Walking home late, last Saturday, after a looong day in South London, I happen to pass about six drunk people in their early 20s. I'm just a few metres ahead of them when I hear one of the guys say:
"What the f**k is she doing here anyway? Shouldn't she be back in Africa?"
As I hear his friends berate him for his racist comment, many thoughts run through my head. The urge to turn round and give him a piece of my mind is dismissed, I'm smart enough not to pick a fight at midnight on a Saturday, with a loser who's drunk.
I walk on a bit and realise I am smiling. Though these comments don't go by without stinging, the sting is so light now, because although I may be in England for a few months, my heart is in Accra (& Tema), my home is in Ghana, I have laid my roots in West Africa.
Your comments may sting, but like mosquito bites, they will quickly stop hurting; and before I know it, I will be back home. Where I belong.