Mahogany in Morocco

The journey toward midlife genius

By April Yvette Thompson

I didn’t move to Morocco to find myself. I moved because America was scaring the living shit out of me. And I’d had enough.

The kind of exhaustion sleep can’t fix

I was a Black woman in Brooklyn during the upheavals of Black Lives Matter and Me Too. Police stops were terrifying. Nazi skinheads followed me on the G train.

I’d spent my life learning to navigate rooms, read people, anticipate danger, and make myself understood. I was exhausted.

Not tired enough for a good night’s sleep to fix. The kind of exhaustion that settles into your bones when the world keeps treating your existence like a provocation.

A fairy-tale detour

Then, because my life has always had a theatrical sense of humor, I ended up at a storytelling conference in Lausanne, Switzerland. In a fairy-tale castle.

I know. Right?

Somewhere between the castle and whatever sensible plan I was supposed to have, I found a last-minute, hundred-dollar ticket to Morocco. The final spot on a seventeen-day Intrepid tour.

Seventeen days. Twenty-something towns and cities.

Belonging without an explanation

Everywhere I went, people seemed genuinely delighted I’d arrived. I made friends everywhere. Not contacts. Not professional acquaintances. Friends.

People welcomed me without asking for my résumé. My credentials. Proof that I belonged.

Then I met Baby Brown Jesus

Then I met a Moroccan man so beautiful I could only call him Baby Brown Jesus. Smokin’ hot.

He cooked me dinner. Then, as casually as if he were offering more tea, he told me to come back. He was going to Paris and Mallorca. I could rent his apartment while he was away.

I stared at him.

“Who lives like that?”

He smiled.

“Marhaba. Welcome to Morocco, love.”

Well. What the hell was I supposed to do with that?

I ran toward the sunshine

Eight months later, I packed two suitcases. Just two. I planned to wear caftans for the rest of my natural-born life.

No elaborate five-year plan. No carefully engineered reinvention. No sensible explanation.

I’d spent years thinking, calculating, anticipating, protecting myself, trying to make the right choice. This time, I didn’t think. I didn’t plan.

I ran toward the sunshine. Toward people who were glad to see me. Toward a country that welcomed me before I’d done anything to earn its affection.

Meet Mahogany

Somewhere in Marrakech, the woman who had spent her life surviving began to learn how to live.

I was learning that I could rest, be cared for, and simply exist.

Not another achievement. Not another role to play. Permission to live as myself.

Her name was Mahogany.

And she had absolutely no intention of wearing pants ever again.