As a young man—at least I consider myself to be—I’ve been fortunate enough to gain a wealth of experience and opportunities, mostly in the development field. One of these opportunities came in the form of a fully funded scholarship, which allowed me to travel from my native country of Lesotho to study International Development in Washington, DC—the global hub of diplomacy, foreign affairs, and politics.

I must admit, at first, I was blissfully unaware of my own naiveté. The language used around me, and my experience as a Black man from Africa—one who was open and highly expressive of his own experiences—did little to prepare me for the raw and, at times, shocking realities I would face daily in America.

This was more than just culture shock; it was an overall shock to my system. The realities I had envisioned before this journey were far from what I would personally encounter. For example, I knew beforehand that I would have to protect my identity, but I had no idea to what extent.

I was a Black man from Africa in a predominantly white space of diplomacy and development. Here, I want to balance the narrative—not to overshadow the vast amount of knowledge and rich experiences I’ve been blessed with—but as with every blessing, there is always the other side.

My identity—specifically, my Africanness—often felt like it was on trial, usually without enough context to inform others. Whether I was in a lecture room or at the gym, just trying to get along and blend in, I frequently found myself defending the continent of my birth.

In one instance, during a lecture on global economics, our professor casually mentioned that Africa was not developing due to historically high levels of corruption. I took offense—not just at the words, but at how quickly the class moved on, without even giving us, as Africans, a chance at redemption or an academic investigation into the complexities of the issue.

Africa is a vast continent, my friend. I asked myself: was the professor painting all 54 countries with the same brush? The statement was delivered matter-of-factly, as though it were an undeniable truth: roses are red, the sky is blue, and corruption will forever plague you.

This was the core of my problem. From the very first class, I felt isolated. I was from Africa, and although no one said it directly, many people had little to no knowledge or genuine interest in my region, apart from listening to Amapiano or dancing to the latest moves from the continent. So, it wasn’t surprising when a colleague asked me if we had electricity.

Breaking down the walls of ignorance during my time in America became a heavy cross to bear. I found myself constantly informing, educating, and providing context about where I was from, yet I was still viewed as the “resident African” in the room.

This made me uncomfortable. My experiences were mine—they did not represent the entire continent. From these encounters, I began to realize that, even in academia, Africa is often perceived as a monolith—a continent viewed through the narrow lens of the "White Man’s Burden."

Our history is only seen as relevant when told through the eyes and pens of white saviors. Is it any wonder, then, that genocides in the Congo, wars in Libya, and conflicts in Sudan are labeled as "silent wars" or "secret genocides"? The tragedies of our people rarely get the spotlight they deserve.