What Makes Me Africa?

What makes me African? What doesn't?

Is it the kink of my hair or the colour of my skin? Is it the fire of my sun or my tales by the moon? Is it the hustle of my community or the bustle of my home? The noise of the market or the quiet of the night? Is it my people suffering and smiling in the same breath, ever enthusiastic, hard at work and hard at play? Is it the red dust of my homeland or the vast variety of tongues to be heard in the metropolises? Is it the beat of my heart or the call of village drums, the laughter of fearless running children, the green of the bush, the swiftly repaired cell-phone?

Is it my utter refusal, utter inability to quit till I make it?

Is it my blood or my bones, my cells or my lungs, the dust I breathe or the water I drink, the unbroken chain of unbroken people that is my proud proud lineage?

The answer of course is "Yes."