I was here before the tour buses. Before the plastic souvenirs and the camera flashes. Long before the world came to take pictures of pyramids they barely understood.
I’ve been moving through Giza for thousands of years. I’ve danced across stone and desert. I’ve slipped through cracks in limestone and lingered in places where even time forgets to look.
They call me the wind.But really, I’m a witness.
I remember when the first block was laid, steady and deliberate. The men didn’t shout. They sang. Some had calloused hands, some had swollen backs, but they built with pride. Not as slaves. That’s the part they never tell you.
These pyramids weren’t built with chains. They were built with vision.
People now look at them and ask, “How did they do it?” as if it’s strange for Africans to build something so grand.
But I remember how. I saw the calculations drawn in the dirt. I heard the debates under the sun. I carried their voices, and I still do.
That’s why I’m here.Because you came.
You, with your phone full of pictures from other people’s countries.
You, who was taught to start Africa’s story with colonization. You, who once believed that greatness was something we had to borrow. I’ve been waiting for you.
I brushed past your cheek when you stepped off the plane. I whispered through the open window of your tour van.I was there when you stood at the base of the Great Pyramid, unsure if you were allowed to feel pride.
Let me tell you this plainly: you are.
You come from a long line of builders.From dreamers who turned dust into eternity. From people who carved stories into stone so that centuries later, you would come back and remember.
Touch the rock. Do you feel it? That heat isn’t just the sun. That’s legacy.
They’ll sell you trinkets. They’ll tell you stories in foreign accents.
But listen to me, really, listen, and you’ll hear what’s true.
Your ancestors walked here.Not as visitors. But As visionaries.
So when you leave this place,
don’t say, “I saw the pyramids.”
Say, “I recognized something.”
Say, “I remembered who we are.”
Because I—this wind—will follow you home.
And every time you doubt your worth, I’ll whisper again:
You come from greatness.
And it didn’t start with struggle.
It started with stone.
About the Author:Ajayi Anita E. Oseborega is a Nigerian writer and aspiring public health project manager. She is passionate about telling culturally rooted African stories that inspire pride, identity, and purpose.
