Mama Africa

When Africa called..it whispered. It told me to not wear the little makeup I usually do.

It told me to go back to being barefoot. Don’t do my hair and just wrap a scarf over it.

It said my name with the accent.

Sah-ra. Not Sarah. Or Zahra. But my name, the way it was meant to be said.

When Africa called, I looked for my shawl. I wrapped around me, bra-less and danced to the Rythm of homesickness. Of old love and old times. Of old tirades and old ties.

When Africa called. I stopped speaking in English.

The motherland. The one and only. The first ground I ever walked on. The first wild bird I saw. The warm waters and cleansing winds. Those beaches we took for granted. The orange, dusty sand we played in.

The neighborhood kids that are now all over the world — those of us who made it out at least.

The smiles of strangers who helped babysit us. The bustling market we went to get fresh halal meat each day.

The bumpy rides on the back of pick up trucks that resembled dump trucks.

The jokes. The puns. And the desensitized defense mechanism used as motivation to move forward in life.

The love. The truth. And the hope in solidarity.

The call for prayer every Friday —

Mama Africa. How I miss thee.