“I’m a tiger Mama,” my three-year-old, Eliza says as she crawls on all fours around the kitchen. “I’m from Africa!”
“Would you like to go to Africa one day?” I ask her knowing that even to a three-year old the question sounds forced.
“I’m a tiger and I bite,” she says and crawls away to chase her little sister, the question of Africa a passing thought.
As my two tiny daughters crawl around the coffee table practicing their growls, I pull an atlas of the world out of a stack of books in the next room. I open it up to Africa and trace my finger around the shape of the continent. I can only imagine what places with names like Dakar or Nairobi smell like. I can only imagine the feel of my skin under the equitoral sun. I can only imagine these things because I have never been to Africa. [Read more]
