Unqualified for Black Hospitality
For centuries, the African continent and much of the Global South bore the weight of European colonialism and the transatlantic slave trade—systems of exploitation that left deep scars on landscapes, cultures, and peoples. Millions were enslaved, countless lives were lost, and entire societies were reshaped by violence, theft, and dehumanization. Today, a peculiar irony unfolds: white travelers, often descendants of those who benefited from or participated in these atrocities, are welcomed with open arms in the very lands their ancestors once plundered. This hospitality, extended by the scions of the oppressed, raises profound questions about memory, morality, and the qualifications of those who return to the scene of their forebears’ crimes.
The historical context is inescapable. From the 15th to the 19th centuries, European powers carved up Africa, extracting its resources and enslaving its people. The transatlantic slave trade forcibly removed over 12 million Africans, subjecting them to unimaginable horrors. Colonialism followed, with European nations imposing borders, extracting wealth, and dismantling indigenous systems of governance. The legacies of these systems—economic inequality, political instability, and cultural erasure—persist to this day. Yet, in modern times, white tourists and expatriates flock to African nations and other formerly colonized regions, seeking adventure, cultural immersion, or simply a warm climate. They are often met with smiles, guided tours, and gracious service from the descendants of those their ancestors oppressed.
This dynamic is laden with irony. A white traveler sipping coffee at a lodge in Kenya, served by a local whose great-grandparents may have been displaced by British settlers, embodies a historical reversal that defies easy reconciliation. The act of receiving hospitality—being fed, guided, or cared for—can feel like an unearned privilege when viewed through the lens of history. What qualifications, moral or otherwise, do such travelers have to accept this generosity? The question is not about individual guilt but about collective memory: how can one comfortably enjoy the fruits of a land whose people were once deemed property by one’s ancestors?
Hospitality in African cultures is often rooted in values of community, respect, and human dignity—values that survived the brutality of colonialism. In many African societies, welcoming a stranger is a sacred act, a demonstration of humanity that transcends past wrongs and injustices. Yet, for the white traveler, this hospitality can feel like an uncomfortable mirror, reflecting the crimes of history at them. To be served by someone whose ancestors were enslaved or colonized by people who looked like you is to confront an implicit question: What right do I have to this kindness? The answer is not straightforward. No individual today is directly responsible for the sins of their ancestors, yet the privileges of whiteness—access to wealth, mobility, and safety—often stem from those historical injustices.
Reparations, Not Tourism
If white people truly wish to engage with Africa and the Global South, they should start with reparations, not vacations. They should support land restitution, economic justice, and the return of stolen artifacts. They should listen instead of expecting to be the center of every space. Until then, their presence as tourists is an extension of colonial entitlement. The descendants of enslaved and colonized people owe them nothing—not a smile, not a drink by the pool, not a friendly tour guide’s patience. The time for unearned hospitality is over.
Returning to the Scene of the Crime
White tourists flock to Africa, the Caribbean, and other formerly colonized regions, eager to enjoy pristine beaches, wildlife safaris, and “exotic” cultures. They stay in luxury resorts, attended to by Black staff whose grandparents may have been forced into labor under colonial rule. They take smiling selfies in front of monuments built by enslaved hands. The sheer audacity is staggering. How can descendants of slave traders and colonialists expect to be welcomed with open arms? Their presence is a reminder of historical trauma, not an opportunity for reconciliation. The tourism industry, often dominated by foreign corporations, perpetuates the economic exploitation that began during colonialism. Black workers serve white visitors for meager wages, while the profits flow back to Europe and America. The cycle of exploitation continues, just under a different name.
The Myth of the “Grateful Native”
Hospitality is a sacred tradition in many African and Indigenous cultures, but it was never meant to be extended to those who arrive with blood on their hands. Colonialists abused this hospitality, using it as a tool to infiltrate and conquer. Today, white tourists benefit from the same dynamic, expecting kindness from people they have never apologized to, never repaired harm toward. The narrative of the “happy native” serving white guests with a smile is a colonial fantasy. True hospitality must be earned, not demanded. Yet, the global tourism industry conditions Black and Brown people to perform servitude for white comfort, reinforcing the same racial hierarchies that justified slavery.
This irony is not lost on the hosts, either. In conversations with locals in countries like Ghana, South Africa, or Jamaica, some express a complex mix of pride in their hospitality and awareness of the historical weight it carries. A tour guide in Accra might lead white visitors through the dungeons of Cape Coast Castle, where enslaved Africans were held before being shipped across the Atlantic, with a professionalism that belies the emotional toll of recounting such history. A waiter in Nairobi might serve a European family with a smile, knowing their presence is tied to a tourism industry that often prioritizes foreign comfort over local needs. These acts of service are not just economic transactions; they are laden with historical subtext.
The question of “qualification” to receive such hospitality is not about denying white travelers the right to visit or engage. Rather, it’s about urging a deeper reckoning with the past. To be a guest in a land scarred by one’s ancestral history requires humility, awareness, and a commitment to ethical engagement. This might mean supporting local economies in meaningful ways—choosing community-led tours over corporate resorts, or advocating for policies that address the lingering inequalities of colonialism. It might mean listening to local voices, not just as service providers but as storytellers of their history. Above all, it means recognizing the privilege of being welcomed into spaces that were once violated by those who came before.
The irony of this hospitality is a call to reflection, not rejection. It challenges white travelers to move beyond passive consumption of culture and to engage with the places they visit as sites of living history. It asks them to consider whether they are worthy of the grace extended to them, not because of who they are as individuals, but because of the weight of the past they carry. For the descendants of the oppressed, their hospitality is a testament to resilience, a refusal to let history define their humanity. For the descendants of the oppressors, accepting that hospitality is an opportunity to learn, to atone through action, and to build a future that honors the dignity of all.