Mizizi Yangu

It has always puzzled people when I tell them my ethnicity. Whereas I was born and raised in Uganda and my father is Ugandan, my mother ensured that I am a racially, ethnically, and varied person. (some would say confused) Although being born and raised n Uganda as well as Kenya, from my mother I receive Tanzanian, Irish, Greek, and Ugandan roots. It is important for me to a own and celebrate all these aspects of my identity. Recently, I've been most fascinated with my Ugandan and Tanzanian roots. It is this fascination that has led me to my decision to learn Swahili. The language of my family and ancestors. A language that rolls off the tongue of my mother and aunt a they attempt to recapture childhood memories. The language in which my Tanzanian grandmother learned to smile. Swahili has been whispered in grass thatched huts, cried on battlefields, and echoed in parliaments. It is spoken by over fifty million people, across the eastern coast of Africa and beyond. Among these speakers are much of my family. In the Sankofa performance that I was in last week, there was a poem rected which dealt with kniwing one's histiry and carving out one's identity. It is impossible for me to carve out my identity without speaking the tongue of my ancestors. My parents were responsible enough to ensure that I learned Luganda before another language. Because of this, I have always felt welcome in the Buganda culture and have never strayed from my Bugandan roots. Now, in an attempt to connect with Tanzanian culture, I hope to learn Swahili and carve out my roots.
My roots: mizizi yangu.