The Side of Africa I Never Saw in the Media

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I’ve traveled to more than 80 countries. We’ve lived in Germany and South Korea, walked through open-air markets in Istanbul, eaten street food in Laos, and climbed hills in Lisbon. I’ve stood in castles, temples, and ruins all over the world. But not one of those countries is in Africa—not yet. I’ve spent years overlooking the continent where my own history begins. I believed what I was shown: struggle, danger, poverty. I saw everything except what was really there. Now I see it differently—Africa’s modern cities, deep culture, diverse food, and undeniable beauty. And I want to experience the truth about Africa for myself.

Table of Contents

• Why It Wasn’t Always on My List
• What I Want From the Experience
• What Gives Me Pause
• What Would Make It Worthwhile
• Final Thought
• Like it. Pin it.

Why It Wasn’t Always on My List

When I first started traveling, I didn’t even consider Africa. It wasn’t on my radar. The messages I grew up with shaped that. In school, in my friend groups, and on TV, Africa was framed as a place of suffering—nothing but war zones, starving children, and women carrying babies with their breasts exposed. The images were always the same: cracked earth, mud huts, and charity workers dropping aid from planes. That narrative took root early. And unlearning it has taken years.

I rarely saw photos of families sitting at dinner tables or kids laughing in school uniforms. I didn’t see bookstores or modern cities. Just desperation. Just donation campaigns. And somewhere along the way, I absorbed the lie that there wasn’t anything for me there—nothing to connect with or celebrate. I’ve followed the stories of other Black travelers in Africa, and now I want to write my own.

Seeing Through the Resort Walls

My parents took me to Europe and Asia, so I thought I knew those cultures. I had been to the Caribbean too, where I loved seeing people who looked like me. But that wasn’t real life. We stayed behind resort gates. We were told it was dangerous to go beyond them. I remember the airport rides—poverty lined the roads, and that’s all we saw.

But I also know the chance for growth, connection, new experiences, and real joy is off the charts. And I want to see it for myself. Because I’ll know I didn’t avoid it. I didn’t choose comfort. Getting on the plane meant facing the questions instead of making excuses. I’m not going there for approval. I’ll be looking around—watching people live their lives, noticing the rhythm of their days, listening more than I speak. That’s what travel has always meant to me.

I have African friends. I follow people who show everyday life across the continent. But I live in the U.S., where I’m often the only Black person in the room—at school, at work, at the movies, even at the park. As I get older, I think more about what it would feel like to not feel different all the time. To wear my hair without it being a topic of conversation. To just be myself without questions, stares, or explanations.

That feeling has grown over time. I started paying attention to voices I hadn’t listened to before. I began questioning the stories I was taught. Then I took a DNA test. It showed strong ties to Nigeria, Togo, and Benin—and, to my surprise, Scandinavia.

And that was it. I have to go. The test didn’t give me answers. But it gave me a place to begin.

What I Want From the Experience

If I go, I want to see life. Real life. I want to walk through neighborhoods where people shop, eat, laugh, and go to work. Visiting museums to learn the stories that never made it into my textbooks matters to me. In Nigeria, I want to try jollof rice and suya from a roadside stand. Not at a hotel buffet—off the street, hot and fresh. I’ve watched enough videos to know it’s bold, spicy, and full of pride. Food like that tells you a lot without saying a word.

I’m not chasing a dream. I’m not expecting some deep awakening or a warm welcome just because I’m Black. I want to see things for myself, ask real questions, and learn without needing to fit in. I’ve traveled enough to know that feeling like you belong doesn’t happen often. But connection? That’s real. And maybe, in the everyday moments, I’ll start to see the real Africa—not the one I was shown growing up, but the one people live every day.

What Gives Me Pause

I’m still nervous. Part of me worries I’ll show up and find exactly what I feared years ago—that the problems I heard about are real and hard to ignore. There’s the fear of being seen as just another rich outsider. Of being treated like a stranger, because that’s what I am. I’m not expecting a red carpet. I’m not looking for a red carpet. I just don’t want to feel like a walking wallet.

And more than anything, I don’t want to come home disappointed.

What Would Make It Worthwhile

There are real concerns. I know I won’t feel safe traveling alone. Most countries in Africa are patriarchal, and the way some men treat women there isn’t the same as what I’m used to. I’ve read enough to know that. I also have a real fear of being robbed or treated like a rich tourist just because I’m American. Some of that fear is based on things I’ve seen or heard. But some of it is real. I’m not naïve about that.

In Benin, I want to walk Ouidah’s Route of Slaves and see the Door of No Return. There’s a museum, some monuments, and the Gate of No Return at the end. I’ve read about it, but I want to be there. To see it, feel it, and sit with whatever comes up. I won’t pretend to know what I’ll find. But I’m ready to look. In Togo, I want to walk through Lomé’s Grand Marché. It looks loud and packed and full of life—exactly the kind of place I never forget. I picture stalls with bold fabric, dried fish, fresh fruit, and voices calling out all at once. That’s the kind of place that sticks with you.

Final Thought

I’m not going to Africa to fix anything or find something missing. I’m going because it’s time. I’ve spent years circling around it, carrying the weight of not going, making peace with the fact that I waited this long. Now I want to see the places in my DNA with my own eyes. I want to stand in the middle of a city in Nigeria, Togo, or Benin, take a deep breath, and let the noise of the street remind me that life is happening here, too—and that the truth about Africa can’t be found in books or headlines. It has to be experienced.

Some of the things I always look for when I travel are good food, quiet cafes, scenic hikes, and places with deep meaning—temples, churches, architectural wonders, anything that makes me pause and say “WOW.” I’ve found those moments in hilltop hikes in Thailand, quiet cafes in Portugal, and sacred spaces in South Korea. When I finally go to Africa, I’ll be looking for the same things. I want to sit with a strong cup of coffee and watch the day unfold. I want to hike to a view that takes my breath away. And I want to stand in places that carry history—painful, proud, or both—and take it all in.

Because I’ll know I didn’t avoid it. I didn’t choose comfort. Getting on the plane meant facing the questions instead of making excuses. I’m not going to look for approval. I’ll be looking around—watching people live their lives, noticing the rhythm of their days, listening more than I speak. That’s what travel has always meant to me.

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