BeaB.A.D Beautiful.African.Dangerous.

Who is Bea? Bea is BAD. Beautiful.African. Dangerous

Why do these 3 words encapsulate a person. Especially when I have not set foot in “the Continent” since 2014?

Well allow me to set out my stall. A personal manifesto.

Beautiful.

I came to this party late. African time levels of late.

I am Beautiful. Beautiful in a stunning sense. I’m breathtaking. I have unusual features, high cheekbones and higher standards. I say this on a Saturday as an unwashed ragamuffin with no makeup, perfume choice and hair basically coasting until my hot water is fixed. The essence of me is beautiful. I have a beautiful soul and I believe that. I believe I should not need to prove to people that I am beautiful, or kind, or that my soul is open and honest. I am who I am. I’m multifaceted and talented, articulate, kind and caring. All these things add to my inner beauty.

Makeup and incredible clothes, shoes and a great sense of self adds to my outer beauty. I have presence. I learned the hard way how to be beautiful. I am not the beauty standard which means I’m not your standard beauty. It means the hard road… in everything. It means that I appreciate luxury and self care. Why? because I once believed self sacrifice was going to get me somewhere. And it was.., A graveyard counts right?

Beauty means so much to me because I deprived myself so deeply for others for such a long time. Beauty is the thing I see in travel, learning new things, etymology and building people up. Someone complimented my earrings on Thursday. It made my day. Actually it made my December. It was what I needed at that point. The kindest thing someone said to me all month. “Be the change you wish to see in the world” I want to see more beauty. People lifted up. That’s beautiful. And if I practice that… then I’m being beautiful. No matter my skin colour.

Beautiful is an appreciation of the care that went into something. My mum ate and slept right for 10 months, breastfed, and raised me right… with the help of my father they took great care. And that’s why I am beautiful. My parents admired the beauty of a sleeping child safe in their arms. We admire the beauty of an artists work. Not one brushstroke too many or too little. They took care until completion. We admire the beauty of the earth, the care I believe God took in making all things. But for the atheists in the house, the incredible wonder of natural selection, the order and disorder of the universe and it’s incomprehensible vastness, we think of how blessed/lucky to be cradled in a hospitable planet and how pleasing it is when it’s peaceful. Beauty and care go hand in hand. Always. It cannot be beautiful if someone didn’t care. I remember a wedding picture of myself. I had twists in and a tiara. One twist was on top sticking out of my head at an odd angle. I looked beautiful in those pictures… except the hair sticking out. Why? Because no one cared enough to tell me/move it. They thought I wouldn’t mind having a humiliating hair moment. I minded. I still mind. I paid £1,800 for them to care. So I was “beautiful but…”

Beauty is skin deep and soul deep. A persons humanity and beauty needs to touch your soul. It must resonate with you.

African.

My earliest memories are of being raised in my culture. My parents wanted me to assimilate but whenever I saw them self-actualise, it was always in the context of their culture.

Kumba, kumbalaye me debul de Mojuba oh. Hunting songs that are as much a part of my soul as the colour green. Africa was described to me as this wild, beautiful, romantic place. It is after all, the place my parents fell in love. Can you not feel the love tonight? I was obsessed with Lion King. The only Disney film set in (South) Africa

My dad’s star sign is Leo. Leo the Lion. I am yet to see anything more apt when it comes to star signs. “Head of the family” “Respect” “Powerful.” a Lion is nothing without his… Pride. His family is everything. All these words come to mind when I think of my dad. As well as a great sense of fun. West African humour has a somewhat “gallows humour” tinged with sarcasm  that’s me. Gallows humor, “African Auntie” quick wit and an incredible sense of fun that my father had. Cheekiness. He had dimples on his cheeks and a smile in his heart. And he made sure everyone knew it. That’s African to me. An untamed, beauty. The majestic mountains, rivers as wide as lakes, Savannahs deserts and a vastness that humbles a man. The “unburnt, unbent, unbroken “ spirit of my slave ancestors. The wild magic of Juju, and all it’s intoxicating connotations. “I know something you don’t know, white man” and the spirit of “We will rise” As a proud daughter of slave ancestors whilst I can’t imagine their degradation, humiliation or suffering. That promise of “ Blood don’t sleep” always stirs deeply in my soul. My duty and my joy is to make my ancestors proud. To do that which they couldn’t. Climb those mountains. Ford those streams, run, walk, dance. Do that which makes your spirit soar. Because there was a time you couldn’t do it for yourself. But also do it because they lived in chains and you are free. They were property and you own property. Never forget the suffering of those who put you where you are. Your mother, your father. I have seen their struggles acutely. Seen their suffering and despair. So I beat my chest and repeat the anthem, the prayer and the curse of my ancestors. “Blood don’t sleep, blood don’t sleep, blood don’t sleep”

Christianity says when you are blessed they bless you 7 generations. When you are cursed. 7 generations too. Blood don’t sleep. Be careful. The farmers in the field will tell you you reap what you sow.

So don’t sow suffering in other people and expect to reap joy. And that which you stole… will turn to ashes in your mouth.

Being African means wisdom rather than smart mouthed. My grandmother’s generation are so wise, they’ve lived through colonialism,Independence, suffered, strove, built a family, built a home and watched others destroy it. Globalisation, Global Warming, Pandemics. Sit at their knees, ask them questions seek wisdom rather than sound bites.

“You tink you do me, you do youself” “You think you screwed me over, you screwed yourself” (spitefulness only hurts you first) “Da pikin weh say im mama no go sleep, insef no go sleep.” If you think you are hurting your parents, you’ll suffer too. “Ous wan me own de price of hog, me daddy notto butcher” what business of it is mine the price of a pig, my dad isn’t a butcher. ( mind your business)

So much wisdom starts with the phrase “Dem mammy go say” The matriarchs would say… The original Annette Smith used to say “Wan an bangle No de shake.” One bracelet doesn’t shake. I.e it takes 2 to start an argument.

“Dem mammy de see far wan sidom, pas you whe tinap.”

“Your elders see further sitting down than you standing up.” Listen to them.

Which brings me to respect… as a continent, we have respect. For God, for our elders and our environment. The balance between life and death is so much closer. My dad described being constantly exposed to death. His dad passed when he was 3. My grandparents lost 5 of their 8 kids. Infant mortality, disease, both preventable and not, accidents and the hand of God makes you humble and grateful to have air in your lungs as you think of those in the grave. Bad harvest can bring him “Kwasi Oco” (sores and bloated stomachs that you see in live aid) We respect life. We have reverence for God as we see his works in the beautiful mountains and plentiful vegetation. But also in the dispair, loss and pain that also typifies the black existence. I have never seen the mountains of Gloucester Village Freetown. But the dispair, pain and loss? I am in that way very much an African child and I can never and will never part from it.

“Ibe, Ibe. Ibe!” Hip hip hurrah! Said at weddings and times of joy. Most people do believe it came from the white chorus. But it’s actually a shorthand version of “E Ebey” “it’s heavy” Marriage? E ebey. The family you are going to raise and the life you are about to embark on? E ebey. The rich history and traditions it is your duty to protect and pass on? “Da load de, e ebey”

That brings me to my history. I am an African daughter. Not Sierra Leonean. That’s where my ancestors went back to. Not necessarily where they were from. So I am a mongrel. I don’t know where I am from. Partly Nigeria, on my dad’s side. And so it’s my job to learn all I can. As much as I can. Because it’s all my history. I actually love the fact that they traced the original slaves back to Nigeria. One because it’s the dominant West African culture and the the tribe is the dominant tribe. “Last last”  is all I need to say. But also, I know now where I get my “fabulousness and flamboyance” from. The originals and the bests… the Nigerians. Sierra Leoneans are too chilled and it irritates my soul. Yurobas are loud, vibrant and they know who the hell they are. They really don’t care if you know it or not. They are like the suns of West Africa. They must… in their own words… “Arise and shine” and so must their daughter Anna.

I knew. And I know. In my soul. I will never know peace until I hear the whole story. Have true knowledge of what happened to my ancestors. How we became enslaved, subjugated and colonised. How we were raped, torn from our mothers breasts and lynched. All of it. Complete knowledge. I don’t dream of African empires and Musa Musa. I dream of those strapped to boats being told to obey in a language not their own and beaten for non compliance. I will also not know peace until I understand African greats. Leaders, scientists, philosophers. People like me. People like my dad. My mum. My family. We’re not musicians or sportsmen. I dream of talents, traditions and tales all lost to history. Myths legends, folk songs, gone. Cures for cancers destroyed in retribution for a slight felt by Westerners who had no business in our continent. Only to “Discover something ”once they are told by my ancestors of a medicine or a river. Who Discovered the River Niger? The tribes that lived on its banks, surely? Not Mungo Park. Being African means unpacking the lies told to me to justify war crimes, rape, genocide cultural vandalism all for the sugar on my table. I can drink tea unsweetened thanks. It’s not that deep.

I dream of Jolofrice and other “acceptably African items, like my beads, my print, my tribe. Oh you’re Yinka? Yes, because wealth surrounds me: and it’s Olayinka to you. Smiling patiently while people trip over shortened names like Bami or Deji when we pronounce Reading, Reading and not reading and Leicester not Lei-cest-er. Being African is wearing my colours with pride. Adowa Griffin, Yahodeah Griffin. Why? Because I know the deeply unacceptable side of being African. The internet fondly recalls a collective childhood of being beaten with slippers and belts. My parents didn’t do that. But crippling social obligations, tribalism and colourism? That is a part of my experience. That’s why you can’t understand the beauty of an African woman. If she can look good with all she has to bear, she can move mountains. Tribalism, the art of being an ethnic minority in your own country. Being a Creole means I am not necessarily welcome in the only place I call home, the Timini call Freetown “Dekamp” the camp/settlement and it was bought for the lifetime of one chief. We are essentially 200 year old squatters with no real tribal rights and we have no chiefs or elders to lead us.

I am African when I dance off the cold in England. Watching  peoples who  shiver while my strong survivors genetics dance and sing and laugh. My spirit rises and my ancestors smile. I believe they push me on my way.Was this why you are so keen to colonise my continent? So you could actually own a little piece of heaven? Because God didn’t give you proper problems to deal with you went and created some… for the other 8 billion people.

Dangerous.

Why am I dangerous? I’m a gentle lady. And that’s the point. I’m gentle. Gentle means strong, it means “I have the power to destroy you, I choose instead to take care of you” read the first part of that sentence again. You can’t have gentleness without strength and you can’t be dangerous without being exposed to danger. You have to know pain to be able to inflict it on others. Unless you are a sadist. And I am not. But what I am capable of and what I do are 2 different things. My life is a walking breathing testimony to the greatness of God, so many experiences should have killed me. White privilege is the art of not even being aware of those dangers. I was at a work event. The topic of racism was brought up. It was a life changing experience for me. I thought white people had empathy and that they just didn’t think of the impact of their actions. No. They’re several steps back from that. They have no knowledge. For them, combatting racism is just not calling people nasty names. Instead of something that should be put on your death certificate as a contributing factor. When it should be on a crime report as a contributing factor in a rape or an arson. When child Q was in 2022 and George Flloyd was 2020 people still have no idea of the heightened sense of terror that comes with the black experience. Going into hospitals, going into the education system, the prison system. It changed me. Knowledge is power and I am so glad God revealed that to me. There’s a difference between being untested and being righteous. And I realise there are a lot of people who are simply untested. I remember leaving that event and thinking “these men would rape me because they’re bored” they don’t actually have a moral compass. They simply haven’t been put in a situation that would mean that’s a choice they have to make. These are the sons of the same men who did have that choice and did rape my ancestors… en mass. I realised my own history with sexual abuse and rape was because my ex-husband had a coloniser complex “I want to be the first to have sex with a black girl” “Black girls are dirty in the bedroom” “She can’t say no” and actually if you scratch the polite surface that mindset is amazingly common. I thought of what it would take for these men to understand what it means to walk a mile in my shoes. To fear loud noises and completely innocent, non sexual touching. The only thing I can think of is that they go through what I have been through. See if it produces the same results. Gratuitous sexual assault and repeated sexualisation. Gaslighting and bullying. You have not been tested. You think you are righteous and I am weak. I, on the other hand have been tested. Several times. And I chose love. Every single time. I lift others when destruction is so easy and vengeance is so sweet. But as you sow, so shall you reap. The anthem beats again in my brain and my breast. “Blood don’t sleep”

Instead of vengeance, I go on my knees and pray “ Father forgive” they don’t know I pray for them. I keep it that way. My heart is full, full of love for humanity. With a knowledge that the end doesn’t justify the means. Because if I play like you… “You go die.” But so would I, you cannot inflict cruelty without destroying your own soul.

“You tink you do me, you do youself.”

And in those words I sum up why I am “Beautiful. African. Dangerous.”

Grace and Courage

Annetta Mother Smith.