Existing Without a Footnote

Existing Without a Footnote

There was a time when my identity did not arrive with an asterisk.

Growing up on the African continent, I moved through life unlabelled. Not because I lacked awareness, but because awareness did not need to be announced. My skin was not a conversation starter. My presence did not require justification. I was not introduced as an exception, a category, or a statement. I was simply a person, living, learning, becoming.

I carried that ease with me for a long time, unaware of how rare it was.

It wasn’t until I left that world that I noticed how often my existence needed framing. Suddenly, everything came with a descriptor. Art was no longer just art. Business was no longer just business. Creativity had to be contextualized. There was always a word placed before me, as though my work could not stand on its own without explanation.

What unsettles me is not the word itself. I do not reject it. I honor it. I recognize its history, its beauty, its resilience. What troubles me is the implication behind its constant use, that without the marker, I disappear.

This kind of labeling disguises itself as progress. Visibility, they say. Recognition. And yes, sometimes it is. But it also exposes a quieter truth: that the world still assumes a default, and everything outside of it must identify itself loudly just to be seen.

The exhaustion lives there.

It mirrors how women move through power structures. When men lead, they are leaders. When women lead, they are women leaders. The same work, different language. The same pattern repeats with race. The prefix does not only describe, it separates.

Even within Blackness, there are borders.

There is a narrow image that is often celebrated, and anything outside of it is questioned. Too soft. Too intellectual. Too reserved. Too different. Not fitting the performance people expect. You learn quickly that you are allowed to exist, but only if you do so correctly.

I have never been interested in performing survival.

Relocating to Japan made this reality impossible to ignore. In a place where difference is immediately visible, you feel yourself constantly translated—by others, for others. Your presence becomes educational. Your identity becomes public property. You find yourself explaining things you never had to name before.

It wears on you. Quietly. Daily.

And no, this is not a conversation about overt racism.

It is about the strangeness of living in a world that still celebrates “firsts” with disbelief. The first Black woman here. The first Black woman there. Each announcement both necessary and absurd. Necessary because representation changes lives. Absurd because it begs the question, how late are we in the story that this is still remarkable?

I hold both truths without contradiction.

I find relief in stories that refuse to make skin color the conflict. African storytelling has always understood this. From our television screens to our films, we see ourselves in abundance, complex, flawed, ambitious, tender. Not symbols. Not lessons. Just human.

That is how it should be.

The concept of race, as we understand it today, is not ancient wisdom. It is a relatively modern invention, sharpened by empire and economics, designed to rank and divide. Before that, difference was cultural, spiritual, linguistic. It was not weaponized biology.

Knowing this makes the present feel even heavier.

I am tired of living with an identity that must be announced before it is accepted. I do not want my creativity to need translation. I do not want my existence to require context. I want a world where Blackness does not have to knock before entering.

A world where it can simply arrive.

Where it can be joyful without resistance. Visible without explanation. Celebrated without being necessary for survival.

I may not live to see that world fully formed. But where I can, I will live as though it is possible. And sometimes, that is how change begins, not with noise, but with refusal.