When you talk about your friends and family, make sure that they do not sound similar to Americans.

Your family should dance in the glorious, scorching, African sun, eat dried berries and chant around fires in the night time.

I want you to always remember that your family is not allowed to read English books, eat apples and drink lemonade like the family members of your white inquirers. Your family is not allowed to be civil and attend school like everyone in the West. When white people ask about your family, make sure to note your ailing uncle and the glorious morning sun of your village. You are not allowed to destroy narrative image that white people have worked so hard to build. You are supposed to maintain their insistent imaginations of the clear African skies and dried fruit and vast forests.

When talking about your family, do not forget to talk about how much you miss sitting down in the evenings around the local community village and hearing about your ancestors. While all of these family figures and components are crucial, you absolutely have to mention your big, excessively nurturing aunt with the rolling laugh. The one who makes sure that everyone has been well fed. Her and the grandmother who raised you. Your experiences have to include larger than life characters who are nothing like white Americans. The kind found in African fiction. Anything less is not different enough.