Under African skies sit trees with blooming fruits and green fields, lush with rainy season harvest. There are children with eggshell white smiles that are bigger than the dreams their villages ever promised. There are playful mothers who dance alongside their children summoning the Gods to protect and provide for them. Under African skies, there are hearts damaged by neglect and abuse but protected by tough skin that glows effervescent in the suns radiance. There are rusty bikes and fried breads. There are toys made out of banana leaves and plastic bags that always make children excited to play–resourcefulness helps to balance the trials of life and loss and all of the painful predictability of the have-nots. Under African skies, I have been introduced to some of the greatest hardship I have seen anywhere in the world. It is reflected in the scars on ****** bodies who inherit disease and poverty from their parents–in the crumbling homes and failing roofs–in swollen bellies and on naked newborns. Under African skies, I have met industrious people who are steadfast in their work of giving their kin and kind a different chance. In African skies, I have seen clouds change in a moments time creating new seas of colorful patterns I’ve only seen in magazines. I’ve watched the sun set, seen nights roll in accompanied by unannounced heavy rains that make lullabies on tin roofs. I have seen stars sparkle when the whole village turns black. I have looked up, praying on each star that the children will blossom like the fruits on the trees–that they will shine like the teeth in their smiles and dew on their faces. I hope that rain will come again unannounced, and that it will clean and clear the way for another tomorrow–for a new day where what is under the sky will be just as beautiful as what is above.