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
I never saw Nanny cry. Not even when her humble, eat-off-the-floor-clean basement apartment flooded repeatedly. Back in those terribly inconvenient
For as long as I can remember, my great-grandmother never let a night go by without turning on the electric
It was a terribly hot September. Though it drizzled now and then, the thick stagnant
What did it mean for a black woman to be an artist in our grandmothers’
Visiting my grandfather in North Carolina was nothing short of a civic wonderland. Before my
It wasn’t easy growing up so far away from close family. All of my mother’s
They say there are five stages of grief and that there is no order in
Pain \peyn\ n. 3a. Physical or bodily suffering; a continuous, strongly unpleasant or agonizing sensation
It is a Saturday, and the sweltering Nigerian sun seems to have a point to
My story will be faithful to reality, or at least to my personal recollection of
The past sticks with us forever, even when we change names or give up our
The girl you ask to dinner will never show you her true face. Her deep,
I guess I’ve been an art historian, informally I’d say I’ve always “geeked out over
I hear my student say that word and I’m not surprised. I knew this student
Dear God, It’s your Ugandan daughter, with the 4C hair. As you know, I was
“African-American girls always score higher than their white peers when it comes to self-esteem,” one
