In Kenya, most people speak English and Swahili, and each tribe has its own language. My mother tongue is Kidawida. We were forced to speak English in school. If you spoke in vernacular, you had to wear a plug around your neck saying, “I am a vernacular speaker,” and later you would be punished.
In the book, I show my mother being a victim of domestic violence. I show her being mistreated in the worst ways by my father. Given that domestic violence, many people would say rubbish like, ‘well, she did her best’ or ‘be more empathetic’. I wanted to show the knife edge of someone who is abused and is a worse abuser. If you have been or are the victim of abuse and you turn around and abuse your own children, you are a monster.
Lady Dee’s Traditional Bush Bathes, Herbal Remedies and Ancient Luxuries for the Modern Woman was a sprawling chattel house overlooking the East Coast. Nestled at the end of a narrow cul-de-sac lined with smaller houses, its decadence surprised Monica. Lush coconut trees, gardens, and wild bush lined its perimeter, enclosed by a loose fence of sea grape trees with unusually plump blossoms.
Monumental global efforts were made to decipher the galactic federation’s languages. Human linguists managed to crack a few of them in a year, but problems arose. The xenobiology of the United Empire often didn’t match human physiology. Humans couldn’t mimic the beaked Camecian’s staccato chirping or the gilled Sisarua’s drone. We had the written languages down, but holovisual communication was awkward and fraught with errors.
From a young age, I learnt that strength was the absence of need. Being independent, untouchable, and unbothered meant that I was doing something right. It felt like a kind of pride. And living in the Caribbean, pride was an important tool to have in your belt.
Inclusion led her to an active shooter/
the barricade/hostage situation/
maintaining custody of a prisoner/
Outmanned – advance, can’t wait for backup
Pastor’s face clawed with sweat streaks
growl flinging spit and cracking
like guitar distortion
around you raised hands trembling
and praising your condemnation
Yes Lord’s and Hallelujah’s
quivering over cymbal crashes
feet stomping merciless
between the hardwood pews
We pretend we own the island.
We build malls where sugar once sang in the air,
boardwalks where fishermen once fixed their battered nets.
But the beasts remember.
Even now, under the new hotels, the new laws,
the old breath of the island stirs.
A wildness we cannot pave over.
A truth older than asphalt.
A kingdom of things that never needed our permission.
talking poetry, telling you about graduate studies timelines
and fiscal allocations across national gender bureaux
had i pretended you were just some summer fantasy
i wouldn’t have broken my promise of
writing you letters on colonial postcards
we exchanged for coins in Bookland
Frankie would obsessively check the mail, when it arrived. If the name on the back of an envelope was one he didn’t recognize, he’d wonder if the letter was written by his father. He would try to guess what type of person the sender was by analyzing the handwriting. Loopy letters meant someone who liked to laugh but wasn’t so strong, blocky letters meant stern, maybe someone who wore glasses, slanted letters meant someone who worked in an office, someone who wore a clean suit every day, maybe even on weekends.
Kinsale is a small village in Montserrat where she lived for a year when they left London in ‘67. Every child in Kinsale could swim except Clarice and her siblings. She would watch the children with envy while driving in the father’s car. The sheer laughter and absolute joy of the other children had been denied them. She wished then she could have simply jumped into the water on a Sunday afternoon.
In her newest series, Jamaican visual artist Roberta Stoddart takes on the discomforting task of inviting viewers into the Caribbean home-space to interrogate and disrupt the practice of incest, a reality we shudder to face and stammer to speak of in the Caribbean. Over six oil paintings, none larger than 20 x 15 inches, Stoddart tells the story of a Caribbean family attempting to hide wounds of incest inflicted within the home.
