Her smell. Her touch. The warmth of her body. I remember it all. I remember the last time I saw her; the last time I was able to smell her, touch her, feel her. We never did have it easy; I only ate every couple of days, and I had been given a blue cup that I carried around with me begging everyone I saw for water. She gave me everything she could, everything she had. Even when we were hungry and cold and thirsty, she’d still be humming me to sleep, telling me everything was going to be okay. I don’t think I ever saw her without a smile on her face. Until the day they came.
“Mama!”
I cried for her, but I couldn’t stop them.
“Mama! Mama are you okay?! What’s going on Mama? Where are those men taking you?”
But before she could answer, she was gone. They took her away.
I was alone after that. Four years old with no Mama. My brothers would be killed in the streets a few years later, and I would have to watch them die.
My family never did anything wrong. We never bothered anybody. We never hurt anybody. But we had to pay a price as though we had. My mama was taken away from me by drug dealers and cons. My brothers were killed by them. And I was alone.
It wasn’t a good life there. I went days without food and water. Mama always told me to be grateful for everything I had, but it was really hard when I realized that I had nothing.
I knew I had to get out of there. I knew Mama would want me to be elsewhere; somewhere where I would be happy and healthy and safe and free.
It took a lot of courage to leave. Although I didn’t have much to carry with me, I had a lot to leave behind: the memories of my childhood, Mamma, Dayo and Mosi, the boys and girls I used to play with around the huts.
I didn’t have a beautiful home. I didn’t have a lot to eat or drink. I didn’t have a television, or a warm bed to sleep in, or even the comfort of safety. The thing that hurt the most, though, was that I no longer had a family to wake up to every morning. I didn’t have brothers to play or fight with. I didn’t have Mamma to hum me to sleep.
The people who are still back there, in Ethiopia, they don’t have those things, either. I’m sure they have it just as bad as I did when I was a child. But to them, it’s home. It’s where they were born, and it’s where they will probably die.
Not everybody gets out like I did, and not everybody wants to.
I still see it sometimes, in my dreams and in my thoughts. I wonder how Ethiopia is doing, and I wonder how the people are.
I might go back someday. I might not. But I will never forget what I left behind:
Mamma, my brothers, my friends. Ethiopia.

It was a beautiful afternoon in Southern Kenya; the Maasai tribe was thriving, and I was helping my mother cook dinner for our family. I was eight years old, just the perfect age to learn mamangu’s (my mother’s) recipes, and tend to the children while the adults were busy. I tried to help take care of the kin all around the village, so that the mothers of the Maasai could talk amongst themselves and enjoy their time together without being bothered. I considered myself a great help around the village, and the adults would often thank me with small gifts like an extra slice of bread or extra time in the bath. I enjoyed helping out and feeling as though I was an important part of the Maasai tribe. So when the day came that my mother asked me to fetch water from the brook all by myself to help her cook a meal, I felt proud and honored, and I graciously accepted.
From the tribe’s grounds, the brook is quite a ways away. To get there, I have to cross through all of the huts of the Maasai village, all the way to the other side. Then I must follow the small path, past the big beautiful acacia tree, until I see a fork in the paths; I follow the farthest path on the right to its very end where I must walk through tall grass and weeds until I can finally feel the muddy soil beneath my feet. That’s when I know I’m almost there. All the while, I have a giant bucket over my head that I have to carry the whole way. It is about seven miles in all, and takes me close to three hours to get there. It takes me longer to get back, though, because I am already tired, and the bucket is harder to carry during the second trip because it is mostly full.
It is not uncommon to see young boys and girls helping their mothers gather water at the stream, so that the mother does not have to make several trips. We also share a stream with the cattle of Southern Kenya, so it is usual to see more than one animal at the brook while you are there. It is also important to understand that the brook is the central part of Kenyan life; every member of the nearby tribes comes here to retrieve water for drinking, cooking, bathing, and washing. So, more often than not, beggars and people without family come to the brook, hoping that someone, anyone, will give them something to eat or wear or even a place to stay. These people are what make the brook a very dangerous place for children to come alone.
Although I was a bit nervous to be travelling on my own for the first time, I gained comfort from the thought that my mother and the other women of the Maasai were awaiting my return. If I did not come back in a few hours, I know that the children would look for me. Mamangu would look for me. Everyone would look for me. Because the Maasai tribe is like a family; we look out for one another, protect each other. I was sure I would be safe.
At the stream, I had a difficult time collecting water. Every time I would lean down to gather water, more water would fall out of the bucket than into it. Frustrated, I wondered to myself how my mother collected so much water for so many years, all by herself. I thought about how I had to perfect the art of gathering water, so that I could cook food for my children. And maybe someday I would ask my daughter to fetch water for me.
Because I had been daydreaming, I didn’t notice the man who was trying to get my attention. When I finally snapped back into reality, I jumped at his voice.
He was a friendly middle-aged man, who could not have been from the Maasai tribe because I didn’t recognize him. He had the darkest complexion I had ever seen, and his teeth were yellow and his clothes were dirty. Everyone’s teeth were yellow. Everyone’s clothes were dirty.
He smiled a big smile at me when I turned around. Laughing, he asked me if I needed any help fetching water. He said he could tell it was my first time, and that he could help me if I wanted.
Although I didn’t know the man, I was pleased by his offer. He was right, I had never done this before… at least on my own. And as he helped me fill up the bucket with water and take most of the sand and dirt out, he asked me my name and about my day.
“Naomi,” I said, smiling. “My name is Naomi.”
I told him that I was a member of the Maasai tribe and that my mother had asked me to fetch water for dinner tonight. He told me that I had better hurry up and get back before it got dark.
“Those woods are a dangerous place for a small girl like you,” he told me.
When we were finished filtering the water, I thanked him, put the bucket on top of my head, and began walking. I almost dropped the entire bucket of water when I tripped over a dense pile of wet sand. But I caught myself.
I heard him laughing from a distance, so I turned around and smiled nervously. I was embarrassed that he had seen me trip. Before I could make it to the section of tall grass and weeds, he asked me if I needed some company on the walk back.
“I’m headin’ that way, anyhow,” he told me with a smile.
As we walked, the sun began to set. It was getting chilly but I was all right. I was glad I had someone to talk to on the walk; the woods were so dark and cold, I would’ve been afraid to walk by myself. He offered to carry the bucket so I wouldn’t have to struggle with it. He told me I would get home faster that way, and he wanted to make sure I made it home safely.

******************************************************

I wiped the tears from my cheeks as I emerged from the darkness of the woods. My knees were bleeding. My body was aching. Time was going by so slowly. The bucket I had been carrying felt heavier than it ever had before; the water looked so clean, but I felt so dirty.
When I returned to the village, my mother was waiting; she had asked me to be careful, and I told her I was. She asked if I made it there and back okay. I said yes.
I no longer felt like myself. I no longer felt like an eight-year-old girl. I felt like a grown woman, in the worst sort of way.
There are no answers. There’s no reason why. I’m just another girl in Kenya. Just another story, another crime, another form of suffering left to be ignored.

Don't Cry for Me Africa

Don’t cry for me Africa

Because I will never let you out of my mind

I hear your voices people of Africa

I hear your cries people of Africa

I see pain in your eyes people of Africa

It is hard to describe what you people of Africa are going through

Poverty strikes you all people of Africa

Don’t cry for me Africa

Because I will keep you in my prayers people of Africa

Power to the people of Africa

People of Africa lift your spirit higher

Lord is the light and truth people of Africa

The Lord sends you a message from his heart to you people of Africa

He said because I love you

I will answer your prayers

I hear your prayers

Don’t cry for me Africa

Because you have a friend that is the Lord

People of Africa continue doing the Lords work

Make a wish people of Africa

The people of Africa are looking at the Lord face to face

Lord here is no paradise

We dream a little dream said the people of Africa to the Lord

The People of Africa Pray that the Lord will give each other strength every day

Don’t cry for me Africa

Save the people of Africa

Strengthened the people of Africa each day

Because I’ll be there in your dreams people of Africa

The people of Africa tells The Lord how much they love him

Don’t cry for me Africa

Lord comes when you are ready people of Africa

Feelings you have for your Lord People of Africa

And I know you will never let it die

Nothing but flowers the people of Africa will plant in the sea shore for the Lord

Don’t cry for me Africa

The people of Africa needs hope to heal there land

The Lord rose up on you people of Africa

Don’t cry for me Africa

My heart will go on

Once I close this door of the ship I will sail across the Atlantic Sea

-Aldo Kraas

Africa's Pain Is My Pain

Africa dear Africa
Your children are lonely and depressed

Africa dear Africa

Your children are at war with each other

Africa dear Africa

Your children are killing each other

Africa dear Africa

Your children are starving

Africa dear Africa

Your essence is pure but you are suffering

Africa dear Africa

Your pain is my pain

So i sit here crying.
-Ayanle Isak

DuSable Museum of African American History

http://www.dusablemuseum.org/

African American Museum of Dallas, Texas

http://www.aamdallas.org/

Charles H. Wright Museum of African American History

http://www.maah-detroit.org/

California African American Museum

http://www.caamuseum.org/

Museum for African Art

http://www.africanart.org/

National Museum of African Art

http://www.nmafa.si.edu/index2.html

Africa's 100 Best Books of the 20th Century

http://www.columbia.edu/cu/lweb/indiv/africa/cuvl/Afbks.html

"To mark the beginning of the 21st century, and encouraged by Professor Ali Mazrui, the Zimbabwe International Book Fair launched the international compilation of "Africa's 100 Best Books." This project was organized in collaboration with the African Publishers Network (APNET), the Pan-African Booksellers Association (PABA), African writers' associations, book development councils, and library associations."

"The Bluest Eye" by Toni Morrison

This is a novel about "Pecola Breedlove, a young black girl, [who] prays every day for beauty. Mocked by other children for the dark skin, curly hair, and brown eyes that set her apart, she yearns for normalcy, for the blond hair and blue eyes that she believes will allow her to finally fit in. Yet as her dream grows more fervent, her life slowly starts to disintegrate in the face of adversity and strife. A powerful examination of our obsession with beauty and conformity, Toni Morrison’s virtuosic first novel asks powerful questions about race, class, and gender with the subtlety and grace that have always characterized her writing."

Quoted from:

http://www.skylightbooks.com/book/9780307278449&usg=__EpMesLDbxwRoVoCil1fqsECrHUw=&h=400&w=259&sz=16&hl=en&start=60&sig2=7f1ns7NZ0Tgc1gxR6YLdYg&um=1&itbs=1&tbnid=KBFbB_ArBaOHnM:&tbnh=124&tbnw=80&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dthe%2Bbluest%2Beye%2Bby%2Btoni%2Bmorrison%26start%3D54%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26sa%3DN%26ndsp%3D18%26tbs%3Disch:1&ei=o_SgS8W6D4T7lweVxejMDA

Websites

Tips for traveling in Africa:
http://www.uiowa.edu/~africart/toc/history/giblinhistory.html
http://goafrica.about.com/od/africatraveltips/a/firsttime.htm
http://goafrica.about.com/od/specialinterest/a/womentips.htm
http://www.journeywoman.com/gfc/egypt.html
http://goafrica.about.com/od/healthandsafety/a/dangers.htm

Newspapers:
http://www.standardmedia.co.ke/
http://allafrica.com/
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/default.stm
http://www.africa-confidential.com/news

African people and culture:
http://www.africaguide.com/culture/artcraft.htm

African history:
http://www.uiowa.edu/~africart/toc/history/giblinhistory.html#top

50 best African artists:
http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/africa/art-of-africa-the-50-best-african-artists-426441.html

Pictures of African culture:
http://www.boston.com/bigpicture/2009/02/portraits_from_the_congo.html
http://www.boston.com/bigpicture/2008/06/faces_of_sudan.html
http://www.boston.com/bigpicture/africa/

"Homage to My Young Black Sisters"

Title: "Homage to My Young Black Sisters"

Artist: Elizabeth Catlett

Medium: Red cedar (sculpture)

"Swing Low Sweet Chariot"

Title: "Swing Low Sweet Chariot"

Artist: William H. Johnson

Medium: Oil on board

"The Ordeal of Alice"

This painting was done in 1963 by Jacob Lawrence, a U.S. painter from New Jersey. It is entitled "The Ordeal of Alice" and it tells the story of an Afican American girl during a modern American civil rights movement: school desegregation. The central figure, Alice, is on her way to an all-white school while being surrounded by several ghoulish, evil-looking figures who are meant to represent the several people, children and adults included, who opposed school desegregation. Alice is a wonderful representation of the couragous children who sought to attend all-white schools during the 1950's, '60s and '70s. This painting is often compared with the famous photograph of Elizabeth Eckford, which was taken as she tried to enter Little Rock's (formerly) all-white Central High School on September 4, 1957.

"Mursi Tribeswoman"

This photograph, taken by Jodi Cobb from National Geographic Magazine, shows a Mursi Tribeswoman. "Among the Mursi tribeswomen of Ethiopia's Omo Valley, lip plates are a source of pride and a sign of strength. When a girl is 15 or 16, her lower lip is cut and held open by a wooden plug. Over the next several months, progressively larger plugs are inserted to stretch the lip. Not all girls continue until they can wear plates of the size shown here."

Quoted from: http://travel.nationalgeographic.com/travel/countries/ethiopia-photos/#mursi-tribeswoman-ethiopia_32596_600x450.jpg

"Hamar Tribeswoman of Omo Valley"

This is a photograph taken by Remi Benali/Getty Images. It shows a Hamar Tribeswoman from Omo Valley in Ethiopia. "All Omo Valley tribes wear traditional attire and adornments, but the Hamar, like this woman, are by far the most elaborately turned out, often sporting multiple beaded necklaces, armfuls of metal bracelets, and elaborate, sculptured hairstyles."

Quoted from: http://travel.nationalgeographic.com/travel/countries/ethiopia-photos/#hamer-tribe-woman_32591_600x450.jpg

Critique #2

This painting was done by John Ndambo with oil on paper. Its subject matter includes two men by a fire, a taller man off to the side, and a hut in the background. This painting has a very African tribal vibe; it is very simplistic, and depicts men in a purely African setting.

This particular painting is very abstract; it’s hard to make out the details in anything in the painting, and it’s difficult to distinguish between the foreground and the background. Ndambo chose to put most of the emphasis on the smoke rather than the actual fire or the structure of the fire, making it one of the focal points of his artwork. The way the smoke is painted gives it some movement; it’s easy to tell that Ndambo was trying to depict an active fire. Another interesting aspect of this painting is the fact that the men’s bodies are very out of proportion. The man to the far left is extremely tall and thin, whereas the two men by the fire seem to be short and perhaps a little stout; however, the way I perceive the men could have something to do with the fact that the foreground and background are indistinguishable. Ndambo also chose to paint this scene with a lot of open space, and everything looks sort of 2-D. This takes away from the realism of the painting.

The focal points of this painting are the three men and the smoke of the fire. The men look disproportionate, but like they have a purpose. The fire looks active and the viewer can tell that the smoke is flowing through the air. This painting, as a whole, is slightly ineffective because it is hard to determine what the story of the picture is. It is effective in the sense that one can easily tell it is an African painting, done by an African artist.

Critique #1

This piece of artwork is appropriately entitled "Giraffe" and was painted by the African wildlife artist Daniel Njoroge. It is painted with acrylics on a canvas, with the subject matter of a grazing giraffe and the vivid sky. This particular painting is very peaceful and serene. It creates a very calming atmosphere.

Njoroge does a great job of balancing the giraffe and the sky; he makes them both stand out in the painting without clashing with one another. Njoroge also puts emphasis on the giraffe by separating it from the open air in the background. In the field, the viewer can see faint trees in the background. The way the sky and the grass blend together creates a lot of harmony. Njoroge chose to highlight the grass in the foreground to give the painting a little more color and contrast. This particular painting also has a lot of realism; the trees and the bushes in the background are shaded to make them look more realistic. The subtle detail of the grass and trees also adds to the visual quality of the painting. The sky has incredible texture, and the gracefulness of the giraffe and the color and hue of the sky are an allegory of peace. By juxtaposing the giraffe and the sky, the artist adds immense contrast and emphasis to both subjects.

The focal points of the picture are definitely the giraffe and the sky. The giraffe looks incredibly graceful and beautiful with its elongated neck and great posture. The sky, also beautiful, looks serene and pleasant due to its soft warm colors. This piece of artwork is undeniably very effective. The purpose, according to the artist, was to illustrate the "colors found in Samburu. Samburu is a very nice area when colors come into consideration.” “This is the reticulated giraffe," says Njoroge about his artwork, "a very special giraffe which is only found in Samburu. I am showing the peaceful, serene atmosphere where the giraffe is comfortable munching the thorns of the thorn trees. The reticulated giraffe is one of the most beautiful giraffes we can find in the world." He achieved his purpose beautifully by using vivid but soft colors and incredible detail; however, the piece could have been much more effective if it was closer to the animal or if it had some essence of sunlight.