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jonathan “jcc” chan-choong poetry october 2024

Mixed race

Mixed face

Constant rejection, deflections

When I say my heritage


But I see everyone has a mixed taste

Fusion cuisine – ain’t that bitter and sweet

We like to have inclusion on our tongues

It’s easier to eat than make


As long as they care for a fraction, in a moment in time

They’ve done Diversity Inclusion Equity


Things must die before new beliefs are born

Yes, I’m Caribbean. Yes, there’s a story to tell. No, I don’t have to yell.


Just change the narrative.


We use new language, saying it’s inclusion.

We incorporate new nomenclature into the lexicon.


But ain’t that a funny word, nomenclature

Nomenclature

No men clature

No man’s culture


They barely believe us as their own

I guess unlearning and relearning is too much work

I ate curry with my hands last night

Food tastes sweeter off fingertips


Used chopsticks for dumplings the night before

And held my chopsticks from the top to live a long life


I dunk aniseed bread in pepper pot for christmas.


And I’ll eat pasta with a fork if I need a quick meal.


To be mixed isn’t fixed

I’m constantly learning what my ancestors did for me

The roots deep and twisted

This family tree in the amazon

Amidst colonial industrialization

Tall, strong, and why I breathe.


I am the stories I eat.


Jonathan “JCC” Chan-Choong is a Guyanese-Jamaican-Canadian poet and writer. Influenced by a multicultural/ multiracial background and ancestral stories, his work serves as a conduit towards self-understanding and identity. JCC is an active spoken word performer and workshop facilitator. He has been featured in publications, podcasts, and radio shows nationally and internationally. When not writing his own story, he’s helping socially driven organizations speak theirs as a copywriter. Find him on Instagram at @jayseesee.

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Decolonial Passage is honored to announce the 2024 nominations for the Best of the Net Anthology.  This list includes writing published between July 1, 2023 and June 30, 2024.  Congratulations to the nominees!


Poetry

“reflection” by Matthew E. Henry

“Embargo” by Fabienne Josaphat

“towncrier.” by Dana Francisco Miranda

“Reclamation” by Emma Ofosua Donkor

“Bones Beneath the Plow” by Joel Savishinsky

“O!” by Salimah Valiani


Short Stories

“Number Ninety-Four” by Mehreen Ahmed

“Home Affairs” by Otsile Sebele Seakeco


Creative Nonfiction

“Fading Away” by Ewa Gerald Onyebuchi

“Everything Disappears” by Eraldo Souza Dos Santos

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kevin irigoyen penatello poetry september 2024

I traced her chapped skin,

now blistered and bruised.

Waiting to be loved again,

for someone to peel back that withered layer.

Waiting for someone to look,

beneath the refuse and rust.


Like a prized fowl fit to roast,

stripped of her riches

and tied in economic despair,

but through unheeded calls

she is plucked and trussed.


The scars of planned failures

scratched deep into her flesh.

She is tired.

A once youthful Eden, now a graveyard.

No truer definition of a Boom and Bust.


Yet as another year passes,

and more of her structures falter,

we, her children, are being left without.

Ignoring her calls.

Blind to every flood and deadly gust.


Blind to what she really needs.

Clinging to a time long since passed.

Too consumed in self-pity to know,

that those who promised aid, never come,

are not benevolent and just.


She is lost, in part by a familiar hand.

More involved in her death, than we would like to admit.

Her memory washed away, right from beneath us.

Everything we had turned to dust. 


Kevin Irigoyen Penatello was born on the island of Borikén (Puerto Rico). His work focuses on Indigeneity, masculinity, and identity in the LatinX community. His most recent piece, “Don Macho,” was published with Somos en Escrito Literary Magazine. You can find him on instagram at kevinirigoyenpenatello.

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mon misir flash fiction september 2024

She raised the axe. Her grip, inexpert but powerful. The heft of the wooden shaft in her palm, the glint of the flared blade, droplets of rain reflecting the meagre light shining through the clouds. That first sundering had seemed so impossible. A primal roar ripped through her in release as her triceps tightened and loosened and the blade fell with her breath. It didn’t do much damage, but she had all the time in the world for this.

Her strength was depleted from the time she spent in this place already, the months of her life she used to feed this thing in place of her own growth. It could contain her, this patch of land, that was hers. It could encase her human form, just barely, yet with ease consume all she ever was. Her chest heaved, sweat pooling between her breasts as she lifted her arms high again.

The descent split the planter that she had so lovingly made. It was a struggle to separate the axe from where she had lodged it, so she abandoned the weapon and dropped to her hands and knees, fingers groping through the moist soil for roots. She felt the cuts in her fingers responding, pulsing. Fibers of her flesh pulled away from each other, eagerly stretching to split themselves and moisten this earth alongside the rain. The feeling too familiar, she withdrew before the roots latched on to drain more from her. She was here to end this. She yearned for some destruction with her bare hands and pressed her palms together, compressing the head of a buoyant red bloom, the feathered petals slight and delicate; its spiral offshoots usually layered and lifted, rubbed between her hands until they fell away, curled into themselves, with white seams cleaving through the clot of red.

She brushed off her hands, staggered to the communal shed, and found the large shears. They trailed behind her as she returned to her plot. Her blood streaked down the handle as she adjusted her grip. She dug the shears into where her hand had reached and sliced along the rivulets of her blood, opening and closing the blades as if hacking at weeds. They weren’t weeds. She had created something beautiful — at least, to a fresh eye she was sure it would be, but to her these bloated buds were decay even when bursting into bloom, in that moment when they were all potential and wonder. She could find beauty in other things, she knew, at lower cost. She hacked at each exposed bit of root until it was too weak to hold on and the soil released it to her destruction. Uncoupling, extracting, discarding.

As she proceeded, any remaining tightness in her movements released, her attention drawn inwards, her mind in her body. Suddenly, she was gripped by the strong desire to burn these roots and dance on their ashes. She wanted to dance. She carried the shears to the spout and rinsed off her blood into the communal drain before returning them and taking a large fork. With that, she tossed the earth.

Everything she had learned to rear these plants, she used to destroy them; every kind word she had thought to help them grow, she reclaimed for herself. The contraction of the muscles in her thigh, her knee joint swinging forward, her heel pressing down, her biceps finding the strength to pull up; the rhythm — it felt like dancing, like a prayer to herself. And she was so afraid it would feel like sacrilege. At the thought, she let out a laugh. She invited each breath to reach the deepest part of her lungs to mark the moment she carried the feeble stems to the compost, dropped them in; never returned again.


Mon Misir (she/they) is a writer and recovering lawyer based in London, UK. They use their writing to explore facets of their experience as a Black woman, with a speculative bent. When not writing, they enjoy reading, theatre (musical and otherwise) and learning how to wield a longsword. She has won nothing, doesn’t have it together at all and is working on a short story collection titled Am I Supposed To Be Here? This is their first publication. You can find their links at NomOnBooks. You can also find Mon directly on Instagram at nom.on.books and on TikTok at nomonbooks.

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regine jackson poetry september 2024

We stand in the shadows of silent expectations

Where the complex intersections of our identities

Is not enough to halt the deceiver lurking,

Trying to distort our clarity

Whispering all these shape-shifting falsehoods

About growing up in the hood

In the bounds of certain zip codes

Where the gag to our growth

Are street names and avenues

And you’re looked down upon

Even when people on the other side of the gate

Look just like you


Today, we have chosen visceral silence

And as we tiptoe to peer over the

Tops of your white picket fences

We choose to peel our ears back

To hear the world’s tiniest djembe

Playing just for us


We’ve done the same to our eyes

Your green grass just isn’t as lush anymore

And the veneer of your backyard

Has no way of burying our tenacity too deep


We can’t imagine how the earth aches underneath your feet

And how the blackened and caked nails of our

Ancestors gone to dust weep and

Sigh as you decry

A spoiled bloodline that didn’t have a chance

To rise to the same height as you did


The Great Deceiver has fractured the histories and culture

That weave our realities

But once we realize our neighbors are no kaleidoscope images

Disjointed from just poor choices and bad judgements


We can mirror our hopes and dreams

And maybe we can see each other without the cracks


Regine Jackson is a writer based in Springfield, Massachusetts, specializing in science fiction, horror, and fantasy short stories. She also explores themes of inner-city life, mental health, and womanhood through poetry and prose. In 2022, Jackson received the Straw Dogs Writers Guild Emerging Writer Fellowship, and her work has appeared in the 2024 Massachusetts Bards Anthology, Pán•o•ply, Gnashing Teeth Publishing, Red Rose Thorns Lit Mag, A Queen’s Narrative: Heavy is the Crown Anthology and the Reimagining New England Histories Project. For more details, visit reginejackson.com or @theflimsyquill on Instagram.

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Pauline peters poetry september 2024

i.

to the beautiful, flexible gods

amenable and fluid,

to all the gods warped and wefted

on a loom with common thread,

to the clay gods shaped and curved and smoothed,

holding the fullness of grain,

to all the cool gods of fresh running water.

to all the shining gods of lucent, precious stone,

to all the masks of gods danced barefoot in the dust,

to all the gods whose name means: “I am singing the river,”

to the gods of the long and sinuous song.

and always to the gods who look out from the center of your eyes,

and to all the shining gods of air and light and breath,

and then, at last, to the irresistible gods of stillness and silence and death


ii.

the old gods sleep beneath the earth, the very ground is their mantle.

yearly they rise, dream-thick, rubbing sleep from their far-seeing eyes.

they shake the heavy red clay out of their dark, kinked, hair,

wearing nothing but tangled red stories girded around their loins.

we approach them and lay down the sweet-smelling grass,

we offer trays of honey, sweet pomegranates, and wine.

they dine and then they listen, grim, with sympathetic ears –

there is so little time and soon they will slip beneath the earth again.

how do we offer up our prayers and fears?

how do we wear our sadness?

will we burn? and will the Earth?

will water rain down to save us?

is it too late? and is it too late?

is it now forever too late?


Headcount

I was not born, I was fashioned in a furnace by the hand of a smith.

I was beaten black, fire my cradle, the blazing foundry my home.

I was wrought with the strength of his muscled, ashen arm,

his forehead creased and sweat-drowned, me, the dark tool of his making.

Laminar and ductile I was shaped, pliable, easy to use.


But when worn out by his labours, the ironsmith sleeps abyssal,

my black-winged soul rises, tracing a pattern across the sky.


It touches down shadow-soft to peck at the night-wet grass,

foraging for ground news, of those lives still caught,

imprisoned and chained, tied to the heat of the forge,

and those fleeing with desperate breath, straining for winged flight.


Pauline Peters is a queer African-Canadian writer living in Toronto, the territory of Mississaugas of the Credit, the Anishnabeg, the Chippewa, the Haudenosaunee and the Wendat peoples. Her poems investigate themes of race, myth, ancestry, spirituality, and nature. Her aim is to create poems whose themes combine to create a holistic expression. Her work has been published in The Fiddlehead, PRISM international, Prairie Fire, The Malahat Review, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, The Salted Woman, was published in Britain by Hedgespoken Press. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has work forthcoming in Best Canadian Poetry 2025.

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sangeetha g short story september 2024

The bright morning sun could not take away the chillness of the crisp mountain breeze swollen with the woody freshness of cypress leaves. Tourists in tees, shorts, and fancy western dresses were overflowing on the narrow roads. They smiled standing close to the trees, flowers, name boards and every other little thing they thought unique to the hill station in a desperate hurry to capture them in their mobile cameras. They forgot to enjoy the sights with their eyes and store them in their memories. 

The old colonial structure housing a prestigious club of the elite in the heart of town was likewise not spared. Travellers posed for selfies with the building in the backdrop. The security made a stern look dissuading them from venturing into the premises.

“Mr Narayanan asked me to meet him here,” I told the guard. 

“There he is,” he said, pointing towards a top-end sedan parked in the lawn of the club house.

A tall slim man who looked fit for his age emerged from the car. What struck me most was the mismatch between the real persona and the image the name had created. He wore his three-piece suit to perfection. His formal black shoes that glistened, his perfectly made necktie tucked into the vest, his brooch styled after the British crown on the lapel of his coat, for a moment, transported me to a ballroom. His hair was immaculately cut with each strand gelled to another. The closely shaven visage and manicured fingernails could impress anyone. He looked every bit an English gentleman, but anachronistic to a milieu where hundreds of tourists thronged the streets in their casual best.

He clasped my hand in a tight grip while his face turned pink with warmth and excitement. A certain energy beyond his age emanated from him and passed on to me. “I am extremely glad you paid a visit,” he said.

“The pleasure is mine.”  

He invited me into the club house. “This was built in the 1800’s by the British who would retreat to this hill from the hot sultry weather of Chennai. The structure was strongly built to stay for centuries.”  As he pointed towards a plush sofa with the pride of a privileged member of the club, I took a wide look at the large wooden beams and pillars of the British era construction. 

“While we talk about freedom struggle and British invasion, we forget the fact that the British have made several contributions in our path towards modernity,” he said. “Look at this hill station. The flora — the Cypress trees, eucalyptus, wattle, acacia, pine and tea are among the vestiges of the colonial era. Balsam, petunia, begonia are just a few among the flowering plants that make this hill station exotic. They painstakingly brought each plant and each seed in their ships from the other side of the globe.”

“From uniting the country to leading it in the path of industrialisation, their contributions cannot be dismissed.” I nodded my head without getting into a debate. “They brought a train up this hill from the plains. We won’t dare do that even today.”

“And this was a club they let Indians in since inception.” His appreciation for what he thought a privilege was immense. “Shall I order tea for you?” He chose to cash that privilege in the form of tea.

He gestured to the waiter to take orders. A few minutes later the manager of the club came closer. “Sorry to interrupt. Can I have a word with you,” she asked him.

“Please excuse me for a second,” Mr. Narayanan said as he walked behind her towards the office. 

When he came back, he looked disturbed and embarrassed. “I am extremely sorry. They have a dress code issue. Can we move into another room?” He bent his back a bit and whispered, “My apologies.”     

I became aware of my appearance. I wore a blue tee, grey track pants, and two-strap slides. My face displayed stubbles that had sprouted after the previous day’s shave. I was carrying a cheap transparent plastic bag filled with a bunch of carrots freshly bought from a street vendor. I had not made any attempt to ape an English gentleman to enter these premises. 

“No worries,” I did not feel inadequate. Instead, I tried to make him feel at ease.

He took me to an adjacent room, which looked like an enclosed corridor. An old wooden table painted with cheap yellow-coloured varnish and a long wooden bench were squeezed into the narrow room. His face remained pale with embarrassment. The waiter brought tea in two glass tumblers similar to the ones used by street-side vendors. He placed the tea on the table and left. I sipped the tea, which was unusually strong for me. My host looked at the tumbler with contempt and refused to touch it. As soon as I finished the tea, he got up and made a phone call. 

“My daughter and grandson are coming today from London for a fortnight-long holiday,” he said. 

“Oh! Hope you are not late. I shall take leave now,” I got up and shook his hands. His grip was no longer firm, and he lacked the enthusiasm with which he greeted me some time before. I walked past the gate and looked back once again at the British relic.  


Sangeetha G is a journalist in India. Her flash fiction and short stories have appeared in Sky Island Journal, Down in the Dirt, Academy of the Heart, Mind, Kitaab International, Indian Review, Nether Quarterly, Muse India, Storizen, The Story Cabinet, and Borderless Journal. Her stories have won the Himalayan Writing Retreat Flash Fiction contest and Strands International Flash Fiction contest. Sangeetha G’s debut novel, Drop of the Last Cloud, was published in May 2023. You can find her on Facebook as Sangeetha Pillai, on X/Twitter as sangitunes, and on Instagram as san.pillai.

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cynthia robinson young poetry august 2024

The house on Tennessee Avenue,

like that one up on Beulah,

was gone in less than 30 minutes,

even though it had weathered


every storm in Chattanooga

for at least one hundred years.

The frame resisted the heat,

outliving the rooms that lay


charred and smoldering inside.


Green moss ignores

the No Trespassing sign, repainting the siding,

and the trees continue to deposit leaves into the awning,

no hands in autumn to remove them now.

A maple tree still guards and shades the house,


even with some limbs missing

from the fire that disabled it

the first time this house burned.

 buds bursting defiantly through what remains,


lush leaves growing, growing.

A sign says Condemned,

but memories are still dwelling there–

the stench from a white hood

and sheet robe, once a dingy white, now


 burned black

 in the bottom of the Tennessee family’s cedar chest.

A sign says Do Not Enter

yet it does not stop the ancient spirits,


whispered intentions to burn crosses and men


as religious sport-

plans drifting up and down

the splintered staircase on sun rays

filtering through the missing roof.


Add it to another chapter of darkness

and retribution perhaps?  in Chattanooga

Add it to the history of the neighborhood

Underneath the shadow of Lookout Mountain,

named

St. Elmo.


And Bobby’s Barbershop Didn’t Make It

Bobby’s Barbershop chairs are lined up

 in the junkyard.

It is their cemetery, and this is

 their gravesite.

At certain times at night, you can catch

a glimpse of chairs revolving,

as if Bobby and the other barbers are standing behind them,

discussing The Man with invisible clients, asking

If Covid was a conspiracy to take away

all they had,

all they were.


Dreams are in this junkyard–

The American Dream, A Dream Deferred, all

of what Bobby once believed would create

happiness, would take him on a vision journey

to that road not taken,

the road he took…


and now it’s come to this.


The tickets out of wherever that pit

the dreamers tried to escape from,

are now torn and scattered all over,

tornadoes cannot even lift and take

Over the rainbow.

Ticketed dreams lie in their own graveyard,

fading and indiscernible

under overcast skies.


Cynthia Robinson Young is the author of the chapbooks Reflections of a Feral Mother (2024) and Migration (2018). The latter was named Finalist in the 2019 Georgia Author of the Year Awards. Her work has appeared in journals and magazines including The Amistad, Rigorous, Poetry South, The Writer’s Chronicle, and in the anthology, Dreams for a Broken World (Essential Dreams Press, 2022). A native of Newark, New Jersey, she lives in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Cynthia is currently working on a novel. You can find her at cynthiarobinsonyoung.com and on Facebook.

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nwafor emmanuel short story august 2024

The dusty black jeep bumbles along the winding road and screeches to a halt in front of a refurbished white bungalow. In the shimmering sky, creeping gray clouds smother half of the yellow sun. An orchestrated cacophony of shrilling insects is a background chorus for the rustling branches whose trees perch along the brown road and sampling their buttress roots in Eziokwe village, Uju’s ancestral home. This is where Obinna brought his friends when he came to pay for her bride price and for the traditional marriage proper. 

Fruit trees line the driveway. The earth beside the plastered walls of the house supports trembling corn stalks standing in disorganized rows and other germinating shrubs. An anxious Obinna, his head now full of doubts, brings out his phone from his pocket and dials. The phone is on speaker as he announces his arrival to the female voice that responds.

“I am at your place.”

“Where? “I can’t see you.”

Obinna snarls, “Your village home. In front of the house we conducted our traditional marriage.’

“That is not my house. Drive to the next compound.”

The call ends. The scowls on the faces of his three friends, Emeka, John and Raphael reveal their mockery. He enters the car and slams the door with his friends scurrying after him. No words are exchanged on the short drive. They approach the next compound. A cracked bungalow with a scruffy façade faces them when they emerge from the car. Below, rushing weeds have eaten up the brown soil in the compound. Twelve plastic chairs are arranged outside in two lines. Six chairs face six chairs on the left and right side of the compound, and six beaded elderly men are already seated on the right. Kaleidoscopic colours dance before Obinna’s eyes as they walk to the men and pay obeisance. The elders tease him for not recognizing his wife’s ancestral home in a short while. He stutters an explanation and stops halfway realizing there is no need engaging the cunning foxes.

Obinna places the earthenware jar of palm wine- the expensive up-wine variety- before the elderly men. They exchange pleasantries again before he sits with his friends on the empty chairs facing the elderly men. His arrival is announced by Mazi Omenuko, a tall, sturdy, bald man with long fingers and a rich sprinkle of white and grey facial hair. He is the uncle of Uju – the woman for whom Obinna has paid the bride price. Omenuko has beckoned Uju to greet her husband and his people. Obinna perceives the mockery, and his crossed legs shake vigorously. He diverts his attention when she emerges towards the raw and cracked fence littered with nodding lizards desperate for the flying insects hovering above their little heads. Obinna watches two agamas as they drop on the rough ground, size each other in a circular pattern, and whip their bodies with their tails. He notices as the winner scurries after female lizards and the loser limps away in humiliation. Dead leaves float to the ground beneath the numerous plantain and orange trees that bear swaying fruits. The grasses are a playground for grasshoppers hopping from blunt blade to blunt blade. The shadow of a large bird glides across the expansive ground as foraging chickens and lizards scamper to safety.

Uju’s appearance distracts him. Her face holds no enchantment. She is just a woman he once knew. She curtsies before the men, mutters some incoherent words at his party and disappears as swiftly as she arrived. Her uncle, Omenuko, mutters a prayer, “He who bring kola nut brings life, Onye wetere oji, wetere ndu.”

Omenuko hurriedly breaks the small kola nuts on an aluminium plate and disperses the lobes to be eaten after the rituals accompanying the breaking of kola nuts has been justified. Omenuko beckons Obinna to taste the wine he has brought. Obinna walks to the jar which rests on the table, seizes it with his right hand, and grabs a glass cup with his left.

The elders scream. Then, Obinna freezes, and his face contorts like a rogue caught in the act. He stares at their agape mouths, stern faces, and smouldering eyes.

“Are you not an Ibo man, a son of the soil?” asks an elder in Ankara fabrics. ‘If you knew tradition, you would know that what you just did is a sacrilege.”

Obinna blinks severally, and perspiration enters his eyes as his friends stifle their smirks. The elder continues, “You don’t hold the wine cup in the left hand. Neither is the wine jar held on the right hand. And you just don’t grab the wine jar and start pouring. No, you shake the wine jar in a circular motion thrice or four times and place it on the ground before pouring.” He glances at Obinna’s friends for full effect and continues, “When you young men are told to return to your roots, your respective villages, to learn culture and tradition, you refuse. Your coconut heads are filled with exaggerated tales of hate your parents have peddled you about your respective villages and kinsmen. Most of your parents were taught by their parents but now those teachings which they ought to pass down to you have eroded because you prefer the white man’s culture. I am not saying the white man’s culture is bad. No, the white man’s culture has paved the way for us, but charity begins at home. You learn yours before learning another’s. Anyway, these traditions are inevitable. You will learn them one way or the other, just like this one, eh.”

The arena now silent after his speech, Obinna regains composure, does the right thing, and drinks the palm wine. The stern faces dissolve into smiles as they cheer him.

The uncle, Omenuko, rises from his chair, clears his throat and bellows, “My brothers, I greet you all. We are gathered here this evening because our son-in-law believes it is necessary to summon us. I appreciate every one of us for answering this call. We have a saying that once an in-law beckons, we suspend whatever we are doing and respond. Obinna, we are here now, and our ears are itching to hear the tidings you bring.” He sits down.

Obinna rises to greet the men for the umpteenth time and blurts, “I am no longer interested in Uju and I want my bride price returned immediately.”

A light murmur spreads amongst the gathered men. Some snap their fingers and wave their hands around their heads. Omenuko stands again. “Our son, we’ve heard you, but we have laid procedures for situations like this. I’ve seen your entourage, and there is no elderly person. You young men should learn tradition. You are Ibo, yet you behave like a foreigner. Is your onye aka egbe, your intermediary man, here?’

“He is here sir,” Obinna responds with a broad grin as he pats his friend, Raphael, on his back.

“Good, at least you have gotten one thing right today. Now, intermediary man, you have heard what your man is saying, is it correct?”

“It is his choice sir. I can’t make decisions for him.”

“I asked a simple question. Leave grammar.”

“It is correct.”

Obinna interrupts him, “I may not know the rudiments of traditional divorce, but one thing I’m sure of is that I’m not leaving this place without that bride price and the funds I spent on the traditional marriage. See, here, I brought my list.” He fumbles in his pocket and brings out a crumpled sheet of paper he waves before the men.

The elderly men giggle and tell him to relax his frayed nerves. “We are one here. The anger of an in-law shouldn’t be bone deep,” the Ankara-wearing elder reminds him.

“I can see your blood is hot,” Omenuko, the uncle, continues. “Nevertheless, we must continue if you insist. Once a river is crossed, we always anticipate the return journey. With patience a hot calabash of soup is consumed. We’ve heard your hasty words my son, but we’ll also hear from our daughter and confirm if she is still interested in this union. Whatever her reply is will determine our next action. As you can see, we’ve refrained from asking you the cause of the quarrel. I didn’t ask you over the phone when you called. We won’t delve into that matter. From your demeanour you have only one task in mind, and we pray it will be handled amicably.”

Omenuko asks a young elder to fetch Uju. When she emerges, she stands in front of Omenuko who faces and addresses her softly. “We believe Obinna is your husband. We know when he approached us and performed the prerequisites for your hand in marriage and then took you away. Now he has approached us with a new tale that we cannot comprehend, that he is no longer interested in the union. What about you my daughter, are you also not interested?”

“I’m still interested.” she replies.

Obinna chuckles nervously. It is obvious she has been coached.

Omenuko faces him this time. “My son, you’ve heard your wife. What do you have to say again? Those who speak the English language have an expression which says it takes two to tango.”

Obinna remains silent as the men watch him. He shrugs off a light tap from Raphael and sighs aloud. He has been trapped, and his chauvinism has overwhelmed him. He hears as crickets chirp in accord in the fluttering grasses and a goat bleats in the distance. Still the men stare at him.

“Alright then,” continues Omenuko after a minute elapses. “There still remains one more ritual to fulfil.” He beckons Uju who kneels in front of him. Another elder is called upon again. He rises and walks to the palm wine jar, fills a glass cup to the brim, and hands it over to Omenuko. He is careful not to spill the wine. Omenuko hands the glass cup to Uju. “Take this cup of wine to your husband. Whatever he does with it will decide your fate.”

“What, what, what sort of fucking shit is, is this?” Obinna rages, his eyes bulging on his dark face.

“Relax my good man,” placates the Ankara man. “We must see the end of this fucking shit.”

Obinna’s friends calm him, and he sits down. He watches her as she walks the short distance towards him. He turns his face away from her, still watching her from the corner of his eyes. She sips from the cup when she nears him and kneels in front of him. She stretches the arm bearing the glass cup to him, an act she performed during their traditional marriage ceremony. Her face as rigid as yam peelings, Obinna ignores her. His friends cajoling him, he faces her and receives the glass cup and pauses. He looks at her, and she stifles a chuckle. All eyes are focusing on him now. He rises violently and spills the content of the glass cup on the soil. She rises and hurries to the safety of her people.

Omenuko stands up from his chair and greets the gathered men. He faces Obinna and his friends as he speaks. “Obinna, you have rejected our daughter in our presence, but we won’t reject her. We are not angry. Rather your action has shown the sincerity of your quest. We’ll definitely grant you your utmost desire. Meanwhile I won’t forget to mention something peculiar at this moment. The rejection emanated from you.”

Obinna stutters, but Omenuko holds up a finger in the air and continues, “You spilled the palm wine and so doing waived the right for a refund. What this means is that your bride price will be returned, but the expenses expended for the traditional marriage rites won’t. If the rejection had come from our daughter, we would return that as well. Only your bride price will be returned to you.’

Omenuko dips two fingers in his shirt pocket and retrieves a shiny fifty naira note. “This is what we accepted from you when you came to marry our daughter. Remember, on that day I told you our daughter isn’t for sale when I returned the bulk money you insisted I receive. Intermediary man, is it true or not?”

“It is true sir,” Raphael answers, smarting from his previous flaw.

“Good. Now intermediary man, you can have it.”

As a flummoxed Obinna snatches the money from his palm to Raphael’s chagrin, Omenuko calls the young elder again and gestures the wine jar. The man carries it shoulder high and smashes it on the ground, spreading anguish and surprise on the faces of the seated men. This time, Omenuko speaks fiercely, “The union between Uju and Obinna is hereby broken. You both can now go your separate ways.”

The elders chorus, “So shall it be.”

Omenuko faces Obinna and his friends, “Gentlemen, you are no longer welcome here.”

Obinna storms out of the compound with his friends rushing after him unsure what evil might befall them if they delay. The sky is almost swallowed by black clouds, and the chirping of crickets is louder when they reach the Jeep.  Obinna reverses the Jeep, his bright headlamps revealing when the young elder places another jar of palm wine on the table. He sees the buxom women emerge from the building and dance toward the seated men, their enormous buttocks swaying like large fruits on a tree. They embrace Uju who joins them in their exercise. The men exchange high fives, laugh boisterously at the dancing women, and clang palm wine cups.

Obinna grimaces and screeches away in a cloud of dust but not before shooting a well-aimed missile of phlegm at the foolish gathering.


Nwafor Emmanuel lives in Port Harcourt, Nigeria and has an LLB from Madonna University. He has studied fiction and screenwriting facilitated by award winning Ugandan author of Tropical Fish, Doreen Baigana, late Nigerian author of The Bottled Leopard, Professor Chukwuemeka Vincent Ike and Nigerian screenwriter, Chris Ihidero. His short stories appear in both Brittle Paper and African Writer, and Nwafor is on the shortlist for the Toyin Falola Prize 2024. He is currently adding finishing touches to a short story collection and a first novel. You can find him on X/twitter at @eyesiclenwafor and on Facebook at Spirit Emmanuel.

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pleasant nneoma stephen poetry august 2024

On this lowly night,

in the middle of the earth,

the cold wind howls,

and the pale-ish moon eavesdrops as

the mother of my great, great grandmother holds

a conversation with me.

Soul to soul we rapport,

shedding flesh and puffing blood.

“The ol’ days,” she begins,


“I was a dog licking sand

and eating maggots wherever I saw.

I bore in tens and tens

and rubbed my face with 

the blood of my uterus

when my pups became merchandise.”


I puff blood into the air.

We growl and laugh.


She continues,


“Wasn’t I a good mooing cow

who milked and milked

and turned blood cream

when her breasts sagged and bruised?

I became beef before long.

Sweet, sweet beef

butchered unevenly, and dispersed abroad.

I bet the earth had a good meal.”


We growl maniacally, puffing and splintering,

whimpering and whining.

I see her soul stand up, dust her feet

and walk a distance.

She takes a quick look back at

my black bones shattered on the surface.

And in admiration, she mutters,

“Don’t you look so much like me?”


Pleasant Nneoma Stephen is a poet, student, and writing coach. She is an ardent lover of doodles, rainfall, and African mythology. Pleasant is a Gold Award recipient of the Senior Category of the Queen’s Commonwealth Essay Competition 2023. Her work, “Body of the Moon,” is forthcoming in Literary Forest Magazine.

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gloria d. gonsalves poetry august 2024

She made a regal entrance to their summit and instructed

they could keep the stolen artefacts, they’re world materials;

they could keep her dead children erased from their dirty files,

but she wanted back her children who were being ill-treated.

She wore a kaftan of rich brown and carried all her rivers in it:

Nile, Niger, Zambezi, Limpopo, Congo, Orange, Senegal,

Ubangi, Kasai, Shebelle, and their budding younger siblings.

When she walked, the river waves flanked her like warriors,

clearing the path for her determined feet to tread like a lioness.

The battalions of the big five flew above her as air guardians.

It was her savanna and no one had the rights to her children.

They adjourned in closed sessions to discuss her demands.

Her children held little value to them except as cheap labor.

Letting them go would impact their economy and global status.

They did not see it coming—her calling in the godparents:

Indian Ocean, Atlantic Ocean, Mediterranean Sea, and Red Sea.

They towered above the convention halls and rooms, ready to

sink any suggestions of takeovers, collaborations, or charities.

None of them understood the lessons she gifted on adaptability.

None of them understood the pain she endured to instill pride.

None of them had the right to imprison her children with wealth.

None of them had the right to strip away the nobility of her children.

She stood tall and adamant, bearing an insignia of rare Tanzanite,

and commanded her children to walk proudly to the front door.

They came from all the concealed crooks of suffering and indignity.

She stretched her kaftan of all the rivers and led them all out.

Her big five battalions—lions, leopards, elephants, African buffalo,

and rhinoceroses—roared above to ensure safe passage home.

The oceans sailed them back to the wealth of their African roots.

Today, no land dares offend or take her natural wealth for granted.

They no longer hold summits or video conferences to pressure her.

They no longer offer bribes for her fall or assume she is corrupted.

They no longer attempt to bend her will with economic sanctions.

Her children are re-learning pride and dignity of being Alkebulans.


Author’s note: According to the Alkebulan history of Africa, the indigenous name of Africa before it was colonized is Alkebulan, which means the Garden of Eden or the Cradle of Mankind.


Gloria D. Gonsalves is a poet, author of children’s books, and illustrator. Her poems appear in Brittle Paper, Galway Review, Eclectica, The Mantelpiece, Consilience, Collateral, Kalahari Review, Tiny Seed, and other literary magazines, journals, and anthologies in Africa, Europe, and the USA. Besides writing, she founded WoChiPoDa.com, an initiative to instill the love of poetry in children. Born and raised in Tanzania, she lives in Germany and occasionally in Tanzania. You can find her on her website at gloria-gonsalves.com, on Medium at gdgonsalves, on Goodreads at gloriadgonsalves, and on instagram at gdgonsalves.

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jaime jacques poetry august 2024

She sweeps around the mat.

I contort my body.

Should I move?

No, no te preocupes m’ija, estás bien.


I thought this poem was about privilege.

Then I showed it to a friend.

Get over yourself,  she said.

You deliver mail for a living.


The teacher on my yoga app says 

Come into chair pose. 

Call in something that you need.


I call in what I always call in: money. 

I don’t want to go back to the high vis vest,

tiny mail slots snapping frozen fingers,

supervisors in the depot saying

Let me see the treads on your shoes. 


Be open to abundance, the teacher coos.  

Complaining about capitalism feels so on trend.

We make jokes about our stolen lives,

waiting for the jobs we hate to be done by AI.

The problem is none of it is very funny.


One day while folding sheets into hard creases

Maria told me she used to sell tamales in the street. 

This work is a little better than that, she concedes.

At least she doesn’t have to get up at 4 in the morning.


You are the co-creator of your life.   

Here, surrounded by flowers and fruit

I move back into downward dog and

congratulate myself on this chapter. 

What I sacrifice for the freedom to travel:

pension, health plan, a living wage.

I’m considered casual.

Maria is called informal. 

We both know what we really are: disposable.


I roll up the mat.


Maria sweeps where I was,

leaving the ground immaculate.


Trust that whatever you need is coming to you.


The Organic Cotton Shop in Tepoztlan

A handsome man enters & declares

he needs TOW-ELS, wraps his

arms around himself,

drawing out the vowels.


His rocket pop blue eyes

land on mine: What’s your name? 

smiles like he’s just given me a gift.

Couldn’t wait to tell me his: Lucky.


Your parents called you that?

Me, taking the bait.

Well, Lucky is my last name, he says.

Still cool, I say.

Actually, it’s Lecky, he insists on telling me. 

First name is Steve.


Leaning against the towels now, he 

resumes the train wreck of disclosure, 

tells me he’s from Edmonton.


Lucky’s building a cabin on the mountain.

He does peyote, lives off of crypto.

His visa’s about to run out.  

He’s not worried though.

He’s got a guy. 


He flashes his expensive smile 

at the woman working, 

says he’ll take four blankets 

and four pillows with the towels.

I mean, it’s so cheap, right? 

I’m still debating a 10-dollar vest.


Listen, he says, 

I’m not a new-age type of guy.

I’ve spent time in the jungle of India. 

Did you ever wonder why 

some of the poorest people are the happiest? 


I tell Lucky I need to get going. 

I hope he doesn’t ask to connect online,

but I guess he won’t. 

That would ruin the illusion. 

He’s already on shaky ground. 

Steve Lecky from Edmonton. 

I leave without buying the vest, 

exchange a glance with the woman

behind the shop desk—we both know

I’m not the type of tourist Mexico wants.

I don’t buy organic cotton towels and 

I would never pay someone to renew

my visa. I would get on a bus and go

to Guatemala to do it— like any other

broke person with their given name would. 


Jaime Jacques (she/her) currently lives in the ancestral and unceded territory of Mi’kma’ki, where she delivers mail, sometimes writes poems, and always drinks too much coffee. Her poetry has appeared in Rattle, Rogue Agent, Variant Lit, Birdcoat Quarterly and others. Her reporting can be found on NPR , Salon, and Lonely Planet among others. She is the daughter of an Indian immigrant and has always felt most at home in the tropics. She has a deep and abiding love for Central America, where she lived for several years working as a travel writer while binge eating mangoes.

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musu bangura short story july 2024

Jeneba paused from sweeping the red dust from her porch and looked up at the familiar sound coming from the dirt road. It was the dry season, making the dust more relentless as it hit the hot evening air after another push from her broom. The rebellious swirl of the soil annoyed Jeneba; she was determined to have a dust-free porch that would only become tainted again the next day. It was the town crier making his way through the village. His tall, lanky figure swayed with speed; one arm swinging back and forth and the other resting on top of a small drum tied to his waist. He beat the drum at the top of each new announcement, repeating in rhythmic cycle, the evening news.

Prompted by the crier’s impending approach, Jeneba’s mother, Ramatu, joined her on the porch. She stopped and opened the front door again to toss a few insults at the house girls inside.

“You no de clean well! Don’t even bother showing up tomorrow!” She sucked her teeth and slammed the door.

Jeneba looked at her mother in disbelief. “Mama, why are you always harassing those girls? I don’t need you running them off like you did those two boys. I need the help!”

Ramatu grabbed a second broom that was leaning against the far end of the porch that was decorated with two black metal chairs. “That’s the whole point. Even though the girls are supposed to do the cooking and cleaning, you still need help.!” She joined her daughter in the sweeping battle, soon taking over with her high energy and strength. Her 80-year-old full frame defied any sign of aging.

The town crier interrupted their conversation, now passing in front of Jeneba’s porch. “The Sesay family has welcomed a baby boooyyy!” He slapped the drum to break out another announcement. “The thieves, oh! Beware of the thieves who continue to disrupt in the night!” 

Ramatu put her hands on her round hips, shaking her head. “This is ridiculous! Those thieves have been here at least two times now.”

By this time, other residents of the village had gathered in front of their homes, watching and listening to the town crier as he marched by. They chatted amongst themselves, concerned about the warning of the thieves. One couple, Jubal and his wife Isatu, who were close friends of Ramatu’s family, made their way over to Jeneba’s porch. Their faces, especially Isatu’s, were washed with concern.

“But what is all of this?” The neighbor, Jubal held his hands out, waiting for an explanation to fall out of the sky.

“Did you hear the crier, Ramatu? The thieves are coming back, oh. They will attack those they didn’t attack the last time!” Isatu, the wife of Jubal, was near tears. Her voice trembled.

“Nonsense,” snapped Ramatu from the porch. “You mean to tell me you’re afraid of those fools? Let them make the mistake of coming back here!”

“These thieves are relentless,” Jubal said. “The last time, they stole all of Pa Santigi’s crops. I even heard they took one of his goats.”

“Both of you make your way back to your house so that you can crawl under your bed and cry,” Ramatu replied. “I don’t care what they took, they will learn a big lesson if they try to come here again.”

Jeneba chimed in. “It’s simple. We will be vigilant, and we will also pray.”

Ramatu delivered a cold look at Jeneba with her slanted eyes. “Please, don’t start talking that nonsense. We have the protection of our ancestors. That’s why they didn’t attack us.”

“Mama, I know you don’t like hearing about God, but it is true. Our prayers to Him will provide protection.”

“You and your silly husband, talking about this God. In fact, he should be here with you now, preparing to deal with those stupid thieves, but instead, he’s running around with those pale-looking missionaries.”

The back and forth between mother and daughter continued, with the neighbors, Jubal and Isatu, fueling the conversation with their own fears. The evening wore on into the early part of the night. Then, everyone retreated to their homes and slept incident free.

The next morning, the thieves continued to be the hot topic of discussion, with the elderly Ramatu leading the conversation, gathering fresh crops to deliver to family and friends around the village. “Even when Suleman was alive, you think I waited for him to protect me?” Ramatu reminisced about her late husband with Jubal, who had stopped by in the late morning.

Jubal laughed. “I think Suleman had to worry about protecting himself from you more than anything.”

While they continued to reminisce, Jeneba and one of the local missionaries made their way to Ramatu’s yard, where she was still sorting the crops as Jubal looked on.

“Mama, you remember Sister Catherine?” Jeneba then turned to the small-framed woman with sharp blue eyes. “Sister Catherine, you remember my mother Ramatu and our family friend Uncle Jubal.”

Sister Catherine gave a huge smile, the wrinkled sides of her mouth and eyes on her vanilla-creamed skin gave way. “Ramatu, so nice to see you again.” She nodded her head at both Ramatu and Jubal. “I wanted to stop by and thank you all for your support. The Bishop and I are so excited about the new church that’s being built. We’re hoping to see you all at this Sunday’s service.”

Jeneba smiled at Sister Catherine, then looked at her mother and Jubal for a response. Ramatu, focused on separating the remaining crops, sucked her teeth and chucked a freshly picked yam into a pile, ignoring everyone around her.

Jubal decided to give a response to break the awkward silence. “Well, Sister Catherine, we are happy about the work you and the other Catholic officials have been doing. You’ve helped us build schools, taught us English, and helped us make good relations with the nearby towns and villages.”

Sister Catherine gleaned at his response. “Oh, Jubal, we are more than happy to provide in any way we can!”

Jeneba looked at her mother out the side of her eye. Ramatu refused to make eye contact, focusing on her growing piles of crops. After more small talk, Sister Catherine and Jeneba finally left, leaving Ramatu to finish her project. All the crops were assorted for nearby family and friends with whom she took turns growing and sharing fruits and vegetables. This late morning was her turn to dispense the crops. She recruited the house girls, distributing wooden baskets full of assorted crops amongst them to deliver as instructed. She grabbed one of the baskets and walked over to Jubal and Isatu’s place. She walked up the stairs, banged on the door and went back down the stairs. Isatu let out a sharp scream from inside.

“Crazy woman, what are you screaming about? It’s me!” Ramatu stood at the bottom of the front porch stairs, with one hand around the full basket and another on her hip.

Isatu came outside, her eyes bulging from her face. “Are you trying to kill me, banging my door like that?”

“But what is wrong with you? I always bang on your door. Anyway, here’s your portion from the garden.” She gave the basket a quick and hefty toss, sending the crops all over Isatu’s porch.

“Eh, Ramatu! Why must you always deliver our food like this? We never do that when it’s our turn. Why don’t you let me use the basket?”

“Agh agh! You will take the basket and I will never see it again,” Ramatu replied, waving her finger with disapproval. Walking away and heading back to her house, she turned back and looked at Isatu, who was now gathering the crops with a scowl on her face. “You need to relax, oh. You’re jumpier than usual because of the news of the thieves. We must be prepared, not scared…silly woman.”

That Saturday, two evenings later, the village carried on with their usual routine of cleaning up, gossiping, and chasing down the children for their baths while an underlying nervousness floated from house to house. It had been two nights of quiet and no thieves, but this encroaching night felt different, especially with the elderly Ramatu.

“As I told you all, those thieves better not make the mistake of coming here.” Ramatu was sounding off on her front porch, in the company of Jubal, Isatu and Jeneba, who was braiding her two-year-old daughter’s hair.

“Eh, Mama. Why do you insist on looking for a fight? Let us just pray for protection. I even mentioned it to Sister Catherine the other day. They are all very concerned!”

“What is that frail ghost of a woman going to do,” Ramatu inquired. “Is she going to protect us? How is she going to do that when she can’t even pronounce Jubal’s name properly?” She turned to Jubal and his wife. “You heard her the other day, eh? ‘Gee-buh’, hi ‘Gee-buh,’” she mocked with a nasal tone.

Isatu chuckled. “Eh, Ramatu. You nah’ case!” She clapped her hands, giggling.

Jubal also laughed, then reflected on their surroundings. “Since the past two nights have been quiet, everyone is wondering if something will happen tonight.”

“I will be right here in front of this house, waiting for them,” Ramatu asserted.

“Well at least come with us to tomorrow’s service,” Jeneba requested. “All the tribesmen and chiefs will be there to celebrate the new church that will soon be finished.”

“As you wish, my child. I will be there,” Ramatu said playfully. “Even though I will be up all night, I will make sure I’m there to shake my head at those foolish chiefs making deals with those pale people.”

Keeping to her word, Ramatu was on guard, in the dead of the night. Her failed attempt to recruit people earlier to join her on the watch didn’t curtail her from her mission. She marched up and down the dirt road, listening out for any strange sounds or movements, even announcing out loud that they better not make the mistake of trying her. Everyone else was sound asleep in their homes. After a few rounds of marching and looking out from the porch, Ramatu heard a rustle coming from a bush near Jubal and Isatu’s backyard.

“Who is that,” she demanded. “Don’t make me come over there!”

After a few moments, another stir gave way. Ramatu shouted, “Jubal! Isatu! Wake up!”

A stern thud came from the side of their house, sounding like something fell to the ground. Then, the light of a lantern came from the couple’s bedroom. Ramatu made her way to the noise, demanding once again, “Who is that?”

Then, the sound of panicked voices. A figure dashed back into the thick bushes that led to the village’s deep forest, then another one quickly followed suit.

“The thieves!”

Another rumble rose from the side of their house, followed by a clashing sound. Isatu screamed from inside. Jubal raced out his back door, picking up a big stick that was used to build fires for cooking.

Out of the darkness from Jubal’s yard, a young boy, whose face was painted with fright, sprinted from the side of the house toward Ramatu.

“Come here, you!” Ramatu attempted to grab the boy’s arm as he ran past her. He freed himself from her grip and pushed her to the ground before taking off into the bushes.

Ramatu, now on the ground, let out a sharp cry. Her left hip took most of the fall. Jubal came racing to her rescue. More lights were turning on, and people now stood in front of their homes trying to figure out what happened. A small crowd gathered around Ramatu, then Jubal and one of the other neighbors helped her to her feet. Jeneba burst out her front door and ran to her mother.

“Mama! Mama! What happened? Are you okay?”

Brushing the dust off while being escorted to Jeneba’s porch, she said, “I told you they were coming and that I would be ready for those fools. Their mission failed!” She paused from dusting herself and stood staunch, looking at her daughter.

Jeneba’s eyes widened. “The thieves were here? They could have hurt you!”

“But they didn’t,” Ramatu declared. “They ran off like the cowards they are.”

“You stubborn old woman,” Jeneba fumed. “This could’ve been a lot worse. Only God protected you!”

“Yes, the god of our ancestors protected me!”

“Mama, please. You have to let that nonsense go. There are no ancestors protecting you. All of that is rubbish. Don’t you know things are changing now?”

 Ramatu raised her hand and gave Jeneba a swift slap across her face. Jeneba stumbled back and held the side of her face in shock. The chatter amongst the villagers came to an abrupt halt. The only sound that could be heard was the heavy breathing coming from Ramatu and Jeneba.

That next morning, everyone gathered at the makeshift pavilion for Sunday services. Once everyone was situated, Sister Catherine made her way to a small wooden podium positioned in front of the crowd.

“We want to thank each and every one of you on this blessed day,” she said. “This church being built symbolizes that friendship made with the wonderful tribal Temne chiefs who have been so gracious to us, and to the families who have been supportive and sweet, making our mission here so successful.”

Jeneba sat in the front row, representing her husband who wouldn’t be back for several more days. Ramatu, Jubal and Isatu sat behind her. There was little exchange between Ramatu and her daughter since last night’s incident. Sister Catherine continued to make more announcements and give blessings before welcoming the main speaker. Ramatu was beginning to get impatient.

“But when is this foolishness going to be over?” Ramatu whispered to Jubal, who was listening to Sister Catherine intently.

“I don’t know,” he said before fixing his gaze back on Sister Catherine.

“And now, I would like to introduce to you all, King George Cummings, the Headman from Freetown!” Sister Catherine held out her hand to welcome the tall slender man who was dressed in British militant attire. His thin, wispy hair blew in the breeze as he made his way to the podium.

Ramatu nudged Jubal again. “Who is this King George supposed to be?”

“He’s representing our tribe and the Mende tribe in establishing the churches. I heard he has a big, beautiful office in Freetown.”

She looked at Jubal with surprise. “He’s representing us…in Freetown…doesn’t look like us, but he’s our representative?” Ramatu took another look at the man, looked around the room and noticed everyone’s eyes were fixed on him with admiration and excitement. She then let out a hearty laugh that rippled through the pavilion. In an instant, all eyes were on her. She threw her head back and let out an even deeper cackle, her chest jiggling with humor.

Jeneba turned around in horror from embarrassment. “Mama, what are doing?”

Ramatu, still laughing, pointed her finger at King George and Sister Catherine at the front of the room. “There they are! The real thieves!”


Musu Bangura is an established freelance writer in the Washington DC area. She recently published a short story in Brittle Paper. Her work has been featured in local and national media outlets, such as Hello Beautiful, a leading online platform for women that covers topics on health, resilience, and beauty. While connecting and supporting other writers, Musu is currently working on her novel, The Mango Tree Shade. You can find her on her website and follow her blog at musuwrites.com.

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joanne godley poetry july 2024

“How fearful they must be

That they shoot you children”

                       Sarafina, funeral song lyrics


let’s take the word 

scream


scream, screamed,

have screamed,

were screaming,

will scream,

are screaming,

be screamed

as in scream

me a nightmare


as in Soweto, South Africa

in the mid-nineteen seventies

when apartheid reigned king

and a simple scream

travelled


screams of 20000 parents

waded through blood fields

to collect

fallen book bags

and blood-drenched

bones

of children

mowed like errant

turf-grass


screams hallowed the gut

like an elevator in free-fall


in Sesotho hoeletsa:  scream

in Zulu ukuthethisa:  scream

in Xhosa memeza:  scream


the screams

tsunamied

clamored witness

echoed screeches


the entomology

of scream       fuses

Middle Dutch scremen ( yell, shout)


and Old Norse skræma (“to terrify; scare”)


as in Dutch schremen (“to shout; yell; cry”)

as in Dutch schreien (“to cry; weep”)


a persistent sound


as in Michael Brown  (18)  friend-walking                                                

as in Tamir Rice  (12)  toy gun-park-playing                                              

as in Ma’Khia Bryant  (16 ) woman–altercating                                                  

as in Adam Toledo   (13) police-complying

as in Daunte White   (20) girlfriend-driving

as in Breonna Taylor (26) bed-sleeping

as in Atitiana Jefferson (28) house-chilling

as in Stephon Clark (22) grandma’s backyard-standing

as in Botham Jean (26) sofa-ice-cream-eating                                               

as in Janisha Fonville (22) home-chilling

as in Gabriella Navarez (22) driving


as in


To My Formerly-Enslaved Great-grandmother, Missouri, Who, Once Freed, Would Not Speak

Ancestors.com

Ancestors don’t come

To the page

Are missing


Am haunted 

By the idea fact

My ancestors were numbers 

On a page

Not people


Portrayed lazy despite pyramids 

Despite the sphinx

And the White House    still white

Black   but invisible 

Black   come silent

Nameless

Silenced

Tongues meaty blue- red organs 

Twisted muted

Tongues never tried


Missouri is her given name

Miss her I

Missing ri  we

A missing people

Missouri 

Name her

Ma misery   I’ve named

This big black-boned woman 

Great grandma  

Missing but conjure-able

Through memories         imagined


   Not being      

                people


Her Silence as stunned

Her Silence as dunned

Her Silence as horror

Her Silence as deference

Her Silence as reverence

Her Silence as speech-free

Her Silence as shame


Here hear    we give back 

Your tongue  Missouri

To tell us   Tell us

What was it like?


Joanne Godley lives in Mexico City. She is a physician, writer, poet, and a Pacific University MFA student. She is a Meter Keeper in the Poetry Witch Community and an Anaphora Arts fellow in both poetry and fiction. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in the Bellevue Literary Review, Mantis, Light, FIYAH, Pratik, and Account, among others. She was twice nominated for a Pushcart prize. Her prose has been published in the Massachusetts Review, the Kenyon Review online, Juked, Memoir, and others. Her second poetry chapbook, Doc.X, was recently published by Black Sunflowers Press. You can find her at Joannegodley.com, on IG at indigonerd, and on X at DrJoanneGodley.

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caroline d. Le Guin poetry July 2024

Polished grains, seed pearls

opalescent white against

my white palm. Winnowed,

milled, pounded—husk

and bran and germ all

rubbed away—seeds denatured

ungermed to starch not seed

to feed and feed and feed.


“Cherokee blood” family would say,

marking my uncle’s rich and easy tan,

my grandfather’s broad face—

we descendants of

the rice people of the south,

the lowlands, the sea islands,

people of Savannah, Charleston.


Carolina Gold:  If I take

this rice into my belly

will I taste in the passage

over lips, tongue, back of teeth

the dry bitter remnants,

the dark parts, the bran, the germ—

what was milled and polished white

into what was to be forgotten?


I turn each mouthful on my tongue

before swallowing , hoping

to taste some sign of heritage

to name and to know the

power of pain my ancestors

held in white hands–power to consume

land, labor, the ancient knowledge

of the first rice people

people of Senegambia their knowledge

of the planting and flooding,

the winnowing, the pounding,

the baskets and the boards,

the soil and the sweat—everything

that was taken I seek to take

into my body and the salt of grief

salt of blood salt of the wide Atlantic

to eat, swallow, trying to remember all

that I have never known,

the dark germ, the winnowed husk


let it nourish the hidden germ

the dark seed once denatured,

polished to whiteness

and forgetting. Let each grain

teach my tongue to speak

this rift of history to speak

the debt of blood of gold to speak

to the broken kinship  

among the people of rice.


Caroline D. Le Guin taught English at Portland Community College until retiring a few years ago. She now writes and tends a small farm on the traditional ancestral lands of the Molalla, Clackamas Chinook, and Kalapuya peoples in the North Willamette Valley of Oregon.