Hi! This is supposed to be my common app essay. I feel that it is lacking something. Will really appreciate your Help with this. Thanks
If I could lend my heart words, if only I could put in 500 words what 18 years have failed to understand. Even now I find the prospects impossible, unintelligible even. Yet for expediency's sake I have managed to salvage this much from the confounding abyss of self I am African.
I am African each time I hear the lucid swish swoosh of the Dipo Yoo's raffia skirt as she trudges along the dusty walkways of my native Ada during her puberty rite. I watch every step as it ushers in the mellifluous clink of Krobo beads that sit regally across her voluptuous hips; each step telling of purity and juxtaposing it with the amoral blight of the contemporary African's soul. To me each step signifies the African soil's longing for the ones with whom it once shared a kinship a longing so strong it alliances with gravity to coerce our feet homeward. It is also a depiction of the constant struggle of today's African to remain true to his roots a struggle illustrated by the normal reaction of the earth against the Dipo Yoo's foot. Like the dust that swirls about an initiate's leg with each thud of her foot, I also encircle and embrace my Africanism, as I remain true to my ancestral roots and follow in step with the Dipo Yoo.
I am African. I am African each time I sit in a trotro and endure gloriously the rattling of my bones as it sweeps along the untarred roads leading homeward. Like the proverbial book that deserves better judgement than its cover entitles it to, the trotro conceals its resplendent African contents in the ramshackle, rust laden, cankered chassis of a moving metal bucket. Within those few moments spent promenading, Africa springs to life. Aboriginal values of courtesy, communal responsibility and oneness abound with a flourish. The drivers mate collects our fares with unaffected relish, I draw the windows backward to relieve old granny of the imposing chill, and beside us a Sisala man engages in an exchange with an Anlo woman. When my journey cones to its end, and I alight, I revel in the infinitesimal pleasures of my miniature Africa. Like my mother says, there was nothing before the trotro, and there will be nothing after.
I find therefore that, it is in these truly African moments that my being is given form. That it is these moments that have determined my bearing. My people say that the horn is not too heavy for the head that bears it. I was born African to be made African. If I could lend my heart words; if only I could put in 500 words what many more years have still to understand. But I realise now that 500 words are probably too many to profess this ď I am an African.
If I could lend my heart words, if only I could put in 500 words what 18 years have failed to understand. Even now I find the prospects impossible, unintelligible even. Yet for expediency's sake I have managed to salvage this much from the confounding abyss of self I am African.
I am African each time I hear the lucid swish swoosh of the Dipo Yoo's raffia skirt as she trudges along the dusty walkways of my native Ada during her puberty rite. I watch every step as it ushers in the mellifluous clink of Krobo beads that sit regally across her voluptuous hips; each step telling of purity and juxtaposing it with the amoral blight of the contemporary African's soul. To me each step signifies the African soil's longing for the ones with whom it once shared a kinship a longing so strong it alliances with gravity to coerce our feet homeward. It is also a depiction of the constant struggle of today's African to remain true to his roots a struggle illustrated by the normal reaction of the earth against the Dipo Yoo's foot. Like the dust that swirls about an initiate's leg with each thud of her foot, I also encircle and embrace my Africanism, as I remain true to my ancestral roots and follow in step with the Dipo Yoo.
I am African. I am African each time I sit in a trotro and endure gloriously the rattling of my bones as it sweeps along the untarred roads leading homeward. Like the proverbial book that deserves better judgement than its cover entitles it to, the trotro conceals its resplendent African contents in the ramshackle, rust laden, cankered chassis of a moving metal bucket. Within those few moments spent promenading, Africa springs to life. Aboriginal values of courtesy, communal responsibility and oneness abound with a flourish. The drivers mate collects our fares with unaffected relish, I draw the windows backward to relieve old granny of the imposing chill, and beside us a Sisala man engages in an exchange with an Anlo woman. When my journey cones to its end, and I alight, I revel in the infinitesimal pleasures of my miniature Africa. Like my mother says, there was nothing before the trotro, and there will be nothing after.
I find therefore that, it is in these truly African moments that my being is given form. That it is these moments that have determined my bearing. My people say that the horn is not too heavy for the head that bears it. I was born African to be made African. If I could lend my heart words; if only I could put in 500 words what many more years have still to understand. But I realise now that 500 words are probably too many to profess this ď I am an African.