My passport is green. The glorious green of aloe leaves or trees in late summer.
My skin is freckled. Flickered with flecks of moments spent under this sun.
My heart breaks. A hurting history means I watch flowers grow from stained mud and feel petals fall on graves.
Many may ask,
“Where are you from?”
And many may say,
My smile will stretch and my heart will swell because, although these bones are my only home, I am South African and of the Afrikan soil.
I am Afrikan because I am of this place and these people; shaped by the past and promised to the future.
Originally published on SpeakAfrika