Africa Haunting: Ontological Clarification Requested

And who shall I say is my mother?
That unremembered country so like a cloud
that sickened and pushed me out,
or, in fact, the mother
from whose womb I was vomited forth?

Why must I have doubt
about whom is my proper father?
Was it the weather
and humid clothes sodden with sweat?
Or was it God
to whom I was given as a present?

I am casting about for a soul
that would make me whole,
being born with skin
so thin it was almost transparent,
thus posed the question:
bound by continent or color of skin?

And who are my brothers?
Thick of lip or having no buttocks?
Nobody wins
in the war of wish over bias.
Today I doubt
if God could untangle it out
or, in turn, account
for the role my illnesses played.

In any case, God,
if God is truly my father, he remains aloof,
so that all that is left is forgiveness
and that helpless love
that binds a child to its mother
in beginning, end.