TIA - Is this not My Africa?

 A personal reflection on walking Africa by land, air, and spirit — reclaiming the narrative from resignation to reverence.

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I was a bit hesitant to write about #TIA — “This is Africa.” It’s a phrase I heard often while traveling throughout Northern, Eastern, Western, and Southern Africa — sometimes whispered, other times spoken with a laugh or a sigh. But it never quite sat well with me.

Maybe because I didn’t grow up hearing Africa as a punchline.
I was born and raised in Ethiopia, in a family where our roots trace as far back as the Queen of Sheba. I went to an international school filled with over 69 nationalities, grew up reading about empires and resistance, and was constantly reminded that my country our country had never been colonized. I was raised on stories of dignity, spiritual legacy, and ancestral brilliance.

Later, I was educated and succeeded in the United States, one of the most developed nations in the world. But no matter where I went, Ethiopia Africa remained in me.

So when I started hearing #TIA used to excuse dysfunction, injustice, or even mediocrity whether by tourists or our own people  I felt something deep in me resist.

Not because I denied the realities I’ve seen them up close but because I’ve also seen something else.
Something more.

I’ve walked it. I’ve lived it.

I didn’t just fly through capitals.
I travelled overland, by bus, by train, by shared taxis, sometimes alone, sometimes with strangers who became soul family.

I’ve journeyed through over 15 African countries.

I’ve felt the contrast and color of her terrain — from the Saharan winds, to the lush green highlands, to the salt-stung breeze of the Atlantic, and the mystical red earth of my homeland.

In Morocco, I made my way from Tangier, standing at the doorway of Europe, through the ancient alleys of Marrakech, and westward to Essaouira, where the Mediterranean kisses the Atlantic, and the rhythm of Gnawa music echoed in my chest. I tasted centuries of trade, resistance, and beauty in that breeze.

I’ve walked through lands of silence and song. Of sorrow and spirit. And I’ve carried all of it in my bones.

But still, I was asked  "Don’t you know, Sofi? TIA."

I’ll never forget the time a young Australian tour guide 24, maybe spoke down to a 50-something Kenyan cook who had worked faithfully for over a decade. The cook just laughed and said to me,
“Don’t you know, Sofi? This is Africa.”

I was stunned. Not by her ignorance that’s expected.
But by his resignation.

Where was the pride?
Where was the fire I grew up seeing in my aunts who never waited for permission, in my father who taught me to serve with humility, in my grandmother who fought barefoot in the mountains, refusing to let invaders claim her land?

My uncle, now over 90 years old, still walks three hours a day. No medication. Sharp mind. Born in eastern Ethiopia, served the imperial guard, planted Teff along the borders to resist colonial encroachment. He carries four generations of memory in his body. He is the Africa I know.

Let me be clear. I am not in denial.

I am not denying the trauma, the pain, the desperation, the theft, the broken systems, or the “survival of the fittest” ideology that made me feel unwell even as an African woman in my own continent.

Nor am I trapped in guilt, shame, defense, or fear especially not toward my forefathers and foremothers who gave me the wisdom, the blessing, and the sacred responsibility to do better when I know better.

I know what it feels like to be betrayed by your own, To have family, tour guides, staff, officials, or friends steal your jewelry, your money, your ideas, your assets…
To be attacked not because you did wrong, but because you dared to rise.
Because you chose to build something sacred — Deldeyoch and walk a spiritual battlefield against all odds.

But I still believe.
Because it takes a village. And sometimes that village is both your greatest support — and your fiercest trial.

So no, I cannot accept #TIA the way it’s used.

Because what they mean when they say it — that fatalistic shrug, that laugh that makes pain funny, that lie that says we cannot do better — that is not the Africa I know.

Africa is not lazy.
Africa is not hopeless.
Africa is not a joke.

Africa is:

• The cradle of mankind
• The heartbeat of the world’s music and movement
• The womb of spirituality, story, and soul
• The source of minerals, labor, art, language, rhythm
• The nurturer of over a billion people, with youth holding the future in their palms

Yes, we have contradictions.
Yes, we have wounds.
But we also have legacy.
We have land.
We have lineage.

And I carry that lineage with pride — not arrogance — but sacred responsibility.

This too is my Africa.

My patience.
My strength.
My fire and my softness.
My love and my discernment.
My willingness to forgive.
My refusal to forget.
My ability to transform.

So if you're African — or if Africa lives in your spirit — I ask you to reflect.

Reimagine your own reflection.
Speak the truth of what you see in the mirror.
Don't just say #TIA — redefine it.

Because yes,
This Too Is Africa.
And we are her voice.

By Dutchess@deldeyoch