As I write this, I am sitting outside on the porch of the Whispering Whale, a self-catering cottage in a tiny town called Jacobsbaai ("Jacob's Bay") on the desert-like West Coast of South Africa.  I am looking at the ocean, listening to the wind and the quiet, and I know I can sit here for days and not get bored.  But just 20 minutes away is the large town of Vredenburg (Dutch for "Peace Burg"), and when we stopped there on our way I couldn't wait to get out of the loudness and the busyness of that place that feels as if no one is there by choice.

And this, after all, is Africa.  The chaos and the beauty so close to each other, often within the same place and the same moment.  It's not for the faint-hearted, and the decision to live here, especially if you've lived elsewhere in the world for a while, is made for reasons that transcend the traditional Western values of consumerism and security. 

You live in Africa because you can't get it out of your blood.  You live here because you are placed here to make a difference.  You live here because you are compelled by the red earth and the redder sunsets to make a small contribution to the ongoing effort to save this place from itself, to preserve both the chaos and the beauty so that it can co-exist in harmony.  And you do it not for yourself, but for your children, and for generations to come.  You live here because you believe that Africa is not the dark continent it is made out to be, that it cannot be written off, that it is too precious and too fragile and too robust, that the world is making a big mistake if it thinks African countries cannot be successful, peaceful democracies.

And so I've had several conversations with my country in the past few weeks.  We're still fighting with each other, not coming to an agreement about my future here.  But I'm ok with that for now.  Because I know Africa will never retreat, never stop talking, never condemn me for taking so long to come back.  Make no mistake -- I know that Africa does not need me.  But I need it, desperately.  I need it to blow life into my calloused, Bay Area-rized bones.  And I need it because I was born here.  I am an African.