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“Loss is a magical preservative. Time stops at the point of severance, and no subsequent impressions muddy the picture you have in mind. The house, the garden, the country you have lost remain forever as you remember them.”
Eva Hoffman was a Polish immigrant who moved to Canada as a teenager. And in her celebrated 1989 memoir, she explores how language and memory helps us immigrants preserve what geography takes away. And sometimes, that memory is preserved in the artifacts we bring from home. Items that hold the version of home that existed the day we left.
For me, it’s the scarf my Mom was wearing when she suddenly passed away on March 2nd, 2019. I brought the scarf along when we moved to Canada in 2021, and it has traveled with me anywhere I go ever since. The colors aren’t as bright as they used to be, but I don’t care.
When I look at it, I see her. I see the life I had before moving to Canada.
My mom’s scarf.
Because, when Black immigrants arrive in this country, we lose our specificity. The Igbo man, the Ghanaian woman, the Jamaican, we all collapse into one word, Black. So, this Black History Month, I asked 19 Black immigrants in Canada one question:
What is the one thing you brought from home that you still can’t throw away? And why?
Editor's Note: We have summarized and lightly edited some responses for clarity and style.
Things that Remember Who We Were
Taiwo Odumala, who moved from Nigeria, brought a book written in Yoruba.
“My identity, culture, language, and my name. I couldn't bring myself to anglicize my name or shorten it to fit in or be acceptable. I'd left too many things behind,” Taiwo says. “So, I carried a book in my first language, so that on days when memory becomes tricky and I don't feel like I belong in both places, I can return to it and remember home.”
On days when Taiwo doesn’t fully belong to Nigeria nor Canada, those pages help her confirm something geography can’t.
Taiwo brought Akinwunmi Isola’s celebrated novel, Ólékú.
Temitope Badmus, also from Nigeria, bought a Lagos-themed shirt just before leaving.
“When I was leaving Nigeria, I specifically bought the shirt because I needed it to always remind me of home, and so far, it's delivering as planned. I positioned it strategically in my closet so I get a view whenever I open the doors. I probably would never wear it, but neither will I throw it away or give it out.”
Emmanuel Ahiafor, who moved from Ghana, also came over with a shirt; his Ghanaian jersey. “It reminds me of my origin and our history,” he says.
Emmanuel’s jersey and Temitope’s Lagos-themed t-shirt.
Nadine Niba, who moved from Cameroon, brought her Cameroonian flag. While James Kenga, who moved from Kenya, brought country flag wrist beads that he wears to this day.
Lindsey Machona, who moved from Zimbabwe, brought CDs of Zimbabwean music. You can lose a lot in a move across continents but a song sounds the same in Edmonton as it did in Harare.
Lindsey brought the Samanyemba album by Zimbabwean musician, Tongai Moyo.
For Simon Ajeniya, who moved from Nigeria, it’s his expired Nigerian passport. The document can't get him through any border anymore. But it marks where he started, and sometimes that matters more than where you’re going.
Things that Hold the People We Left
For some others, the things they couldn’t throw away held a person, not a place. A feeling I understand too well.
O’Nell Agossa, who moved from Benin, carries a necklace and an old rosary from his grandmother, who has since passed.
“They're a symbol of faith, love, enduring legacy and culture. When life feels a bit darker, I often wear the necklace for protection and sleep with the rosary on my nightstand,” O’Nell says. “Particularly with my grandmother and many of her generation having passed on, these are physical manifestations of the ever-lasting connections I have with them and my native land, wherever I am.”
O’Nell’s necklace and rosary.
Beneyam Tadesse, who moved from Ethiopia, carries a photo frame of his late mother. The photo, he says, “is a way to keep her presence and memory alive, and to honour the love she gave me.”
Marian Orhierhor, who moved from Nigeria, brought an old backpack. The straps are worn out but she can’t bring herself to get rid of it.
“I used that bag back home in Nigeria. I travelled with it as my personal item when I moved to Canada. And I carried it all through my two years of studying for my master's degree,” Marian says. “For me, it's a reminder of the version of me who was still figuring everything out, navigating a new country, a new system, a new life.”
But the backpack isn’t the only thing Marian is holding on to. She’s also kept clothes her Mom gave her as surprise gifts as she was preparing to move six years ago.
“Even though they don't fit anymore, I like seeing them in my wardrobe, admiring the beauty of the culture I come from, and the love and intentionality behind each piece,” she says.
Arzouma Kompaoré, who moved from Burkina Faso, didn't name an object at all. But the thing he’s held onto is the sort that follows you around, especially in moments when you consider quitting. He describes it as “prayers and sacrifices family members made in order for me to make it here. Because I owe them success now.”
Dennis Agbegha, who moved from Nigeria, carried something similar. “It’s my mindset to life,” he says. “It’s to keep going and love your community. My mum told me if I remember those two things, I will always be successful.”
Rebecca Johnson, who moved from Nigeria, kept clothes and items from her Mom. Abiola Balogun, who also moved from Nigeria, was the same, “A piece of clothing from my Mom.” Some things explain themselves.
Things that Keep the Faith and the Foundations
Immigration rearranges almost everything. For some, what they’ve held onto acts as anchors.
Kizito Okorowu, who moved from Nigeria, brought his Bible. “It has been my anchor through different seasons of transition, uncertainty, and growth,” he says. “It embodies my faith, memories and prayers. It is a clear reminder of who I am and what I stand for.”
Oyinlola Oduwole, who also moved from Nigeria, kept her traditional wedding beads. “I didn’t bring a lot with me, but this was non-negotiable, “ she says. “They're tucked away safely, but they carry so much meaning. They remind me of home, my culture and family.”
Oyinlola’s traditional wedding beads.
Angelah Kusero, who moved from Kenya, brought an elephant mud cloth. To anyone else, it might look like a beautiful piece of textile.
But to Angelah, when she looks at the intricate patterns, “I can still hear my parents’ voices reminding me: ‘Remember who you are,’” she says. “Just like an elephant, my parents saw my strength, my devotion to community, and my inner wisdom long before I was ever able to see them in myself. They knew who I was before I did.”
She only needs to glance at the elephants on the cloth to be reminded on difficult days that she’s strong, loved, and most importantly, of who she is.
Angelah’s elephant mud cloth.
For Musap Abdelhag, who moved from Sudan, it’s his Sudanese hospitality. “In Sudan, family isn't just a household; it's an entire ecosystem of support, tradition, and legendary hospitality,” Musap says. “There's a Sudanese saying that a guest is "a guest of God." If you're a stranger, don't be surprised if you're invited in for tea, coffee, or a full meal. People offer the best of what they have, even when they have very little.”
The One Who Brought Nothing
Every survey has that answer, that in some way, looks to escape the confines of the question and helps you realize how much your question might have left out. Kristina McPherson, who moved from Jamaica, is that answer.
“I didn't bring one special thing that I can't throw away,” Kristina says. “When I left Jamaica, I wasn't thinking in terms of ‘I’m leaving home forever.’ I was just going somewhere new. Part of the journey for me was learning how to let go.”
“Even when I'm here, there are little reminders everywhere. Hearing someone speaking patois in the store, running into people from back home, passing a Caribbean food shop, or hearing certain music playing. Those moments remind me that pieces of home are all around me. Canada's multiculturalism makes it easier to keep that connection alive. What I've held onto is who I am and where I come from. I'm Jamaican. And I'm also a world citizen,” she continues.
What We Carry
Every February, Black History Month in Canada asks us to remember. To honor the Underground Railroad, to reckon with the destruction of Africville, and to learn about all the stories that shape the history of Black Canada.
But for Black immigrants, the remembering runs in two directions. We carry the history we inherited when we arrived, the one that belongs to this land. And we carry the history we packed, the one that belongs to us alone.
So, while the Black History Month celebrations remind us that “being Black” holds us all together, the artifacts we brought with us are what keep us whole inside it.
My mother’s scarf is still tied to my mic stand. It will be there tomorrow because it’s my history. And I’m not done carrying it.
