My grandma’s house was always full. The hinges on the front door were almost invisible. In the heart of Cleveland, Ohio, not a side town along the way, but real Cleveland, is where I stayed. In the white paneled house with red shutters that shaded
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The tap is leaking. I know this is not the first words I should say to you. ‘The tap is leaking’ is not a conversation opener anywhere. I wouldn’t say it to a dashing young man at the downtown bar on Osborne Street. Don’t get me wrong. You can say it to a stranger with a seductive smile if you
“If y’all weren’t so difficult, maybe it’ll be easier to get a man.” “Y‘all? Difficult?”
The day Chiamaka disappeared, her father left the house in precisely three pieces. The first
The Traveling Refugee. She watched her ancestors burn and hang. In the land of the free. In the land of the brave. They have
It is 2014. You are a Nigerian living in the United States. You are the parent of a U.S.-born child. The immigration authorities have
I. Places that I am terrified of returning to: Shitty $49-a-night motels with dingy sheets and showers overrun with mildew smelling of sweat, cigarettes,
At the produce markets that populated Church Avenue, if someone cut in line or pushed her while trying to squeeze past, my mother would
Once, a former co-worker of mine stopped me in the middle of working, calling my name. I turned to him, with no malice or
“If y’all weren’t so difficult, maybe it’ll be easier to get a man.” “Y‘all? Difficult?” I repeat the triggering words as if they can somehow mean something else. They sting differently when they come from a man who shares the same melanin as me. My co-worker’s boyfriend, Aaron, proudly sporting his old grey Howard sweatshirt, loves to patronize me for
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The day Chiamaka disappeared, her father left the house in precisely three
1. The day my sister disappeared, the uncomfortable red hue of the
When Helen lands in her birth country, nobody is there to greet
“Good lord, girl. You swelling!” The girl looked down at her belly,
It was called “Tika Zika”. They gave us instructions to lock ourselves away from each other. No neighbors, friends, nothing–no matter what. My niece
The fireflies hovered in front of me, their green bodies emitting a radio buzz with their wings. Crickets hummed and perched themselves in trees
On the first night the stars fell, the whole suburb rushed out of their beds and looked out their windows to see what kind
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 winds bouncing off the gulf swaddle Fleur’s bare head as she stands at its fringes, and almost with the same delicacy her brother
At the produce markets that populated Church Avenue, if someone cut in line or pushed her while trying to squeeze past, my mother would hurl the harshest obscenity that came to mind, “Fuck!” It was in fact one of her favorites because
Once, a former co-worker of mine stopped me in the middle of working, calling my name. I turned to him, with no malice or annoyance, planting my hands on my hips, eyes wide, preparing either for work-related rumors, or a request for
“I love your hair. You did it yourself?” “Aww, thank you. I wish. I can’t cornrow.” “Wait, you’re a little Black girl and you don’t know how to cornrow?” Correction: I’m a whole 30-something Black woman who doesn’t know how to cornrow.
“Then [Noah] sent out a raven, which kept going to and fro until the waters had dried up from the earth.” Genesis 8:7 As a child, I wanted to change my name. This desire was not particularly novel; children sometimes want to
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,
“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 the speakers of the old boom box was me. Steady and brilliant, that voice spoke to a part
The girl you ask to dinner will never show you her true face. Her deep, caramelized skin is carefully concealed beneath layers of formality and mistrust. She runs through her standard list of questions in her head as she is seated across
My story will be faithful to reality, or at least to my personal recollection of reality, which is the same thing. The events took place in the Fall of 2018 after a Michael and Janet Jackson themed lip-sync competition at Sidetracks in
