A Tentative Step

I had no idea how hard it would be to board the plane.

I was completely unprepared for the panic attack the day before. The ensuing wave of nausea made it feel as though I was on board a rocking, roiling ship buffeted by breakers.

The car journey to the airport was other-worldly; street lamps and empty motorways super-imposed with humid smells and impossible goodbyes.

There was a strange parallel between the 11^th of July 2016 and the 4^th of February 2005.

The main difference was that leaving Ethiopia felt like being forced into a straight-jacket; bundled over someone’s shoulder and stuffed unceremoniously through the cabin door. I was left to untangle the chords in the months and years that followed.

Today however, on my trip to Lomé, it felt as though my hand was being held. There may have been a slight encouraging tug every now and then, but the choice was mine. I chose to step into the plane.

The second difference; inconceivable eleven years ago, was found in four objects in my suitcase: an owl, a clay heart, a string of orange beads, and a book on dragons. Four tokens of the people back in England who are my world.

During those first few years in England, I got through the day with the knowledge; the certain fact that next year, or possibly the year after, we would go back home. One day mum or dad would walk through the door with those magical tickets back to Addis Ababa. England was not permanent. There was no way it could be.

Yet, eleven years on, here I am. I have not only survived in England, I have thrived. I found a way to call it home, which I never, ever imagined possible.

What is more, this journey to Togo is not without its pangs; for there are people who I am leaving, and there are events that I will miss. This is far from the escape plan that I spent years dreaming of.

God, in his wisdom, has given me four words for this trip, from three very unexpected sources.

The first came from a customer, whilst I was outside wiping tables. Completely out of the blue, he asked if he could pray for me. He said that when God looked at me, He saw a woman of strength.

On the plane journey there, feeling like a woman of vomit rather than a woman of strength, this was a word to cherish.

The second word came from the potwasher at work; an incredible Zimbabwean who had fled from Mugabe’s oppression ten years ago.

One lunch break we were talking about Africa, and he suddenly stopped and remarked: “You know, when you speak of Africa, you really have the know-how”.

Those two words are massive.

One of the many unanswerable questions on this trip is: Why am I doing this? Have I simply got “White Saviour Syndrome”; the feeling that the rest of the world is obliged to be “helped” by me, all because of my white skin and European privileges?

What is more, even if they do need help, am I really the one to give it to them? What do I know about Human Rights? What qualification do I have? A few A-Levels, an online course, and some research. Is that enough?

I need to cling to this man’s belief that I have the “know-how”. Somehow, somewhere, I will be able to make a difference to someone.

The final word is possibly the most profound. One break time, in the English school where I was teaching, I started chatting to one of my students; a refugee from South Sudan.

We were sharing stores about growing up in Africa, and the transition to England. He suddenly stopped, and with smiling eyes told me: “You are African”.

I could never explain to him just how much those words meant.

I had spent the last ten years agonising over who I was: feeling a little bit of both and an awful lot of neither. Yes, I had finally learnt how to play the part of the “English girl”. By now I could do it impeccably.

Yet I still come home after a party or a trying day at work feeling exhausted and like a fraud. There are so many things that I hate about English culture: how dare they not think globally?!

After all this time, I still cannot sit comfortably with the notion of being English. Yet am I African? Skin colour aside, it would be laughable to call myself Ethiopian.

I grew up in a sheltered, ex-pat bubble, and although I knew more of poverty than the average English child, my experience was a world away from the toddler in the shack next door.

“You are African.”

Those words mean that I can claim both; I cannot pretend or be ashamed of the fact that I am one of the richest 5% of the world, yet I cannot suppress my insatiable desire for justice, and the comfort that I feel eating foreign food, speaking a foreign language or being the only white face in a crowd.

It may be my first time returning to Africa in ten years, but I still cannot blow it out of proportion. Throwing hopes and fears and dreams at these two months: expectations that should only be thrown at God, will simply churn up more grief and disappointment.

However, I cannot dismiss its magnitude. I have spent years pleading with God to take me back; away from England. This is the day that the door has finally been opened.

Things to pray for:

·         For Christian support; people who I can pray with and for whilst I am there.

·         A real sense of calling: like I am doing something useful to help others.

·         That my French would quickly improve to the necessary level.

·         For self-confidence and trust in God through the overwhelming every day.

I really value the support of everyone back at home; I could not do this without you!