I was still a child when we left home.
We arrived in Germany carrying more than just suitcases. We brought stories, dreams, fears, and questions no one could answer for us. I remember the confusion of those early days. Everything smelled different, sounded different, and felt unfamiliar.
At school, I was the African kid. At home, I was slowly becoming someone my relatives back in Africa might not even recognize. Too German to be fully African. Too African to ever be fully German.
I grew up between worlds.
And for a long time, I didn’t know who I was.
At first, I tried to blend in. I straightened my hair. I softened my accent. I laughed when people joked about my skin being the color of chocolate, as if it were a compliment and not a reminder that I was different.
But inside, I was split in two.
One part of me missed the sound of my mother’s language, the smell of fried plantain in the kitchen, the rhythm of African life.
The other part was learning to survive and adapt in Germany. I learned to read between the lines, to be twice as good just to be seen.
I lived in between.
Not fully here, not fully there.
But over time, something changed.
I began to see that being in between was not a weakness.
It was a kind of strength.
I was learning to speak across cultures.
To carry the fire of my roots even as I walked through cold, unfamiliar streets.
To dream in more than one language.
To cry in both.
To stand in rooms where I once felt like a stranger and know I deserved to be there.
I have seen what it means to be African in a world that often fails to see our full humanity.
To be underestimated. To be misunderstood.
But I have also seen the strength that comes from surviving that kind of silence.
Every African child who has walked this path knows what I mean.
We carry invisible weights.
The pressure to succeed. The responsibility to represent. The constant need to prove our worth.
But we also carry fire.
We are the children of ancestors who endured more than we can imagine.
We are the children of storytellers, builders, healers, and dreamers.
This post is for you.
For the future African child who will leave home and grow up far away.
You may feel lost. You may feel like you do not fully belong anywhere.
Let me tell you something.
You are not lost.
You are whole.
And you are not alone.
There will be days when you question your identity.
Days when your name is mispronounced, your skin is stared at, your traditions questioned.
There will be pressure to let go of one side of yourself just to fit in.
But you do not have to choose.
You are not either-or.
You are both. You are many.
You are not divided. You are layered.
You are not a question mark. You are an answer.
As I write this on the Day of the African Child, I reflect on what it means to belong to a continent even when you live far away from it.
I have not forgotten where I come from.
And I have not given up on where I am going.
One day, I will return.
Not only to visit, but to contribute.
Not only to remember, but to help rebuild.
Not only to see Africa again, but to help shape her future.
Because the real dream is not only about surviving in foreign lands.
The dream is to take what we have learned and bring it home.
To return with knowledge, with compassion, with vision.
To heal what was broken.
To create what is still missing.
To build a future where African children no longer have to leave to find hope.
If you are a young African growing up between worlds, I want you to know this:
You are not a mistake. You are a bridge.
You are part of something powerful.
A generation that is rising quietly, confidently, across borders and oceans.
And when we return, we will not return as strangers.
We will return as leaders, builders, healers, and artists.
We will return as the generation that rose in exile and came back to help Africa rise too.
From one African child to another,
I see you.
I believe in you.
And I am walking this path with you.
Happy Day of the African Child.
We are not lost.
We are rising.
By Moraa Ogeto
