I hear the call from home.
An inevitable call from a surrogative mother.
Going Home is meaningless but full of hope.
Alas! It has a sentimental place in my heart.
I cannot go home, yet here I am.
Oh! Africa, how will I trace my root?

I hear the echoes of my home
A call from a land whose ancestors were forced into slavery
In some way I must go home.
But why this flood of emotions?
Could it be the awakening of the memories hidden in my genes?
Oh! the two extremes between which I am trapped.

I hear the voices calling from home.
The voices and dances from the moonlight festival.
Africa, the land of my ancestors.
Africa the symbol of my significance
Though away from you so long in a foreign land
I can still smell the aroma of your ebony beauty.

I hear the echoes of drums calling from home.
Alas! I am different.
I do not feel African and not wholly American.
The thought of running into my kindred terrify me
For in him lies my proof.

I hear the beasts from home
Oh! home your call faints in my heart
No more like the ardent pilgrim longing to return home.
I receive the call with mixed feelings to know where home once was.
Oh! African, how much of me is really me?
How much of being black has been carried out of Africa.