My eyes tend to fool you,
My accent won't give me away,
You can't know by what I say.
The color of my skin,
Does not tell the story within,
You would never know,
Because it's doesn't really show,
Even now I'm where "I belong",
But I don't feel so strong.
I want to go home,
On my heart God's sewn,
Africa
I know I may not look African,
But I still drink tea every day,
And those cravings for Ug,
Oh yes, those definitely are there.
And those little phrases I still say,
Like, "Ati what?" and "Hayaye!"
Because I'm Kenyan.
For it heart still seems to beat,
And every single time I breath,
I miss every single thing.
I used to fight the fact that I'm so white,
And I can still put up a fight,
To anyone who would challenge me.
Because they only sum up what they see.
Moving away from where I'm from,
Wasn't easy and it wasn't fun.
I wanted to scream at the differences,
I would cringe in certain instances.
I will not conform, I will not change,
I'm African,
I'm Kenyan!
But the longer I'm here,
The more my hand tightens it's grip
I don't want to let go for fear,
That if I do, I'll realize this isn't a trip.
It's not a visit, but I'm here.
I will have to face reality,
Which is... that I can be both.
I can be Kenyan.
I can be American.
And yet these are surfacy things,
They don't make me, me.
It's neither the color of my eyes or my hair,
The color of my skin, that's fair.
It's not the way that I talk,
Or the way in which I walk.
It's not about whether I can speak Swahili,
Knowing that Sunday is Jumapili.
It's not even about how much tea I drink,
Or the cultural context in which I think.
Because these things of which I speak,
Only tell an external story,
Of a white girl who claims to be black.
Those are only outcomes of the girl within,
For every present there's a gift.
And on the inside I'm neither black nor white.
I'd like to think I'm red....
Washed by the blood of the Lamb.
That's what defines me.
I'm a daughter of the King,
In Him is my identity,
And outside of that fact,
I don't have to worry about a thing.
