Home, I Hope

One day,

A friend asked 

What my Africa necklace

Meant to me,

And I said:

Home

What I should’ve said

What I meant was:

Home, I hope

See,

I’ve never been 

And I know nothing 

About the continent

About my own country

It’s all really just a name

Just a title

Just an ideal.

Ideally,

Africa runs through my veins. 

I breathe Africa.

Africa is my favorite shirt I wear

Africa is my rhythm

It’s my dance

Africa is my poem

My voice, my smile

My inner and outer thoughts

Are Africa

Ideally.

I mean,

Africa means,

Home, I hope.

As in 

I hope Africa smells

Like my grandmother’s bed

When I was mad at my mother

I hope

Africa can welcome me home

I mean

Welcome me back home

It’s lost child finally returned.

I hope 

Africa is old people

Sitting on the porch

Waving, smiling, asking about your day

As you walk on by

Offering me dinner

Asking, Baby are you hungry?

Did you eat?

Do you need anything?

​

And I would think:

Yes, Africa!

I do need something!

I need you!

I’m starving

Self eating my own flesh 

Because it’s all you left me.

​

I think:

I am hungry!

Hungry for you!

I thirst for your knowledge

For your sun

For your history and culture too

I thirst for you

Everyday away

I grow weak

Our proximity strengthens me

But I am weak

Paralyzed in ignorance

I think and I think, 

But I would say

With my Africa smile:

No ma’am, 

But thanks tho.

And I would walk on

My Africa way

Because, Ideally,

I hope

Africa is home.