Dear God, It’s your Ugandan daughter, with the 4C hair. As you know, I was born in Mengo Hospital between day and night. My mother grumbled often that I was a literal pain in her gut. I was yellow like custard as a newborn bun.
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Jocelyn found it hard to focus on the date, although it had been the only thing occupying her mind until she got the text from her daughter. And just like that, she was split in half. Part of her brain trying to decide which dress could accommodate her extra pounds and the other part worrying about how she should respond
Sydnee glanced at her phone and saw a text from her mother, Marilyn. Sometimes she
I typed the letter on a regular morning. But obviously, it was a courageous morning.
I typed the letter on a regular morning. But obviously, it was a courageous morning. I typed the letter in the dark because I
As Bill Withers plays in the background about grandma’s hands, I look down at my own. I have my grandmother’s hands. They are small
“My name is Tavonne Carson. I’m six years old.” If she hadn’t said my name, I wouldn’t have believed the little girl calling from
Hair like strong twine, sweet like the harvest of a California grape vine, to stop the spread of your smile is the worst crime,
Trina, I need you to stay inside for recess today. You are a little Black girl in a world that’s White. You are a
Short Stories
Sydnee glanced at her phone and saw a text from her mother, Marilyn. Sometimes she wished she had never taught her mother how to use her smartphone. She reluctantly unlocked her phone and read the disjointed message. Sydnee. Come get from church. Missed van. Marilyn didn’t ask Sydnee whether she was busy. Sydnee knew that her mother assumed since it
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“Again! And sit up straight! You’re slouching.” Naledi repositioned herself on the
Shattering glass echoes in my ears, snapping my head up from my
We arrived with our gods, walked them into the soil and braided
Sometimes she thought it must be loneliness that made her see things.
midnight - The Black Speculative fiction issue
The winds bouncing off the gulf swaddle Fleur’s bare head as she stands at its fringes, and almost with the same delicacy her brother
I text Alicia that I’m outside and when she responds, I’m already ringing the doorbell. the text was just a courtesy. whether she’s ready
I’m not good at being a witch. To say that I’m incompetent wouldn’t even cover it. My witchcraft is an amateur cocktail of earnest
The fireflies hovered in front of me, their green bodies emitting a radio buzz with their wings. Crickets hummed and perched themselves in trees
Mama always said the Devil is a lie. I remember thinking that before it happened. But Mama was wrong. The Devil isn’t some jealous
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Hair like strong twine, sweet like the harvest of a California grape vine, to stop the spread of your smile is the worst crime, voice melodic like summer wind chimes, spirit divine, little Black girl I love you all time. My mother,
We arrived with our gods, walked them into the soil and braided totems into our hair. Distance and time made memory a myth. The wind sang a lullaby that brought to mind lavender and lemons but the words were a mystery. She
Trina, I need you to stay inside for recess today. You are a little Black girl in a world that’s White. You are a first-grader. You can read. You are a leader. You know all of the sight words before I assign
It’s a typical spring morning – a slight chill, cloud cover, and the threat of rain. I can hear through my open window the calm before the storm. The birds are quiet this morning. Drivers making their way down the narrow street
As a kid, I remember the subject of race coming up twice in our family. The first time was when my brother began checking out the white girls in his grade. The second was when I began checking boxes for race on
I need to remind myself that Mama is human, that she is not endless love, and food, and sacrifice. But she makes it hard to do. When I tell you I was raised Catholic, I mean I was raised by Mama: a
I was ten years old when I first witnessed domestic violence. It was a hot summer day on Hobart street. Children were playing; adults were sitting on their steps and porches just watching the day go by as we often did. Suddenly
“If I didn’t define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people’s fantasies for me and eaten alive.” — Audre Lorde Dear Amaya, I waited so long for you. Well before your mother told me she was pregnant, I
