Beyond 163 NOs: How Black History Helped Me Say Yes to Myself

By Setche Kwamu-Nana

As we honor Juneteenth—a celebration of delayed freedom—and Immigrant Heritage Month, I find myself reflecting on something many immigrants carry but rarely name: the belief that we’re being saved from our own inadequacies when we come to the West.

But what if the truth is the opposite?What if we were never broken — just broken into?What if the West learned everything from us—and then built walls around that knowledge?What if the very systems we seek refuge in were built on knowledge, labor, and resources extracted from the civilizations we fled?

This isn’t just my story. It’s a broader story—about what happens when we finally say yes to ourselves. When we reclaim our roots, reframe our narratives, and rebuild our futures. We gain a deeper kind of freedom.

For me, that journey started with my grandfather’s voice—and took 25 years to believe.

When I was little, one of my favorite movies was The Mummy (1999). I was obsessed. I even

convinced my grandfather—who didn’t speak much English—to watch it with me.

When the credits rolled, he smiled and said, “You know, this place you love so much? That’s where our ancestors came from.”

I laughed. Actually, I dismissed him. How could we—Black Cameroonians—come from there? From the pyramids? From that kind of intelligence, civilization, glory?

It didn’t fit the narrative I’d been taught. Egypt, as portrayed in textbooks and media, was full of light-skinned faces and long, straight hair. Black people, if present at all, were background characters: slaves or servants.

Even though I knew I was smart, I didn’t see myself in that lineage. I didn’t believe him. I didn’t repeat his words to anyone. Honestly, I was embarrassed for him.

Fast forward a decade: I was now in the U.S., a Black woman in engineering, still brushing off race like it was a distraction. One day, a friend casually mentioned that the original Egyptians were Black. I rolled my eyes. “We Wuz Kangz” delusion, I thought. Just another self-soothing myth in a world that refuses to see our worth.

But in 2018, something cracked.

I was on a bus from Palestine to Israel, sitting next to a white man from Florida. He had just come from Egypt. Unprompted, he told me how shocked he’d been to realize—standing in front of statues and reliefs—that the ancient Egyptians were clearly Black.

“All my life,” he said, “I was told they were white or Arab.”

I didn’t believe him. So he pulled out his phone and showed me the pictures. I looked—and for the first time, really looked.

The figures weren’t alabaster or cream. They were brown. Reddish brown, with broad shoulders, broad noses and full lips. Just like my cousins.

Still, I hesitated. The crack had formed, but the wall hadn’t fallen.

By 2023, when Netflix released its Cleopatra documentary and an Egyptian lawyer sued over her portrayal as mixed race, I couldn’t ignore the irony: No outrage when white women had played her for decades, but now? Outrage.

So I started digging.

I researched migration patterns, cultural practices, burial rituals, linguistic similarities, genetic and archaeological evidence. That’s when I found what my grandfather meant.

The Bamileke—my people—have long asserted migration from Kemet (Egypt) between the 600s and 900s AD. Not vaguely, but in clear, traceable ways: oral traditions, royal regalia, architectural styles, even spiritual practices etc.

And it wasn’t just my tribe. Many African ethnic groups—Bassa, Bamoun, Hausa, Yoruba, Akan, Dogon, Nguni etc.—trace their lineage back to the ancient Nile Valley Civilization.

The evidence was everywhere–hidden in plain sight all along.

It was in our hairstyles, spiritual traditions, fabrics, and even our names.

I had worn traditional Bamileke fabric for years without realizing it was covered in ancient Egyptian motifs. I had worn other traditional African clothing without knowing their patterns were straight-up hieroglyphs.

Bamileki traditional material

Our family names told the story too. Example:

• Kwamu

• Yankam

• Setche / Seche / Seutche

  
  

All phonetically and semantically connected to ancient Egyptian names like Khamun, Khnemu, Amun, Ankham, Nyankhare, Seti, Seshat, Sethe and Sechem.

We wore the evidence on our bodies. Carried it in our names. Lived it in our customs.

And still, I didn’t believe.

I needed a white stranger on a bus to help me start believing. That’s how deeply the whitewashing of Egypt had seeped into my consciousness.

It took me 25 years to believe my grandfather. Twenty-five years to unlearn a false narrative that taught me to reject the truth, even when it was spoken by my own blood and surrounded by tangible evidence.

And this isn’t just my story.

It’s our story.

We’ve been taught to believe that history is fixed. But in reality? History is edited. Rewritten. Whitewashed—literally and figuratively.

Ancient busts, statues, and reliefs with African features have been lightened or reconstructed to resemble Europeans. Misrepresented artworks and forged artifacts shaped public imagination. Even DNA studies have been twisted to sow confusion and dilute the truth.

Modern facial reconstructions—often wildly different from the ancient art they’re supposedly based on—spread narratives that wouldn’t pass peer review. As flawed as peer review may be, most of these reconstructions wouldn’t survive the process.

The problem isn’t a lack of evidence. It’s the refusal to acknowledge it. It’s the overriding of evidence.

Algorithms repeat the lie.

Museums curate the myth.

The world gaslights those who remember otherwise.

No wonder it took me 25 years to believe my grandfather.

This erasure is systemic.

It’s no coincidence that many African contributions to science, math, medicine, and architecture were buried under colonial narratives, then “rediscovered” by white scientists centuries later.

Imagine where we’d be if that knowledge had been honored and built upon in real time.

Maybe we’d already have cures for diseases that still plague us. After all, Ancient Egyptians were already treating cancer thousands of years ago.

And here’s the thing: another major rewriting is happening right now.

DEI is under attack.

Laws are being passed to ban conversations about race and gender.

Books are being pulled.

Government websites are scrubbing Black achievements.

DEI programs are being defunded—all under the guise of neutrality and meritocracy, as if the system was ever neutral to begin with.

Here’s the truth:

If you care about inclusion and equity, you cannot have equity without understanding history. You cannot fight bias if you don’t know how it was built—or whose stories were erased to create it.

This is why I created Beyond Black History, a talk and workshop series where I bring my personal journey into conversation with the systemic issues we’re up against today.

It’s about more than Egypt.

More than Black History.

More than DEI.

More than holidays, celebrations, and hashtags.

It’s about truth.

It’s about restoring stolen contributions—across all indigenous cultures—that still shape our world.

It’s about reclaiming dignity so future generations don’t have to spend 25 years unlearning social conditioning just to believe what their grandparents already knew.

Learning my true history gave me the clarity and strength to navigate the aftermath of the 2020 so-called 'racial reckoning'—especially as a Black DEI professional with over a decade of experience.

In the two years that followed, I went through 163 interviews for DEI roles—often making it to the final rounds—only to watch almost 90% of those positions go to white candidates, many of whom were far less qualified. 

I thought I was uniquely unlucky.

Then a friend shared a staggering stat: 83.1% of DEI leadership roles were white (mostly white women), while only 3.1% were Black.

If I hadn’t reclaimed the truth of who I come from, I might have internalized that rejection as proof of white superiority. Let it consume me. Lost hope.

But I didn’t.

Because I knew the depth of my ancestors’ brilliance.

So I carved my own path.

And I’ve been making my own way in a world that refuses to see our value, yet still claims to be a meritocracy.

That’s the power of learning our histories: 

It combats impostor syndrome. 

Builds self-efficacy. Keeps us grounded in truth.

And learning others’ histories?

That’s how we dismantle bias from the roots. 

Expand cultural intelligence. 

And unlock real innovation.

Isn’t it strange that the people most synonymous with DEI don’t even hold DEI jobs or benefit much from DEI?

Isn’t it stranger still that both “DEI” and “Black” have become synonymous with “unqualified”—while the white ancestors often credited as originators of math, science, medicine, architecture, and astronomy actually learned it from Black and indigenous civilizations?

History isn’t just about the past.

It’s the mirror we use to shape the future.

The truth of history isn’t a wall between us—it’s a bridge we build together.

When we honor the full story—both the brilliance and the brokenness—we make room for a future greater than any past.

If you’re curating any culture, employee engagement or DEI programming or talks, let’s connect.I offer talks, workshops, programming and performances rooted in cultural truth, innovation, and belonging. Click HERE to contact me.

About the Author:

Setche Kwamu-Nana is a Cultural Strategist, DEI and Learning & Development Consultant, and Keynote Speaker (with an engineering background) based in San Diego, CA. She helps organizations reduce turnover and drive innovation by unlocking the power of their workforce’s cultural diversity and deepening employee engagement. More at www.Setche.com/biography