I’ve never really had to think about my race that much.

Luckily for me, growing up in Northern Ireland wasn’t that tough.

I know for others it has been.

But I managed to largely avoid the pitfalls that could have come with being a black/brown face in a country where our primary school teacher claimed we’d fit in due to the rich diversity of the school.

Diversity being us three and a two Chinese kids!

Now don’t get me wrong…I’ve been stared at, pointed at and insulted…with the best being some inebriated fool shouting ‘Hey Nelson…Nelson Mandela’ as I walked past.

I like to believe that this was a compliment due to my imposing and stateswoman-like presence, rather than a comment on what was at the time a decidedly dodgy haircut.

Idiotic comments from uneducated cretins do not bother me.

I can brush them off…and having been able to largely blend in with the crowds I have never really dwelt too long on what it is to be the child of a black father and white mother.

Coming to South Africa has changed that a bit.

I’m more conscious than ever of the people around me and the classifications that many want to use to separate us all.

Comedians on stage who are trying to work out what I am – black or coloured…

People on the street assuming I speak Afrikaans because I look coloured…

Coloured – a term that now rolls of my tongue but would be considered offensive anywhere else in the world.

Coloured – people of mixed heritage – but a mix that I cannot claim because it is not mine.

I am very much my mother’s daughter.

White as she is – I am more like her than anyone in the world…But I cannot call myself white.

So, for now, in a country that needs labels…I will describe myself as black…

Black – well yes, my father was black. Does that make me black?

To some yes, while to others my Newtownards upbringing makes me the least black black person they know…

South Africa wants boxes.

They want to know what I am – the same way in Northern Ireland we want to know with what foot Jimmy, Charles and Conal kick.

Never before have I been so aware of what I am, or at least what others perceive me to be.

In a society where so much was, and still is, dictated by life’s genetic lottery it’s hard not to dwell on questions of race and identity.

But for me … I am proudly mixed up.

I’ll kick with whatever foot I feel like wearing.

African, Black, British, Coloured, Irish, Northern Irish, Mixed Race, Protestant,
Zambian or any combination you want to throw at me…

Just don’t call me Nelson.