A Question of Color: The Curious Case of Being Black in Africa and Beyond

If there’s one thing that becomes immediately clear about the term "Black," it’s that it is as elastic as a well-worn pair of socks, stretching to fit a range of contexts and shrinking under scrutiny. In Africa, a continent of 54 countries, over a thousand languages, and a mosaic of cultures, the term "Black" doesn’t just come with one-size-fits-all packaging. No, no—within Africa, "Black" can mean so many different things that you might need a flowchart to keep up.

Let's start with the basics: skin color. In a continent where melanin is generally more generously bestowed by nature, you’d think the definition of "Black" would be straightforward. But this is Africa, after all, where straightforward is a word used sparingly. For example, in North Africa—think Morocco, Algeria, Egypt—you find people who are typically described as “Arab” or “Berber.” The Berber come in many different skin tones from white to black. In these parts, the label "Black" is often reserved for those who look like they might have roots further south, like from sub-Saharan Africa. Yet even here, the definition shifts like Saharan sands: a Tuareg or Nubian, dark-skinned but not quite "Black" in the traditional Western sense, may identify as African but be described in local terms that bear no relation to "Blackness."

Travel down to South Africa, and you hit another delightful conundrum. Here, "Black" doesn’t just mean skin color; it’s also about ethnicity, history, and, yes, politics. Under apartheid, South Africans were neatly divided into "Black," "White," "Coloured," and "Indian" categories. A "Black" person was someone of African descent, but what of those mixed with European or Asian heritage? The "Coloured" people—descendants of mixed race unions, including indigenous Khoisan, enslaved Africans, Europeans, and Asians—were often too Black to be White, but not quite Black enough to be Black. Yet, the Khoisan are the oldest continuous inhabitants of Africa, but due to ignorance and skin tones, some South Africans don’t call themselves “Black. Confused yet? I certainly am

Move into East Africa, and "Black" becomes even more interesting. In Kenya or Tanzania, a Kikuyu, Maasai, or Luo person would be considered "Black," but not all Black Africans are perceived the same way. The Somalis, with their distinct features, might be seen as somewhat apart from their neighbors either by foreigners or due to dynastic theory while incorrectly classified Ethiopians, Eritreans and Somalis as Caucasian, even though they are from the continent. Meanwhile, among the Somali themselves, clan distinctions might be more significant than any overarching label of "Black."

Now, let’s take the term "Black" on a field trip outside Africa and brace ourselves for a new set of complications. In America, "Black" is both a social and political identity, shaped by a specific history of slavery, segregation, and civil rights struggles. It generally refers to anyone with African ancestry, regardless of how distant or mixed. A South African Zulu, a Nigerian Yoruba, and an Ethiopian Amhara would all be "Black" in America—united by the broad brush of race. But a North African Moroccan or an Egyptian? That’s more ambiguous; sometimes they're Black, sometimes they're Middle Eastern, and sometimes they're just "other."

Cross over to Europe, and the word "Black" begins another round of identity gymnastics. In the UK, "Black" has evolved into a more inclusive political term that might encompass all people of color. So, while someone from Jamaica and someone from Ghana might both be “Black,” in practice, they might experience a different sort of "Blackness." A Ghanaian may fill out either Black British or African British on a form, a Jamaican may fill out Black British, while the child of a Jamaican mother and Ghanian father gets to pick Black or African. Add to the mix people of Asian descent from the Caribbean or Africa, and you begin to see how wonderfully perplexing this gets.

Let's head to Brazil for the final layer of this rainbow-colored cake. In Brazil, "Black" is a category that can change as fast as you can say “samba.” Brazil's "Black" spectrum includes terms like "preto" (Black), "pardo" (mixed race), "moreno" (tan or brown), and even "branco" (white), depending on one’s skin tone, socioeconomic status, and hairstyle on any given Tuesday. Here, "Blackness" is like a chameleon, constantly adapting to fit the social context.

All of this brings us back to Africa, where the concept of "Black" is often far less important than the intricate, varied identities that people claim for themselves—identities based on language, ethnicity, culture, religion, or even the village from which your grandmother hailed. In Africa, to be "Black" might matter less than to be Yoruba, Xhosa, Fulani, or Tigrinya.

So, what does it mean to be "Black"? It seems to depend on where you are standing, who you ask, and perhaps most importantly, who is doing the asking. A fascinating contradiction indeed, and one that reminds us that the labels we use so easily in conversation carry histories and complexities that stretch well beyond their simple definitions. One thing is clear: there is no one way to be "Black," and perhaps that’s the most wonderfully bewildering part of all.