Ramblings of a lil Black girl.
My pencils ripping through the wet spots on this page. I write my woes in shallow pools, that are Urbanly Decayed. I can taste the Himalayas, slowly, traverse my lips. No questions, so I beg, unforesake me like Rahel's hips. Respectfully...I'm strugglin' to carry alluv this. ...but, they say no questions so - I write… Continue reading Nwanyiaga Sings the Blues
Cracklins an grahma's stolen MacNish. Secreted kisses filled, still, with innocence. Whispers bou Nae-Nae an Booba, while sittin' in yo' backyard listnin'na ole folks records an' jubba'in. Back befo' we were taught idle hands did da devil's work. Back befo' dey traumas sullied us. Dem days, jus you an' me, sittin' on Erica's porch. Throwin'… Continue reading Junesy
As I lay me down to sleepI pray the Lord my dream he keepsBecause if it should die while I'm awakeFrom the Lord; my soul; I'll take.
In America, the Negro’s “riddles” are infamous and although commonly referenced in a way that derogatorily infantilizes the speaker and race as a whole, they are in fact words bustling with wisdom.
Fé do do. Mô bébé piti.Fé do do.Mô shær, pou me.Tô Mamm est en haute,Vini ape a li.E kan tó pa dormi,Fé Moman épwizé.Alor. Fé do do.Fé do do.Mô bébé piti.Fé do do.Pou Moman cherié.
I was reading a book for my law and religion class and came across a piece from it that I wanted to share. Now, I realized a few pages ago that this book will not be much more useful for the purview of my paper, but I've kept reading. I stumbled across this and it… Continue reading 12 Commandments of the Negro
Ifunanya m, my love. Ifunanya m.Gwa m i hụrụ m n'anya, ifunanya m. Bịagharia, my love.Ifunanya m.Ifunanya m, my love.Ifunanya m.
…no, I completely understand girl. you don’t want them you just need them to be miserable without you… It makes me happy that Johnny is always in a bad relationship. Marcus got married and I wasn’t bothered. I was just happy she was Black. But looking back, I didn't even feel for Marcus how I… Continue reading A Conversation with Sean
The wind rustles through the trees on a mid October day, "Vini isit." If you aren't listening, you almost won't hear her say, "Di mô nom fiy." But once you catch it, you'll notice li briyé-yé, "Di mô nom piti-fiy! Pa donné ye sere mwa file!" Alor, ça arét. As quickly as she came, she… Continue reading Memories Without Memory
Patricia C. McKissack writes about being curious of how African literature and music portrayed those who were captured in the slave trade. She goes on to express her dismay at not being able to find any reference to them in her research. Nonetheless, she knew their violent departures from their homelands had to have been grieved by… Continue reading Ndi Echefuru Echefu (The Lost Ones)
You can not define me.
...but these lines wasn't born here. They was stolen. And for that, I'll never let you forget where your home is. Even if we've been gone to long to ever again rightfully own it. But to our ancestral memory of a ship docking from shore, I'll always be beholden. From sea to shining sea, I'll… Continue reading I Too… (parte deux)
I'd like to thank Africa for this color. Grammie's seven up cake for this stomach. Grandaddy's red beans and rice for these thighs. My mama for these eyes. Chukwu for this life. Muma for those books. The Ancestors for the resolve to remember. And Ron for the strength I found after everything he took. Perfection… Continue reading Perfection
Lemme tell you wha had happened. Erased from our mental history were the memories of a identity worth having. So we're mixed. American with some Cherokee too, add some creole and geechee, but only because you don't know enough to know- them latter groups was niggas too. ...anything and everything but being what we are:… Continue reading Story Time
Languageless. Nationless. Faceless. ...but everyone knows who we are. Forever in our purgatory of races, but I'll never let us forget who we were. Children of Nzinga, Ashanti and Taytu. Our ancestry implacable and unmistakable at once. ...even if we can't greet our siblings in our ancestrally shared tongues. I am African. I am American.… Continue reading African American
Show me. Show me how to touch to you. Show me how to move my hips in ways that guide you through orgasmic planes where our souls meet and realize they're meant for each other. Show me the language your heart loves in. Show me the places where your soul finds its happiness and your… Continue reading A Trite Writing About Love
...But be still. Because to know Haiti is to know pride and determination. To know Haiti, is to know hope. The nation, the people that fought until waters ran red with the blood of our oppressors, will rise again...
You purposefully, don't know the pain I carry- all the tears I free at night
Sleepless night after sleepless night.
Every insomnia driven thought either a painful memory or a concocted tragedy loosely stemmed from my reality.
Even in my subconscious...
I like a nigga, when I don't even know the nigga.
Falling in love with possibilities and romanticized sexual tension. Long ass stares and a tad bit of attention has me reminiscing, wishing that you were him...that I was her. Falling into you hoping it'll validate me, make me, show me that I'm someone worthy of love. Now I'm quietly asking myself does this stem from those issues they say only a daddy can cause?
Naa. Fuck that nigga.
a.k.a NaNa Yaa Nicolette 