An African Song is the story of a woman’s transformation — not through grand achievements, but through surrender to a land that asked everything of her. The “song” is a metaphor for how Africa spoke to me — not in words, but in winds, in silence, in lions’ roars and elephant footprints. It is also the song of my own soul, which I only began to hear clearly once I let go of the noise of my former life. I wrote this book to honour that music — fragile, fierce, dissonant at times, but always deeply alive.

It was in the making for decades, really — every time I sat under an acacia tree with dust on my boots and gratitude in my heart, a line of this book was forming inside me. But in terms of actual writing, it took me about two years. Some days were easy — the words flowed like the Mara River. Other days were hard — especially when memory came with pain. But once I started, I knew I had to finish. I owed that to the land, and to the woman I’ve become here.

Because silence can become a prison. For years I carried these experiences quietly — the joys, the struggles, the astonishing beauty of this life. But I realized that unless I told them, they might vanish with me. And I want people to know that it’s possible to lose everything you thought you needed, and still build something meaningful. I wanted to speak to other women, especially, who are trying to find their own voice — or their own wilderness.

The chapter about the Maasai women is the one closest to my heart. Those women taught me more about strength, grace, and dignity than any book or school ever could. In empowering them through education, healthcare, and opportunity, I was also being empowered — to be more grounded, more honest, more human. We grew together, across cultures, across languages, as women who were learning to find their voice. Their resilience and laughter shaped me. Their friendship helped me heal.

Anyone who’s ever felt restless in the life they were supposed to love. Anyone who’s ever looked out a window and whispered, there must be more than this. It’s also for people who love Africa, or who want to understand what it means to fall in love with a place that is not where you were born — but where your soul wakes up.

Telling the truth — not just to the reader, but to myself. There were chapters of my life I had tucked away in emotional drawers, thinking they were dealt with. Writing this book meant opening those drawers, sitting with my past without judgment. Also, finding the right words for feelings born in silence — in the shadow of Kilimanjaro, in the pain after my accident, in moments of spiritual loneliness — that was difficult. But it was also liberating.

Yes, I learned that memory has its own rhythm. Some days, I remembered details I thought I had forgotten — the sound of a lion at dusk, the shape of a Maasai woman’s smile when she received her first medical assistance. I also learned that I am stronger than I believed, and more tender than I allowed myself to admit. Writing the book reminded me that the woman I am today was built by the land, the people, and the pain — not in spite of them, but through them.

That courage doesn’t have to roar. Sometimes it whispers. Sometimes it limps. And sometimes it simply stays, even when leaving would be easier. I hope people will understand that Africa is not a backdrop for adventure — it’s a teacher. And that real change — in the world, in ourselves — comes from love, from connection, and from the willingness to listen.

Africa keeps writing new chapters for me. So perhaps, yes. I’ve thought about exploring more deeply the women I’ve met, the intimate ways the land continues to shape me even now. But I also think the next chapter might not be written — it might be lived. For now, I want to give this book space to breathe, to reach others. To find the readers who need it.

Be kinder to yourself. Trust that you don’t need to be perfect to be worthy of love — from others, or from yourself. The pain you fear will one day be your teacher. And the love you dream of? It exists — not always in the way you imagined, but more profound, more real. Also: never underestimate the power of silence, of animals, of wilderness. They will heal you when words cannot.

Africa is not a place — it’s a presence. It will enter your bones before you realize it. It’s the vastness of a savannah under starlight, the hush of dawn broken by birdsong, the eyes of an elephant who sees into you. It’s beauty and brutality, joy and sorrow, often in the same breath. To come here is to be stripped bare — and remade. If you let her, Africa will show you who you really are.

Being Italian, I arrived with a romantic spirit — I looked for beauty, for poetry, for harmony in the chaos. But Africa taught me a deeper kind of beauty — not polished, not predictable, but raw and alive. In return, Africa brought me back to something ancient in my Italian soul — the earth-based femininity of my grandmothers, the village spirit, the sacredness of shared meals and simplicity. Italy taught me to feel. Africa taught me to listen. The two don’t cancel each other — they complete each other.

Beryl Markham, without a doubt. Her book West With the Night made me realize that it was possible to write about Africa with both intimacy and humility. She didn’t try to explain the continent — she simply shared how it shaped her. That stayed with me. I was also influenced by Laurens van der Post — not just for his stories of Africa, but for how he explored the inner world through the outer one.

Out of Africa by Karen Blixen, of course, though I’ve always read it with some distance. Her Africa was different from mine, but I appreciated the way she captured the emotion of the landscape. I also loved The Shadow of the Sun by Ryszard Kapuściński — his observations were sharp and thoughtful. More recently, I Dreamed of Africa by Kuki Gallmann resonated with me — parts of it felt deeply familiar.

About the book, I’m proud that I found the courage to tell the truth — not just the beautiful parts, but the painful ones too. I didn’t write to impress; I wrote to be honest. About my life here, I’m proud of having created something meaningful with the community. I’m proud of the trust we built with the Maasai, and of the role I played in empowering women, protecting Nature, and raising my family in a way that felt true to our values.

That simplicity is not a sacrifice — it’s a gift. When we arrived in Africa, we lived in a tiny tent for two years, without running water or electricity, and I was never more alive. When you strip away the noise, you hear yourself more clearly. You learn patience. You notice the details — the wind, the smell of the earth, the rhythm of the day. We often think progress means adding more; but sometimes, real progress is learning to live with less, and with more awareness.

It’s essential to me. I don’t follow a strict religion, but I do believe in something greater — a force that connects us to each other, to Nature, to time. So many moments in my life felt too precise to be random: the people I met, the turns I took, even the pain I endured. There’s a thread running through it all, and I trust it. I’ve learned that when you let go a little, life meets you halfway.

Yes. Without hesitation. Even the hardest parts, I would live again. Because they shaped me. Because this life gave me a sense of purpose I didn’t have before. Because I found a home I didn’t know I was looking for.

Perhaps I would have been gentler with myself in the early years. I carried a lot of self-doubt, and I put immense pressure on myself to be perfect. But I don’t regret the choices. I think we all do our best with what we know at the time. Life is not meant to be clean or controlled — it’s meant to be lived.

If you’re writing your story — write it for yourself first. Don’t worry about how it will be received. Just be honest. The truth always finds its reader. If you’re thinking of moving to Africa — come with open eyes and a humble heart. Don’t come to change anything. Come to learn, to observe, to listen. Africa doesn’t need saving. But she welcomes those who are willing to walk beside her, not ahead of her.

Very hard. So many moments felt important — small ones, too, not just big events. The challenge was to choose what carried the emotional truth of each phase of my life, without overwhelming the reader. I had to let go of some stories I loved, and trust that the essence would still come through.

Yes. There was a story about an old Maasai midwife I met in the early days. She had delivered hundreds of babies and told me things about life and death that I’ve never forgotten. It didn’t quite fit into the flow of the chapters, but I still carry her voice with me.

Yes. And that was the most emotional part for me. They saw sides of me they didn’t fully know — especially the painful moments I had kept quiet about. But they were incredibly supportive. They felt proud, and I think it helped us connect more deeply. It was a gift, really.

It’s true that I was born into privilege in Italy — but when I chose to follow my heart to Africa, that privilege didn’t follow me. I never wrote about it in the book because it was painful, but I was disinherited by my father. I left home with nothing but a small bag of clothes, a toothbrush, and a dream that many called foolish. That was my first step into Africa — not with wealth, but with willpower. So while I may have come from a certain background, my life here started with nothing but love, determination, and a deep respect for the people around me. I didn’t want to impose; I wanted to learn. And I never saw the Maasai through the lens of comparison — I saw them as teachers, friends, fellow humans with a different wisdom. Privilege becomes an obstacle only when it builds walls. But losing it taught me how to build bridges instead.

Kenya has changed enormously. When I arrived, life moved more slowly — not just because of the roads or the systems, but because people still had time: to sit, to share stories, to look each other in the eye. There was space between moments. Now, everything is faster — more digital, more ambitious, more outwardly connected. There is undeniable beauty in that progress: education has expanded, young people are innovating, and opportunity is blooming in many corners. But I sometimes fear what might be left behind. That closeness to land, to community, to silence — it's harder to hold onto now. The rhythm of life feels more hurried, more transactional. The challenge isn’t progress — it’s remembering who we are while we move forward. As the Basuto proverb quoted in Something of Value warns: “Before you take away a man’s customs, make sure you have something of value to replace them with.” That remains true — in Africa, and everywhere.

It will depend on respect — for culture, for Nature, for truth. The Maasai are at a crossroads, like many indigenous communities. There’s pressure to modernize, to conform. But there’s also strength in their identity. I believe conservation must include their voice — not as a token, but as leaders. Tourism has the potential to support this — if it’s done with integrity. Not mass tourism. Not extractive tourism. But real, regenerative travel. The kind that helps protect land and uplift people. That’s what we’ve tried to do. It’s possible. But it needs vision.

Africa will always be my anchor — the place where I return to find myself, where the silence speaks to me more clearly than words. I want to stay close to the land, to keep walking slowly, to keep learning. But I also feel the pull to explore more of the world — to experience other cultures, to connect with people who live differently, and to share stories across borders. What I wish for is a balance: between rootedness and curiosity, stillness and movement. Between giving and receiving. Whatever comes, I hope to live it with grace — and with open eyes and heart.

Yes — we’re working on a print version now. I’d also love to record an audiobook in my own voice, because I believe stories carry a different weight when spoken. It’s something I feel strongly about — to offer the story in a way that feels personal, as if I’m sitting with the listener.

Yes. This book is not just about me. It’s about a place that changed me. It’s about people who taught me how to live with less fear and more truth. If someone finds comfort, courage, or recognition in these pages, then it was worth writing. I didn’t set out to teach. I just wanted to share. And maybe that’s what we all need more of — real stories, told with heart.