Ode to Africa – poems by Third Culture Kids
African Adventures
by Yvette Louise Melech
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.
See more of Michelle Campbell’s poetry
The Harvesters
by ndzedzeni etienne fondzefe
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.
