Kilimanjaro.
As a child I called it “my mountain”. I was born in its foothills. I spent the first three years of my life growing up in its shadow, and called it my mountain.
I am a child of East Africa. I was born in Machame, lived in Gulu, and spent my childhood in Naivasha. Three different countries that shaped who I am today. When I’m asked where I’m from, I say East Africa. I may be American by birth, but my heart lives in Africa.
I am a child of sun and warmth. Of towering mountains and escarpments, and the vast wide Rift Valley. Of monsoon rains, and long hot dry seasons. Of savannah grasses that transform from parched yellow and brown to vibrant green under grey clouds that release their burdens in violent, torrential downpours. Of acacia trees with their deadly thorns, of the brilliant riotous colours of hibiscus and bougainvillea and jacaranda. The wild scream of African fish eagles swooping down over the surface of Lake Naivasha, and the deceptive calm of lumbering hippos who congregate in the shallows.
There is another side of Africa. It’s the darker side, of poverty and violence, brutal wars and political unrest, children begging in the streets and corruption that allows a small few to become wealthy while their country suffers from famine and sickness. And this too is a part of me. One does not spend their childhood surrounded by these things, and not be affected by them.
