Some people visit Africa once in a lifetime to marvel at vast savannas and subtropical forests.
I grew up spoiled by wild places - drinking from the source of the Zambezi River, standing in the spray of Victoria Falls, watching waves kiss the shores of Lake Malawi, catching tiger fish in Lake Tanganyika. I visited black townships in South Africa and learned about apartheid before I learned about Michael Jackson. I ate elephant, hippo, and village foods I couldn't name.
Africa wasn't a destination.
It was home.
But in America, I was something else - an outsider with a Zambian birth certificate and an American passport. Where do you belong when your story doesn't fit the categories?
By turns surprising, humorous, and reflective, Made in Africa is a memoir about identity, culture, and the search for home.
Who says an African-American has to be black?
