The little brown leaves that line the forest pathway.
The first blessings of rain that had the earth covered with tender shoots of green.
The animated whispers in the village square when Amope, the moin-moin hawker with golden skin, passed the lazing men with their almost-empty gourds of palm wine.
The shrill voices of mothers with wrappers tied around their sagging breasts, calling for their children to hurry to the market to get the items for the night’s supper.
The girls jiggling their beaded waists on their way to the stream.
I’m African, and this is home.


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