We lived off the land. Cassava and rice grew in great abundance. We also ate eggplant, okra, tomatoes, chickpeas, plantain, and always fufu or kenkey or garri. Our main dishes were groundnut stew, jollof rice, smoked fish and onions, yassa, maafe, and sometimes bushmeat. We didn’t know what particular animal this was. Elders teased us about it being wild boar or rat. We tried to avoid it, yet occasionally hunger would not be denied. For breakfast, we ate a type of rice porridge or kooko, but often we simply ate what was left from the previous evening. We seasoned with peppers of every kind, onions, cumin, garlic, coconut oil, black pepper, salt, cinnamon, cloves, and thyme. A master cook was praised and highly sought after among our people. She would have many suitors, and her bride price would be exorbitant. Still, young men fought for her hand, convinced that life with such a woman would be glorious. And it usually was—if for the belly alone.

We were people of the same land, but we were not identical. Indeed, we were every shade conceivable. Some bore the color of the black leopard. Some, the rusty brown of the earth. Some glimmered golden like grains of sand. Some shared the dull gray of tree bark. Some appeared reddish, as if hewn from rocks and stones of the hills. Our bodies reflected our environment. The hair of those from Gabon twisted and coiled like the viper. From every region of land, we braided and decorated our hair, then strutted through our villages, showing off proud crowns. From our ears hung rings that whistled in the wind. In our broad noses we placed artifacts of wood and iron that reminded us of the bounty of our land. In ceremony, we painted high cheekbones, protruding lips, and bulbous eyes that emphasized our value for spiritual sight and levels of knowing. We all adorned ourselves, to one degree or another, because we loved ourselves.

We believed in one God. We believed in lesser gods. We believed we looked like our gods. We believed they lived among us, whispering secrets into our hearts and minds. We believed that life was everlasting. That our souls were ancient. That there was no beginning, no ending. Only change and growth. That all life was connected: animals, trees, water, earth. Everything had energy. We studied these elements in search of ourselves.

We sat in the center of the village, beneath the starry sky, listening to elders boast of our heroes. Warriors who fought thirty men by themselves and came home victorious. Hunters who, with knives and bows, captured enough meat to feed a thousand. Fishermen who returned from the waters with enough fish to feed the entire village. Farmers whose harvest could’ve fed the world. The stories made us proud. The uninitiated longed to serve and be celebrated in this way. As sleep came on, we returned home and rested until the rooster crowed, beckoning us into a new day.

Our days were filled with work. Carving drums from the baobab tree. Smelting iron, copper, and gold for jewelry and ornamentation. Weaving cloth, strand by precious strand, until bolts of brilliant, multicolored material lay ready for use. Cleaning homes and animal pens. Herding goats, cows, and lambs. Washing clothes in nearby streams. Transporting water from rivers and lakes. Weeding and tending gardens for sustenance and market. Gathering wood and trees for building and cooking. Rearing children and comforting the old. Work was the price we paid for our breath. The lazy were shunned and reprimanded.