black girl. From the States," I'd assure them. But it bugged me that I didn't have more to offer. "Someone once told me I looked Fulani," was my usual reply.

"Yes, I can see that. Strong possibility. They have a very distinct look, you know," my once Nigerian love, Yinka, would often co-sign. "A Yankee girl Fulani," he'd tease. "Well. One can only guess."

*******

Last year, for a variety of reasons - I was compelled to do more than guess. My mom had done a great deal of tracing our roots over the years, and had gathered a detailed history and records of our relatives, going all the way back to a plantation in Dublin, Virginia. (and yes, I already know that my great-great-great-(maybe one more great)-grandfather was the half-white son of a slave owner). We were so excited, and intrigued about what we'd found. We couldn't wait to dig deeper.

Around the same time, my mom (an avid traveler) had booked an educational trip to Egypt, but was forced to cancel. The wicked breast cancer had returned, for what would be, the last time. It began to quickly spread though her body; she became too sick to travel. Less than a year later, mommy was gone.

I promised myself two things. One - I would make that trip to Egypt for her, in her honor. (which is why Dr. Smith's suggestion a few weeks back is personally significant.) Two - I would pick up where her genealogical dig had left off. Except, I wanted to now explore a different route. I wanted to start from the beginning.

Soon enough, I'd come across information about Dr. Kittles, a biologist and co-director of Molecular Genetics at the National Human Genome Center at Howard University. He started an organization, African Ancestry, which through his research, has allowed him to compile an African Lineage Database (ALD) which contains 11,747 paternal lineages and 13,690 maternal lineages from over 160 ethnic groups across the African Continent. The ALD contains DNA sequence data from individuals throughout the continent of Africa, and there is a specific concentration on regions that are known to have participated in the TransAtlantic Slave Trade.

I did my research, and felt comfortable enough to pay the fee and request a kit. Then came the consent form, the cheek swabs, and off it all went, back to the lab. The rest..well, the rest is MY history.

Weeks later when that package finally arrived at my door, I sat and stared at it. Had a few glasses of wine over it, while quietly contemplating. What would be revealed? What if my DNA type couldn't be matched? (this is a possibility, Dr. Kittles warns, although slight) What if I'm not from Africa??? (don't laugh, it can happen). What if, what if....

I finally woman-ed up; opened the package. The results? Well, it was a 99.4% match. And it said: Look to the east, black woman. Look to the east...

This is part of my report, my actual DNA sequence, and how my type was matched.

Seems that I received from my mother, who received from her mother, and then her mother, and all the way back - a unique genetic mutation which indicates my maternal lineage began in or around Egypt. (I would later learn after inquiring, that my results overlap into areas of Ethiopia and the Sudan)

After years of study, I'd also learned that the Fulani were one of the most widely known group of nomads in Africa, who presently, live in communities throughout much of West Africa, from Senegal to Cameroon and as far east as Sudan and Ethiopia. It is also said that slavery and colonialism dispersed Fulani throughout the Middle East, the Americas and Europe. American history books are full of individuals of Fulani origin who have distinguished themselves in North and South America and the Caribbean.

So, perhaps that wise man from Cameroon wasn't too far off, after all.

My black history project has been such a wonderful instrument on my journey toward self. It's not the entire picture, but it gives me a valuable piece to integrate into my cultural autobiography. As a result, when I look in the mirror - now, I see so much more. Yes, I'm still the thick-haired, round the way girl who came up in Inglewood, by way of Ohio, by way of a Virginia plantation - AND, I'm a Nubian sista in the New World, distant daughter of Isis, descendant of the most original people on Earth. I now watch my daughter compose her black history reports with pride; for she now has two places, on two maps, she can point to.

(picture of a Fulani woman) (picture of me)