Some people visit Africa once in their lifetime to marvel at expansive savannas or subtropical woodlands. Their exotic destination was my home. I grew up completely spoiled by the accessibility of wild places. Africa was my playground. I’d taken a drink from the source of the Zambezi River and stood in its spray at the Victoria Falls. I’d seen waves kiss the beaches of Lake Malawi, caught my first tiger fish in Lake Tanganyika, visited black townships in South Africa and knew about ‘apartheid.’ I’d eaten elephant, hippo, and various village foods I didn’t recognize. But in America, I was an alien with no desire to fit in. I have a Zambian birth certificate and an American passport. How does one qualify as being from a place? Surprising and hilarious in turns, Made in Africa is the story of my quest for identity, belonging and home. Who said an African-American has to be black?