During my recent visit to Zimbabwe, I had the privilege of visiting a vocational school for at risk kids located in Chitungwiza, a large city neighboring the capital city of Harare. I traveled to Harare to perform in a production of the new play, “The Blue Door.” The play, by Tanya Barfield, examines the Black double consciousness – the struggle for self-definition while treading the waters of history. While enjoying a break from rehearsal, our small company of actors was invited to tour the school and speak to the students.

For many, this school represents a final chance at something better in life. The students, ranging in age from late teens to early twenties, had all walked a rugged path – poverty, AIDS and prostitution. In this respect, they were not so different from American kids that grow up on what we call the mean streets. Nor were they so different in that they were a bunch of hams as we delightedly discovered during an acting exercise they participated in. They also resembled American kids in that during the exercise they adopted hip hop poses and rap lingo replete with DJ aliases, flashing gang signs, prison yard poses, crotch grabbing and the like.

It was fascinating to watch thoroughly African kids, most meeting American Blacks for the first time (indeed during our stay we met one African gentleman that was shocked and ultimately tickled pink to discover that there were Black people like himself living in America) adopt Americanized versions of themselves when asked to create a character. It is a testament to the power and influence of American culture but it is also an example of times ability to impact our notions of self. There I was an American soaking up the sights and smells of the land of my ancestors while the children of Shona and Ndebele tribesmen parroted images of American rap stars. Personally, I think I got the better part of the bargain.

The bad news is that the parroting did not stop at the crotch grabbing. Some of the students confessed to casually referring to each other as “Nigger.” “You know, when we are on the streets with our friends.” Of course, the word is not native to southern Africa; they adopted it from America – specifically a Black America, whose struggle with consciousness led it to adopt as its own one of the tools of its oppression. I asked about the word “Kaffir,” an ethnic slur with a similar meaning that was prevalent in southern Africa during the years of apartheid. The students recoiled in horror. “Never!” they responded.

To think here in the heart of southern Africa, in a black nation so full of art and beauty, a nation that declared its independence from apartheid, young people had adopted as a term of endearment an ethnic slur that means, “you are less than.” There are those in America that should bow their heads in shame. Is this the legacy? Minstrelsy and self-degradation? Is this what the new world hath wrought?

Bad news, indeed!

The good news is that there was a strong contingent of young people that felt very strongly that the N- word was offensive and wanted no part of it. They thought too much of themselves and would have no part in defining themselves downward.

Admittedly, there is nothing scientific in my observation. I witnessed only a small snapshot – a brief encounter with some African youth. It may or may not be representative of youth culture in Harare much less in all of Zimbabwe.

What does seem clear is that while minstrelsy remains a global money making enterprise, (Pimp juice anyone?) we will be hard pressed to stamp out the ugly virus infecting our American culture. Time will tell if the consciousness and definition of self on the African continent is robust enough to resist.

Joseph C. Phillips is the author of “He Talk Like a White Boy” available wherever books are sold.