When I reminisce about my trip, I get this strong urge to be.  Each day used as an opportunity to wake and travel to different sides of the earth just trying to survive and standing in local markets, bartering goods for laughter.  I saw so many smiling faces…beautiful people who were simple and praying. Men who prayed so fervently that they had carpet burns on their head, women who were strong and delicate, and little girls who had nothing and tugged my shirt for an Egyptian Pound. I saw people who looked like me, rich hues of melanin …faces that looked like my father and his father’s father. Boys who carelessly frolicked in the African heat, spilling their joys of laughter and hue into an ancestral river. I couldn’t help but stick my hand in the Nile…if I could have jumped in…I would have drowned…I felt home. I hoped to be reborn.

Egyptian women who declared themselves African made my heart leap. They knew who they were, then they asked me who I was…I had no clue or answer for them. Nubian men welcomed me home in song… I felt then that this was were I belonged.

Most days when I am afraid and scorn…I have to remember that I carry countless moments. Moments that have surpassed any life that I thought I could have ever lived.

I have saw God work miracles, a laying of hands on my life.

Books by Black Authors That You Don’t Want to Miss This Year

If you are an African-American fiction-novel fanatic like myself, then you’re hankering for your next book-fix. In these winter months, I’d rather curl up with a hot cup of mixed berry hibiscus tea and read. I’m currently reading the great Tayari Jones An American Marriage, and it is everything I am looking for in a novel right now. In Jones’ cross-examination of race and incarceration in America, the lives of newlyweds Celestial and Roy are at a turn just 18-months after their nuptial.

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