Like Baldwin, I, too, am “A Stranger in the Village.” This realization would not come while visiting some remote European village. Baldwin’s collection of essays, Notes of a Native Son, helped me recognize I am a stranger in the country where I was born. I live in a peculiar kind of exile here in the land of my birth. I am no more than a familiar stranger living in this land my passport says is my country of origin. The election of America’s first black President notwithstanding, and more than two decades removed from the Civil Rights era, African Americans are no more or less visible in the United States today than we were when Ralph Ellison wrote his classic novel, Invisible Man. Things have changed, yet too much has remained the same. We are still a people in search of a proper name. We are a people trying to find a secure place in this land where I rarely, if ever, feel at home. My travels through West Africa would bring this stark reality into sharper focus. The search for a healthy black identity remains a most daunting challenge and coming to terms with our African heritage is still at the center of that inner conflict.