With hands clasped around his gut, my father and I cruised down the wobbly lanes of Pouyatt and Crooks Street where the zinc fences that made homes glistened in the eventide light and old women sitting outside on multicolored buckets smiled at us in between thick, hearty laughter.
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Come 5 am, I was always awakened by the smell of ‘black disinfect’ (if you know you know) the sound of water hitting the pavement just outside the door and My Grandmother humming her church songs (her favourite was “One day at a time”) as she washed away the jumbies of the night before.
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Lisandro Suriel Since the dawn of women, Creole has haunted the junctions between...
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Marinna Shareef I’m the type of person who would like to be the best they can be...
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Kelley-Ann Lindo From a very young age I would always go to the waving gallery at the...
Read MoreBeatriz Llenín-Figueroa…j’écris en français pour dire aux Français que je ne suis pas français.Kateb Yacine, 1966 Crisis life. Life crisis. Crisis of life. Life of crisis. Crisis on life. Life on crisis. Crisis below life. Life...
Read MoreTiffany Walton If you don’t have an entire day to spare, then you need a pressure cooker to cook goat, oxtail or cow foot. You have to wash the meat good first. Water and vinegar, and if it’s fish, you use lime juice. We don’t...
Read MoreTANYA STEPHENS Random thought . . . I hope in 2018 feminism will have a little pride and at least pretend to be about the protection and empowerment of disenfranchised females, EVEN WHEN the aggressors are ALSO FEMALE. Hopefully...
Read MoreJAVED JAGHAI [This brief account was collated, with his permission, from a series of tweets by the author. Stories are being told, just not in the usual media.] I had an embarrassing experience in the summer of 2007 while...
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