I am in Africa.
I owe my being to the hills and the valleys,
the mountains and the glades,
the rivers,
the deserts,
the trees, the flowers, the seas,
and the ever-changing seasons that define
the face of our native land.
My body has frozen in our process and in our latter-day snow.
It has thawed in the warmth of our sunshine
and melted in the heat of the midday sun.
The crack and the rumble of the summer thunders,
lashed by startling lightning,
have been a
cause both of trembling and of hope.
I am in Africa.
I am in Africa.
I am in Africa.
At times,
and in fear,
I have wondered whether I should
concede equal citizenship of our country
to the leopard and the lion,
the elephant and the springbok,
the hyena,
the black mamba,
and the pestilential mosquito.
A human presence among all of these,
a feature on the face
of our native land just defined,
I know that none dare pallant me when I say I am an African.
I am an African.
I am an African.
I am an African.
I
am an African.
I am an African.
I am an African.
I am an African.
I am an African.
I am an African.
I am an African.
