Were you to ask any of these beautiful, brown-skinned people that basic question – ‘where are you from?’ – you’d get no single answer from a single smiling dancer. This one lives in London but was raised in Toronto and born in Accra; that one works in Lagos but grew up in Houston, Texas. ‘Home’ for this lot is many things: where their parents are from; where they go for vacation; where they went to school; where they see old friends; where they live (or live this year). Like so many African young people working and living in cities around the globe, they belong to no single geography, but feel at home in many.

They (read: we) are Afropolitans – the newest generation of African emigrants, coming soon or collected already at a law firm/chem lab/jazz lounge near you. You’ll know us by our funny blend of London fashion, New York jargon, African ethics, and academic successes. Some of us are ethnic mixes, e.g. Ghanaian and Canadian, Nigerian and Swiss; others merely cultural mutts: American accent, European affect, African ethos. Most of us are multilingual: in addition to English and a Romantic or two, we understand some indigenous tongue and speak a few urban vernaculars. There is at least one place on The African Continent to which we tie our sense of self: be it a nation-state (Ethiopia), a city (Ibadan), or an auntie’s kitchen. Then there’s the G8 city or two (or three) that we know like the backs of our hands, and the various institutions that know us for our famed focus. We are Afropolitans: not citizens, but Africans of the world.

It isn’t hard to trace our genealogy. Starting in the 60’s, the young, gifted and broke left Africa in pursuit of higher education and happiness abroad. A study conducted in 1999 estimated that between 1960 and 1975 around 27,000 highly skilled Africans left the Continent for the West. Between 1975 and 1984, the number shot to 40,000 and then doubled again by 1987, representing about 30% of Africa’s highly skilled manpower. Unsurprisingly, the most popular destinations for these emigrants included Canada, Britain, and the United States; but Cold War politics produced unlikely scholarship opportunities in Eastern Bloc countries like Poland, as well.

Some three decades later this scattered tribe of pharmacists, physicists, physicians (and the odd polygamist) has set up camp around the globe. The caricatures are familiar. The Nigerian physics professor with faux-Coogi sweater; the Kenyan marathonist with long legs and rolled r’s; the heavyset Gambian braiding hair in a house that smells of burnt Kanekalon. Even those unacquainted with synthetic extensions can conjure an image of the African immigrant with only the slightest of pop culture promptings: Eddie Murphy’s ‘Hello, Babar.’ But somewhere between the 1988 release of Coming to America and the 2001 crowning of a Nigerian Miss World, the general image of young Africans in the West transmorphed from goofy to gorgeous. Leaving off the painful question of cultural condescenscion in that beloved film, one wonders what happened in the years between Prince Akeem and Queen Agbani?

One answer is: adolescence. The Africans that left Africa between 1960 and 1975 had children, and most overseas. Some of us were bred on African shores then shipped to the West for higher education; others born in much colder climates and sent home for cultural re-indoctrination. Either way, we spent the 80’s chasing after accolades, eating fufu at family parties, and listening to adults argue politics. By the turn of the century (the recent one), we were matching our parents in number of degrees, and/or achieving things our ‘people’ in the grand sense only dreamed of. This new demographic – dispersed across Brixton, Bethesda, Boston, Berlin – has come of age in the 21st century, redefining what it means to be African. Where our parents sought safety in traditional professions like doctoring, lawyering, banking, engineering, we are branching into fields like media, politics, music, venture capital, design. Nor are we shy about expressing our African influences (such as they are) in our work. Artists such as Keziah Jones, Trace founder and editor Claude Gruzintsky, architect David Adjaye, novelist Chimamanda Achidie – all exemplify what Gruzintsky calls the ‘21st century African.’

What distinguishes this lot and its like (in the West and at home) is a willingness to complicate Africa – namely, to engage with, critique, and celebrate the parts of Africa that mean most to them. Perhaps what most typifies the Afropolitan consciousness is the refusal to oversimplify; the effort to understand what is ailing in Africa alongside the desire to honor what is wonderful, unique. Rather than essentialising the geographical entity, we seek to comprehend the cultural complexity; to honor the intellectual and spiritual legacy; and to sustain our parents’ cultures.

For us, being African must mean something. The media’s portrayals (war, hunger) won’t do. Neither will the New World trope of bumbling, blue-black doctor. Most of us grew up aware of ‘being from’ a blighted place, of having last names from to countries which are linked to lack, corruption. Few of us escaped those nasty ‘booty-scratcher’ epithets, and fewer still that sense of shame when visting paternal villages. Whether we were ashamed of ourselves for not knowing more about our parents’ culture, or ashamed of that culture for not being more ‘advanced’ can be unclear. What is manifest is the extent to which the modern adolescent African is tasked to forge a sense of self from wildly disparate sources. You’d never know it looking at those dapper lawyers in global firms, but most were once supremely self-conscious of being so ‘in between’. Brown-skinned without a bedrock sense of ‘blackness,’ on the one hand; and often teased by African family members for ‘acting white’ on the other – the baby-Afropolitan can get what I call ‘lost in transnation’.

Ultimately, the Afropolitan must form an identity along at least three dimensions: national, racial, cultural – with subtle tensions in between. While our parents can claim one country as home, we must define our relationship to the places we live; how British or American we are (or act) is in part a matter of affect. Often unconsciously, and over time, we choose which bits of a national identity (from passport to pronunciation) we internalize as central to our personalities. So, too, the way we see our race – whether black or biracial or none of the above – is a question of politics, rather than pigment; not all of us claim to be black. Often this relates to the way we were raised, whether proximate to other brown people (e.g. black Americans) or removed. Finally, how we conceive of race will accord with where we locate ourselves in the history that produced ‘blackness’ and the political processes that continue to shape it.

Then there is that deep abyss of Culture, ill-defined at best. One must decide what comprises ‘African culture’ beyond pepper soup and filial piety. The project can be utterly baffling – whether one lives in an African country or not. But the process is enriching, in that it expands one’s basic perspective on nation and selfhood. If nothing else, the Afropolitan knows that nothing is neatly black or white; that to ‘be’ anything is a matter of being sure of who you are uniquely. To ‘be’ Nigerian is to belong to a passionate nation; to be Yoruba, to be heir to a spiritual depth; to be American, to ascribe to a cultural breadth; to be British, to pass customs quickly. That is, this is what it means for me – and that is the Afropolitan privilege. The acceptance of complexity common to most African cultures is not lost on her prodigals. Without that intrinsically multi-dimensional thinking, we could not make sense of ourselves.

And if it all sounds a little self-congratulatory, a little ‘aren’t-we-the-coolest-damn-people-on-earth?’ – I say: yes it is, necessarily. It is high time the African stood up. There is nothing perfect in this formulation; for all our Adjayes and Achidies, there is a brain drain back home. Most Afropolitans could serve Africa better in Africa than at Medicine Bar on Thursdays. To be fair, a fair number of African professionals are returning; and there is consciousness among the ones who remain, an acute awareness among this brood of too-cool-for-schools that there’s work to be done. There are those among us who wonder to the point of weeping: where next, Africa? When will the scattered tribes return? When will the talent repatriate? What lifestyles await young professionals at home? How to invest in Africa’s future? The prospects can seem grim at times. The answers aren’t forthcoming. But if there was ever a group who could figure it out, it is this one, unafraid of the questions.

His biography lists the greatest hits: educated at Kingsbury High School then LSE; freelancing for three years before becoming Assistant Editor of The Face, then editing Arena; currently writing for The Observer, The Sunday Times and Sleaze; will publish his first book, Black Gold of the Sun, in March 2005. But biographies leave so much to the imagination: how did Ekow get into writing? How do aspiring writers get into journalism? How did Ekow ascend so quickly? What’s the view like from the top?

The LIP: Why did you go into journalism?
Ekow Eshun: Before I ever started writing for anyone, I’d read loads of magazines, loads of newspapers, watched TV. And I’d get quite vexed because it seemed to me there weren’t any voices like mine represented. For a start, there weren’t many black people involved in magazines and TV, and also there wasn’t me involved. In a pretty egotistic way, I thought I’d rather be writing than having someone else taking up the same space, than having someone else writing about the things I was interested in. So one of my first incentives, really, was just to have me instead of someone else occupying the space. And I think that’s ok.

The LIP: How did you get into journalism?
EE: The first story I ever did was on Kickers shoes. I noticed a section in The Face called ‘Intro,’ which had only little pieces. This was pre-email, so I sent my story to the section editor, who liked it. I talked to her on the phone about the best way to get a gig and went from there. I freelanced for three years, starting at The Face as a staff writer then moving onto Assistant Editor. The Face and Arena were owned by the same company, so I literally went from one office to the other.

The LIP: Most immigrant parents (like mine) want their children to become doctors or lawyers. How did your parents react when you said you wanted to write?
EE: (laughing) It’s always been quite hazy. After I went to university, I didn’t do a law degree; I read history at LSE and they were quite happy with that. They were slightly concerned when I said I wanted to write but they pretty much left me to myself.

The LIP: What do you think about the common claim that black writers should write about ‘black’ issues?
EE: I think it’s absurd. No writer should be bound by his own experience; each is entitled to freedom of expression in the full sense of both words. At the same time, not being bound by experience does not mean being blind to experience, and that’s the crucial distinction. I think the deeper you get into your own sense of identity, the more nuanced, the more complex it becomes.

The LIP: What advice would you give to an aspiring journalist, black or otherwise?
EE: Five things come to mind. (1) Tell a story, (2) Secure your reader’s imagination, (3) Read, (4) Cultivate your obsessions; (5) The Truth hurts.

The LIP: What do you mean by that?
EE: Joan Didion’s written an excellent book called Slouching Toward Bethlehem. In it she says: ‘A writer is always selling someone out.’ I think she’s right. As a journalist, you’re involved in this business of truth and lies, really. Stories aren’t the truth – if you want, they’re lies; they’re fiction. But at the same time successful stories have a kernel of truth to them, even if they’re completely made up. The resonance they have is an emotional honesty.

The LIP: Can you give an example?
EE: Some years ago I went to Minneapolis to interview Prince at Paisley Park. We sat down and kind of talked for 40 minutes and it was all good. It was only afterwards that I realized or I came to realize that I couldn’t actually trust a single word he’d said.

What had happened was that Prince and his wife had just had a baby the same week I interviewed him. During the interview, he didn’t talk about the baby at all, but about how he was having the best time of his life. That same week Prince’s baby was dying of a rare condition, and had died by the time I got back to London. He didn’t mention anything about it.

In a way, that was his prerogative. But at the same time it struck me as weird. On the one hand, his baby is dying and on the other, he claims he’s having the time of his life. Those things didn’t fit together, and the whole thing felt false. So, what I wrote about was my own feelings about that strange contradiction. Whoever Prince was, whoever Prince is, I hadn’t really quite seen him then. I ended up with possibly the sense of selling someone out but also an honesty in terms of writing. That’s all you can do as a writer. That’s all you can aim for.

Ekow Eshun’s Black Gold of the Sun will be published by Penguin in March 2005