An open letter to the motherland from your scattered children who somehow feel guilty about everything.

Dear Africa,

It’s us—your diaspora. The kids who moved out, send money home, and still feel awkward showing up for dinner. We need to talk.

I’m writing this from my apartment in Brooklyn/London/Toronto/[insert gentrified neighborhood here], surrounded by kente cloth wall hangings I ordered from Etsy and a stack of half-read pan-Africanist books glaring at me like disappointed ancestors. The guilt? It’s thicker than egusi soup—cuttable only with a sustainably sourced machete handcrafted by local artisans (because, of course).

The Guilt Inventory

Diaspora guilt is not a single emotion. It’s a psychological conglomerate, complete with departments, sub-committees, and daily reports.

The Geographic Guilt Department:
We feel bad for living in places where the lights stay on—while you deal with load-shedding, floods, and fuel hikes. We complain when the WiFi slows down during Zoom meetings, even as you’re facing actual climate disaster fallout. The dissonance is deafening—drowned only by our curated Afrobeats playlists blasting through vintage record players.

The Cultural Authenticity Division:
We’re too African for our adopted countries, yet not African enough when we return home. We sprinkle Yoruba and Shona phrases into oat milk latte orders like seasoning, and we’ve become so fluent in code-switching we sometimes forget which code we started with. It’s a linguistic tightrope walk between fluency and fraudulence.

The Economic Privilege Bureau:
We’re wiring remittances while shopping at Whole Foods. We crowdfund for boreholes and scholarships back home while still complaining about student loans and gentrification. We straddle two economies, feeling both wealthy and broke—an algebraic paradox with no real solution.

The Identity Mathematics

Here’s the impossible math we’re doing every day:
Too African and not African enough.
Culturally fluent and culturally lost.
Hyper-informed about Africa’s politics and hesitant to speak on them at the family gathering.
We can dissect the nuances of neocolonialism but freeze when someone asks us to make jollof without a recipe.

We are trying to solve for x in an equation where x is always shifting—and somehow, the solution never feels correct.

The Guilt Spiral Olympics

Diaspora guilt is competitive. Welcome to the Olympics of over-identification.

“I haven’t been home in three years,” one friend says.
“Three years? I’ve only been twice in my life.”
“At least you know your tribe,” another chimes in. “My adoption records are a PDF and a prayer.”

It’s a trauma-off, laced with privilege and shame. We’re embarrassed by our detachment and embarrassed by our embarrassment. It’s guilt wrapped in guilt, dipped in avocado hummus, served at a potluck for cultural overthinkers.

The Return Anxiety

Let’s talk about the elephant in the WhatsApp group chat: returning home.

We long for it. We fear it. We romanticize it like an old flame we weren’t emotionally mature enough to date. We imagine drumming circles and aunties who remember our names—but deep down, we’re scared we won’t fit in. That Africa might not recognize us. Or worse: might not be impressed.

We’ve spent years explaining Africa to non-Africans. But when we return, we struggle to simply exist—without narrating, without overperforming, without turning a visit into a content strategy.

The Outsider-Insider Paradox

We are walking paradoxes. We’re cultural ambassadors who feel like imposters. We defend Africa with thesis-level fervor in classrooms and boardrooms, yet worry we’re not qualified to do so.

We are Wikipedia pages in human form—informative but occasionally devoid of soul. We know your GDPs. We’ve read Ngũgĩ, Achebe, Dangarembga. But we still have to ask our moms how to cook okra soup without turning it into glue.

The Contribution Confusion

We want to give back. But how?

We support artisans online, donate to foundations, volunteer, hashtag, organize, fundraise. Still, we ask: is this useful? Or are we performing our usefulness?

We criticize white saviorism, but we, too, sometimes save in ways that center our guilt more than your needs. We’re fluent in allyship, but unsure of when to lead and when to sit down.

The Communication Gap

We talk about you like you’re a beautiful relic, a museum exhibit in need of preservation. We post about you like proud parents with a Pinterest account. But you’re not frozen in amber. You are evolving—often without us.

Our love can be loud. But sometimes it becomes a monologue instead of a conversation. And that’s not love—that’s a branding exercise.

The Solution That Isn’t Simple

Therapy has taught us (yes, we’re all in therapy—it’s part of the diaspora starter pack) that this guilt isn’t about you, Africa. It’s about our fragmented selves, our split identities, our attempt to honor multiple homes without tearing ourselves in two.

Diaspora identity isn’t a diluted version of African identity. It’s not bootleg. It’s a remix—a legitimate evolution with its own instruments and harmonies.

We’re not less African because we pay rent in pounds or dollars. We’re not imposters because we need Duolingo to understand our grandparents. We’re not culture thieves because we mix tradition with personal flair.

The Plot Twist

While we’re over here writing essays about belonging, you’re busy doing the work—building cities, launching satellites, redefining creativity, pushing boundaries. You’re living, breathing, innovating.

Maybe you don’t have time to obsess over whether we’ve earned our seat at the table. Maybe you’re already setting more chairs.

And that’s the thing about home—it’s big enough to hold contradictions.

The Love Letter Conclusion

So here’s what we want you to know:
We love you.
Not just the filtered version we post for likes. Not just the version we defend in debates. We love your fullness—messy, magical, maddening. We love your traditions and your TikToks, your past and your possibilities.

We’re learning to turn guilt into gratitude. Anxiety into action. Confusion into creation. We’re learning that home isn’t always a location—it can also be a legacy.

We’re your children, even when we’re clumsy. Even when we forget the words. Even when we love you awkwardly.

You don’t owe us forgiveness for our absence. And we don’t need to pass a test to belong.

We’re here. Complicated. Devoted. Diaspora.

With all our unfiltered love,
Your Diaspora

P.S. We’re still sending money home and complaining about the exchange rates. Some things never change.

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Are you part of the diaspora? How do you navigate the guilt, love, and longing? Share your story in the comments—or pass this love letter to someone who needs to read it.