How does one begin to talk about the transition into a foreign country, such as Europe, without being angry and defensive?

You don't. You begin angry, because anger is not the enemy of reason—it is the residue of accumulated deaths of dignity. So, I will not apologise for the tone before you have even heard the argument.

Does one begin with the insurmountable task of applying for a visa? The pride-swallowing exercise of proving your worth with bank statements, notarised letters, and employment contracts and the quiet terror that a single missing stamp means a year of your life erased? Yes. But no. It will always be personal. And that very personalness may alienate those sensitive to diverse reasons.

But someone that looks like me may end up sitting next to you on a train. Or find themselves in the same classroom in a PhD programme with you. You may ask questions about merit and such. But if we are in Europe, the known fact, besides the assumption, is that we are supposed to locate an equal platform.

We are not on one.

There comes the gnawing factor: you have preconceived ideas about what you have previously seen. How impossible it has been for Africans to assume the same seat that you have deemed rightfully yours for years. I say 'we', and by saying 'we', I never claim to speak for the diverse cultures and hues of Africans but perhaps generally for people from the so-called Third World. We know for a fact that any space belongs to us, because we have the right to be there. We compete against the world on a right to belong in science, philosophy, education, politics, art and any space that assumes those who do not look like us rightfully deserve it.

I, as well as those who look like me, carry the burden of having to prove our legitimacy in foreign lands, specifically in Europe. I will acknowledge my Asian and Latin American brothers; they too face systems of migration that burden them economically. But Europe is a special case for this mere fellow from Africa. Akona.

You may ask, 'Why is there a need for me to prove my legitimacy to Europeans?'

I fear the answer lies in the simplistic view that Europeans have of peoples that come from the south. Especially those of a darker hue. I am not interested in the asymmetrical mechanics of how we get to European lands. I am interested in precisely how we are received and perceived.

For the sake of being reductive: some of us, perhaps most, did not traverse treacherous waters via boats. We sympathise with our brothers who did. Some of us come from lands of plenty, with cultures and interiorities that will perhaps die for the sake of survival and for finding lands that promise a future for our families.

We arrive on lands that want us to conform and adapt, without ever asking what that culture must adapt to. We are judged on the basis of the shoes we wear because they determine our social state against unpoliticised locals who look at Akona and decide his position. I am usually shielded from these indignities because I wear loafers and Doc Martens. The same cannot be said for a sneaker-wearing African or Eastern brother who works in a factory or cycles with parcels for a living.

I am crumbling from the weight of expectation that befalls one from what is considered a third world. One absolutely has to be perfect at all times. One has to raise oneself to an exceptional level just to be considered good enough. I feel like I have no room to make mistakes, to have indecisions, because those may be seen as a struggle to adapt to the rigours of European existence and Western machinations.

The measure I am judged against is different from the measure applied to others. They somehow expect me to fulfil the stereotypes that have been created for people that look like me. Any mistake I make seems to solidify how right they were.

At all times, you must be easily adaptable. Expected to magically integrate into European society without complaint or struggle.

How can I, when Europe looks at me as being privileged to set foot here, considering that I come from a continent that, in the European imagination, has refused the call to enter history? A continent of decay, famine, and loose laws and morals.

Simply put, I must be magical. And grateful.

So, what do I do?

I carve a harsh, tough exterior as an impenetrable shield. I become that magical negro—exceptional and grateful to be here. I suppress my politics for those who refuse to understand and are disinterested in the complexity of who I am and where I come from.

I sit on the perpetually late trains. I stay locked in and read. I write this article.

But I refuse to be grateful for basic dignity. I name the burden without apologising for it. And I leave the door open, but not for European understanding but for solidarity with others who carry similar weight.

Some of us will die for the sake of finding lands that promise a future. But do not mistake our survival for submission.

We are not here to be magical.