I've been hiding for seven years now, and moving into my eighth. This isn't my uncovering. This isn't my break-out, let-go, be-free. These are words. These are somehow not even guaranteed to be my words, but they come from my mouth, and maybe from inside.

 I've been hiding for seven years; and half of that, not knowing. I became a person living here, in America, in June of 89, the summer before high-school started. I stood with bare feet on the not-yet carpeted floor of our first house in this country. I was bare-footed, but the blisters starting were on the inside.

 When I lived in Nigeria, where I lived for the fourteen years before I came here, my friends, the boys who played soccer with me, were bare-footed. They weren't good friends, I didn't even know them. They came off the road in front of my house to play soccer with the buturdis, the white boys, and left afterwards to go back to their shacks, and me into our house to eat. They were bare-foot because the only shoes they could find (hard rubber soles), gave them worse blisters than going without. I wasn't barefoot. My parents said, "Wear shoes, or you'll get hook-worms."

 I've been here, on campus, for nearly 3 and a half years. When I first came I knew MKs who went barefoot because they had at home. I went bare-foot for a while, but my feet got cold, so I stopped.

 I listen to some African music now. The drums, the beat, the beautiful voices. When I was in Nigeria I was bored by the sound of traditional Nigerian music; it irritated me. In high-school in the U.S. I listened to oldies and top-forty. When I came here to Taylor, MK's listened to music from their countries, owned instruments. I played along. I drummed. I was ashamed of not knowing Nigerian music. I was ashamed of not having liked it. I love the sound of drums now; I can't keep my hands still. I can't keep a rhythm, though.

 Let me tell you a story. When I was in Ninth grade I had a Physical Science class. One day someone asked me if I was a Republican or a Democrat, and I had no idea what they were talking about. They spent the next ten minutes trying to convert me, some of them as a Republican, some as a Democrat. I said I'd be a Democrat, because the girl talking about Democrats was pretty. I didn't care about it, but I was happy because someone was noticing me for a little while. My third year there, at the same high school, I had someone ask me if I was new. I didn't talk much. I didn't know what to say. I started watching sports. I knew more stats than most people; I thought I cared about it. I cared about it because it gave me something to talk about. I can't remember any conversations with any of the people at my high school that didn't relate to sports, issues I learnt were important: abortion, capital punishment, and God. These are not bad things to talk about, but my soul was closing, and it's taken a long time to remember it's there at all.

 I have some African shirts. I didn't wear Nigerian clothes in Nigeria. I have them because my parents bought them. I wanted them too, but when I left Nigeria, I wouldn't have thought to buy them. I wouldn't have thought to buy Nigerian art, clothes, food, anything. I didn't know how desperate I would become for something to prove I love the country that lives inside me still. Now I try. Now I'm interested in the art, clothes, music, but it's not enough. It's too hard to add pieces when the core's not really there.

 I've thought so long that there's a place in me that's solid, where the person I am is basic, and where the most important beliefs or experiences of my life are. If there was such a part of me, it is gone. It has been broken. It has been scattered, and the pieces don't fit comfortably under my skin anymore. The pieces leap out at the most unexpected moments. I feel some days as if my life in Nigeria was a dream, so far away, and then without warning, I want with everything in me to hear the pounding of rain on a tin roof, rainy season, the green smell of grass, Nigerian grass, and rain harder than anything I've seen since, and these pieces are so strong I can't believe I want anything else, other than just to stand and feel the rain washing me clean, filling me up, making me whole. Then, a day later, I can't remember any of the smells -- I can't remember -- and have no way to bring it back, and I go days without thinking about it. The pieces of my center catch in my brain some days and I scream, and I don't know why I'm screaming. Other days I want to scream but I can't feel anything. Most of the time, I just want to be whole. Most of the time, I just want to go home. I don't have a home.

 I love my country, but I've never been there. I love my God, but I've never seen Him. My parents decided to be in Nigeria, and I'm so glad for that decision. They decided to come back. I'm not angry about that. I belong here as much as anywhere, but I'd rather be elsewhere.

 When I came to this country I stopped talking. These aren't really my words. This is reflex. My words are not Hausa, Tiv, or English. My language is not one I've ever spoken. I cannot even pray in my native tongue. I use the pieces of my core to speak and think it honesty; "I am from Nigeria: I wear a Nigerian shirt sometimes; I listen to African music from Zaire, I have memories of being there . . . but I cannot prove I'm from Nigeria. I cannot even prove it to myself. My parents are American. I am an American citizen. My words are English. I scream in my language, but have never been able to translate it. I am proud of this country often. I am hurt by this country often. I am an American. I cannot say that without screaming, but I don't know what I'm screaming. I am black and white, and inside me there is no trace of either, just red everywhere.

 Jesus is a man. He sang songs with flesh lungs and mouth. He held hands with other flesh hands. He tripped over stones. He drank water. He created all water. He walked on water. He was born, red all over. He cried and cried and cried. He was cried over when he cut his finger as a child. He was cried over later on, "I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness, repent."

 He ate bread and fish. He broke them over and over and over, baskets full from five.

 He wore clothes his mother made, but the lilies, which He made, had more splendor. He drank water given to him by his friends, but He knew He was eternal water, always quenching. He could not speak plainly. He opened His mouth and Aramaic came out, but the stories were telling of the Word, unutterable, standing in front of them. He screamed, "My God, my God, why have You forsaken me." He was God. The scream of God is not translatable.

 I am not Jesus, but I am His brother. I am not from Nigeria. I am not from America. I am not of this world, but I must live in it. I cannot pray in my true language, but I have been given an interpreter. I cannot understand my scream, but I know all creation groans along with me. I have no home, but I am not alone. I have no country, but I have a king. I cannot speak, but God's word lives in me.