“Bird of Paradise” How often did I see these in Congo growing up and now even here at the coast of California and also where I live in Fresno, California. They are so beautiful and a reminder of my past in Congo. ~ Gary Prieb
“New Years Dancing” Please enjoy the painting I did around New Years 2024. Without dancing African culture would be blasé. It’s found everywhere there. Some of us, including me, could pick it up a notch ourselves if we only let loose a bit and gleefully “fly”, as these three are. But then, my joints are too creaky and stiff! ~ Gary Prieb
Takunda Muzondiwa is a cross-cultural kid born in Zimbabwe, who performs spoken word poetry as a way to express her confusion about her cultural identity. In this video she performs a poem as part of her speech at the Race Unity Speech Awards from 2019.
“Yesterday I was African; today I am lost.” ~ Takunda Muzondiwa
Seven years seems like seventy Each crisp breeze was glowing Singing everything from birds in trees To lions guarding young cubs on plains in breezes
Beating to a rhythm of a tribal drum I danced underneath a crying sky As we chanted our glowing style in feet Dripping in moonlighting Under intimacy of tribes wearing Little other than swinging skirts Made up of plants beads As beady blowing glow lit lamps All went down as the sun goes low
We rattled our cups A malty red wine brewed as stewy smells of aromatic scents expelled Alongside an African rice hot spicy spread Along came the moon god As we all stamped out our other life woes
An African I’ll Always Be by Michelle Campbell
Africa breathes deeply inside my soul its diversity greater than the oceans thoughts of its soil stir up my emotions as my memories take over control.
South Africa’s vast beauty feelings of forever on duty whether in the Drakensberg mountains hiking or enjoying fountains.
My heart overflows with wishful notions of a holiday to a game reserve peacefully the animals we observe ’til we see some exciting commotions.
Recalling the fish eagle’s distinct cry and giggling Malwaiian children waving goodbye burning our feet on the sand at the great Lake the mighty Boababs our dreams awake.
To hear a lion’s loud roar or an elephant’s rumble God’s creation makes you humble experiences one will forever store.
Dearest Africa runs through my veins on my lips she always remains, the place i run to behind closed eyes she is the world’s most neglected prize.
To Africa i’ll always be devoted little melanin, yet still her daughter daydreams of her, my soul water her essence adored and noted.
Dry season has come to Nkor at last, the smiles on our faces says it all. Early, before the sun wakes up and yawns, and wonder what day it is. We drag our dusty feet, deeply smeared by oil from last nights meal, through the wet waiting dew, into grandma Beri’s cornfield. everybody is present, everybody is singing, the birds are whispering, the children are dancing, Their cane baskets waiting to lift the days harvest. A sight of joy and singing. Our women wrap their fingers round the maize plants Snatching and Ripping, Our men fill their basket, lifting and carrying, running like warriors home and back. Before you know it its twilight, its time for feasting, the harvesters grind the goat meat between their Molars, Flushing it down with kegs of palm wine.
we carry our lives around in these memories by Shiloh Phoenix
Grey-blue air sweeps the porch clean with the force of a continent behind it; Africa’s breath, green and wild and wet and I am small standing here, cold in my soaked skin, embracing the weight of this whole world against my heart.
My days here are numbered, just a small handful left to drip out of my fists and then I will be gone; gone like the dust of the harmattan in July or the mangoes in January, and the rain will wash away every footprint I left as if it never was.
Clean bird-song rings out to welcome the sunshine, whistles of hopes that never died, and I huddle into my hoodie with every moment burned onto my skin so that I will never forget the taste of the wind, the power of the water, anything.
Three weeks later when I touch down to vivid grass and cold white air, the droplets on the window pane will resound lost echoes as loud as thunder, and I will trace my own handprint searching for the map of what I’ve lost.
Kuma calls across the rain-drop dust overlayed on tarmac predictions, and Pafode answers sharp lightning bolt facts; I speak this language quiet in my whole breath as loyal as a continent, but we all know that in the end no village could ever be mine.
When I was in the village Somebody asked me, and I don’t remember Who they were They asked me If I had a car. And I said yes. Then they asked me if my sister Had a car. And I said yes.
And I saw on their face That it didn’t make sense And I started to explain In America, if you don’t have a car You can’t have a job And if you don’t have a job You can’t make money to live.
And they looked at me. And I looked at them. And they said Does your mom have a car. And I said yes. And they said Does your dad have a car. And I said yes. And they said Does every person in your house Have their own car. And I thought of all seven of us And I said yes.
And I wanted to give some explanation I wanted to say that This is just normal here And Everybody has their own car I wanted to say I worked hard for what I have And I wanted to say There are people Who live in this country Who don’t have a car People who are poorer Even than I am And you know I’m poor Because I qualify for five different types Of government assistance but There are people who have less Than I do Who do not have any cars
But I said none of that I just looked at him And he looked at me
And I wanted to say I’m sorry If I could give you my car I would If I could trade places with you I would If there was some way I could share All my privilege and benefits I would And if there was some way I could trade My birthright with you I would But I can’t
But I said none of that I just looked at him And he looked at me And we didn’t say anything But I know The same look I saw in his eyes That nothing made sense That he could not imagine What I was saying That same look in his eyes I know is the same look That people see in my eyes here Because it doesn’t It just doesn’t make sense
So I tried to imagine having a car My car In the village I tried to imagine Driving it to Makeni and going to market I tried to imagine coming out of market And putting my groceries in the car And driving back home I tried to imagine my sister Living in the same House as me And having her own car And it just made no sense
It made no sense
And I’m not Confused Exactly I just don’t get how These worlds can be so different And how I can be in both of them And yet not either
And I just don’t get What answer I was supposed To give him That would ever make sense Or any answer I could give him That he could understand Because I couldn’t even find an answer That I could understand
Yes I have my own car And yes Every person in my house Has their own car And no I don’t know why
Only in sleep I see their faces, Children I played with when I was a child, Louise comes back with her brown hair braided, Annie with ringlets warm and wild.
Only in sleep Time is forgotten — What may have come to them, who can know? Yet we played last night as long ago, And the doll-house stood at the turn of the stair.
The years had not sharpened their smooth round faces, I met their eyes and found them mild — Do they, too, dream of me, I wonder, And for them am I too a child?
The Stars Are Not The Same All Across The World by Shiloh Phoenix
My first memories include tile floors cool beneath my feet, fans blowing endlessly while the crickets sang in the dark and the world was quiet. The stars were always out, there, always brilliant and near and crowded in the sky, like there were too many and they couldn’t hardly fit.
I grew up there, in that place of chickens at dawn and sheep wandering grey in the dusk and fires blowing ashes and smoke all around the dust of the land, the dust of the people. We were a large group of family, brilliant and crowded into the village, like if one more mother gave birth to one more baby maybe we would be too many for the space. But somehow, we learned to condense ourselves into tangles of bodies and there was always room for one more. Just one more.
I lived years and years of the sun rising every morning and water sloshing new into the bucket, dredged up from the earth with the modern miracle-gift from the tall yellow-haired men so long ago. Our parents told us those stories, about how the white men gave us life from the dust, how their machines brought pure water right here, to our village, to our home. They did not tell us about the chains that came before that, about how it was only right the white men come back with life to give as payment of their debt, about how their restitution could never make up for the generations lost. No, our parents lived small stories in a small world and it was enough to teach us the ways of our grandfathers.
I heard, though, from older youth, about sleeping in the slave castles next to the ocean, tasting the salt of the air and the leftover tears, wearing the disintegrated chains of other grandfathers and remembering that if we forget that history we have lost something.
But then I grew up and followed the footsteps of those slaves to the land of their sorrow, I stepped onto that blood-soil and tried to make it a new home. Tried to redeem it. In this new place, the stars are faded in the sky, lost in the vastness of electricity and development and busy. Even if we had time to stop and look up, we would see only the reflection of our own lives staring back at us.
Nose pressed up against the window, I wait for pitter-patters to turn to pelting poundings as hundreds of flying ants rise upward, dizzying my eyes and swarming my head.
So predictable: Tanzanian rainy seasons.
“Dad! Come on!” and he brings them as always: bright yellow boots and clashing pink raincoat with words on them I can’t yet read, words that Mom says I’ll learn in school next year.
Tupperware in hand, I rush out, dancing to a chorus of wings: a flapping frenzy. Within minutes, I have plenty of the squirming creatures, my prized possessions, enough to make Mom proud.
Back at home, the three of us busy ourselves. Dad hangs up my dripping raincoat while I tug away at endless wings while Mom heats up the stove and readies
a drizzle of oil, a handful of flying ants, a pinch of salt; sizzling in the pan, they fry quickly. Then, around the table, Mom, Dad, and I sit, munching and crunching our seasonal snack.
So predictable: Tanzanian rainy seasons.
And even though I lived through many of them, I can no longer recall whether the flying ants tasted more like bacon bits or burnt popcorn. So I wait, nose pressed up against the window.
By Melanie Han, an avid traveler and a poet who was born in Korea, grew up in East Africa, and is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing in Boston. She has won awards from Boston in 100 Words and Lyric, and her poetry has appeared in several magazines and online publications, such as Fathom, Ruminate, and Among Worlds. During her free time, she can be found eating different ethnic foods or visiting new countries.
A TCK documentary exploring the world of seven siblings in Ghana, as they adjust to a new culture and wrestle with the questions about home and belonging that all third culture kids can relate to.
Featuring the Gelatt family, missionaries through ABWE. Filmed in November of 2018. No profit is being made from this film.
Soundtrack created by Spencer Parkhurst – check him out on SoundCloud here.
Filmed and edited by Hannah Mathews – check her blog out here.
What keeps you here I ask my heart Stranger in a strange land, so white, so clean
These fields in June, she laughs Your red-stained fingers A taste of heaven beneath each leaf And this sky expansive and clear
I wonder why, my heart, you hold Steady on small delights after Months of sifting memories Under grey skies Testing each day as we Walk out into this not-all-bad But still foreign place
I am young, says she – A child who races, explores, Finds beauty even here And welcomes the new, trusting Inviting sweet existence even Within this space of not belonging
I hold out for Simple Wonders; Encounters with the Presence
Crouched amongst the rows I ponder this Sifting through the too-soon and the already-past I find it. The ripest, the reddest berry Welcomes me into the perfect balance Proves to me that Yes, child, even here, even you, Have abundant peace. The taste and texture of now.
By Bree Becker, a third culture kid from Rwanda and Kenya who now lives in Oregon, USA.
“A Ugandan praise song that tells the story of Moses, a man from Uganda, the site of the Lake Victoria, the source of the River Nile, who worked as a security guard at my secondary school in Qatar. After leaving his home and his heart to earn a living in the high-developing Arab nation, he went on to become a great friend of mine and the one who taught me the strong value of maintaining a smile no matter what worries may crowd your mind.”
