I never crafted sandcastles in the Sphinx’s shadow

or dangled my feet off the edge of a plateau

or laid my laundry out to dry on the banks of the Nile,

and my watch has never been a sundial.

Besides the fireflies I had another nightlight,

and I have never felt the joy of watching a flock of flamingoes take flight.

I have never stood in the water wondering where the Niger ends and the Banau begins,

nor have I wished my closest friends were the daughters of chieftains.

                I would not know to avoid the tsetse flies,

nor could I tell the difference between a monkey’s cries.

I have never savored milk straight from the fallen coconut,

                nor my own path through the forest have I cut.

                My native tongue is not Swahili,

and I would be ashamed to dance in the rain freely.

I could never ask an okapi what happened to the rest of its stripes,

and too much rain or not enough have been the least of my gripes.

I have never balanced basins atop my head,

nor have I drank from a cow who has bled.

I am a daughter of the Diaspora—I could have never been Other,

could have come from a world where every man is my brother,

could have been from a tribe—more than families or clans,

but that isn’t all, there is more this life spans:

I have never been forced, tattoos are a choice.

My tongue has never been cut to silence my voice.

Rather than around my neck, I like my rings on my fingers and in my ears,

and I balk at a plate in my lip just to fit with my peers.

Against the neighboring tribe I’d like not to declare war;

I was claimed, now I have named myself, and the benefits I cannot ignore.