Syncretism
For good measure, she saw an obeah man,
exposing her long untouched breasts,
she stood trembling on the bathroom floor,
stepped into some muddy waters
of the bathtub, strapped a thin slice of pork
to her vagina.
Category: PREE 14
THE CLOUDS USED TO BE GRAND
I spent my days inside a cubicle, tacking digits into a spreadsheet, or sending emails — a bureaucratic ventricle that existed between crisscrossing red tape whose sole job, aside from busywork, was to pass the buck along. It wasn’t bad, especially surrounded by those in the same lot. And there was free water.
WASH BELLY
Nights transformed her. The cold cream smell as she slathered it on her face would draw me to her bedroom. Perched on her bed, I became not a future wife, but a treasured consigliere. She whispered obeah spells, taught me to commune with the dead and to sense evildoers’ vibrations. I learned to brew ancestor-calling potions and plant money-summoning shrubs.
The View from Belle Eau Road
Sometimes, to make Mummy happy, if I home on a Sunday morning I will take her to church in my SUV, so the neighbours could see how well her son did. But if it have a God, I ent feel him in that church. I think about him at thirty-six thousand feet, as if heaven just behind that fluffy white cumulus cloud in front the plane. Sometimes I slip in a little prayer to Olodumare. Though maybe is Shango I should be appeasing, god of thunder and lightning. I know about the Orishas from Granny. Is church all the way for Mummy, but Granny — Daddy’s mother — she make sure I know which power to pour a little libation to, and what signs from them to look out for
A Final Conversation with Mazola Wa Mwashighadi
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.
Unmothered, Unafraid, and Free: A Conversation with Camille U. Adams
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.
Bush Baths
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.
All is Not Lost in Translation
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.
The Things We Inherit, The Things We Let Go
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.
beautiful hand
Inclusion led her to an active shooter/
the barricade/hostage situation/
maintaining custody of a prisoner/
Outmanned – advance, can’t wait for backup
bi·sex·u·al
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
Blood Songs and other Poems
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.
