What struck me was this: She had felt sorry for me even before she saw me.
Her default position toward me, as an African, was a kind of patronizing, well-meaning pity.
My roommate had a single story of Africa: a single story of catastrophe.
In this single story, there was no possibility of Africans being similar to her in any way, no possibility of feelings more complex than pity, no possibility of a connection as human equals.
I must say that before I went to the U.S., I didn't consciously identify as African.
But in the U.S., whenever Africa came up, people turned to me.
Never mind that I knew nothing about places like Namibia.
But I did come to embrace this new identity, and in many ways I think of myself now as African.
Although I still get quite irritable when Africa is referred to as a country, the most recent example being my otherwise wonderful flight from Lagos two days ago, in which there was an announcement on the Virgin flight about the charity work in "India, Africa and other countries."
So, after I had spent some years in the U.S. as an African, I began to understand my roommate's response to me.