My mixed “me” story.

Being a mixed child set you apart. Period!

You tend to be an object of a fascination wherever you go. It could be for positive or negative reasons, but as I grew up, I also grew stronger in the belief that I am a human being just like anyone else and I learnt to I embrace my differences and even start to use them as strengths.

I was born in Zanzibar of mixed parentage. My father was local Zanzibari and my mother was Guajarati Indian. They both had their own cultural views on how to raise a family, one the African way and one the Indian way. Theirs was a marriage of love. Back in the 60’s any Indian family would have been horrified to consider such an arrangement. This caused friction all around, which is ultimately borne by the children.

Indians, particularly back then, took issue to marriage between those of a different caste or different religion such as Hindu, Muslim, or Christians. Even geography played its part; were you from from North India or South India, West India, or East India? You are double doomed if you marry an African!

I was born in Zanzibar, studied in India, and attended college/university in UK, then chose to live in Dubai since 1992. My mother was a big presence in my life and that of my 6 younger brothers. She ingrained the Indian culture in us, so the food, music, culture, movies, friends, and characteristics were all Indian in nature.

By the time I was a teenager my awareness of my surrounding and the way people Africanised me became obvious, particularly when I walked next to my mom in India – how different we looked.

People were always astonished how different both of us were and that we were mother and daughter. She was light coloured skin tone with long straight hair down to her backside, while I was coco skin colour with large bushy, kinky, sponge like texture hair (that’s how people called me then).

People commented and teased for the way my hair looked and at times people would even ask why I did not get my mother’s skin colour or hair. As a teenager I did not know how to respond to such ignorance. As the only girl in the family I yearned to be like my mother – so people won’t stare at me differently and make fun of my hair (a bird nest was the common comparison) as my mother did not know how to comb my hair, we did not know what brush to use when, and we did not have curly hair products or tangle free combs. To simplify things, and not suffer the torturous (though loving) efforts of my mother, I tied it in a huge ponytail with a ribbon, forming fluffy, bushy looking, round ball behind me. For some reason flies would want to rest in it but then strangle themselves inside that bushy uncombed mass of hair.

I was introduced to baby Johnson powder which quickly became my best friend at night. I would cover my entire face and body with powder so when I wake up, I’d be as white as my mother. My brothers would tease me that I look like a ghost. I would also iron my hair on the ironing board so that I could have straight hair like my mother.

I did not listen to any naysayers; my focus was resolute – nobody will make fun of me if I looked like my mother! Today I know that Johnson Baby Powder is better deployed onto babies’ butts to avoid rashes; and the iron, well that is for clothes. I lost count of how many times I burnt my forehead, neck, and ears before I came to that realisation.