Presenting a version of myself in packets to be seen online I flat pack into invisibility offline for your ease About the writer: Layla-Roxanne is a Nigerian-born, Scottish-raised mixed race woman who currently resides in Glasgow. She has experienced most of her life being the only ‘not quite one colour or another’ person in an overwhelmingly white place. Recent discovery of the internet’s capacity beyond gifs and angry people has
Chai tea with nutmeg goes well with dark skin; The liquid’s modest shade of brown Intensifies any rich mahogany Flesh that handles it. The amber-colored tea streaming into My mug gives glory to the deep copper- Hued hand pouring it. Set against the Subtle brown tinge of the tea, The waiter’s hand and forearm look Like sublime pottery, His rich brown hue—earthen, pure— Outdoing the light stream of chai he
As my mama twisted and turned my hair into braids, The turn of the century came; It took three years to finish my hair (1997—2000. I was three years old when she started, And six when she finished.) ~ My hair, though, is super-hair: It only grows longer through the years Of people putting it down— Through the years of disparagement, it lives on. Coily and coarse and poofy— Every
Written by Alegria I see the faces of our children on strangers on the bus your laugh courses through my blood like it is repairing any pain I have ever felt. I find myself crying at every little thing not because I am sad but you unlocked something in me that makes the intensity flow like a hurried and deliberate stream. You smell like home. I hear the
Written by Ashley Hobbs We’re scarred and jaded. Just as frightened of Love as we crave it. We’ve got no real models for longevity so we test each other out and at the first sign of trouble, we throw each other away. Often.
We don’t know Love like we should but we’ll be damned if we don’t keep trying within our own limited notions of what it actually is. Love is
But Yah said to Samuel, “Do not look at his appearance or at the height of his stature, because I have refused him; for not as man sees, for man looks at the outward appearance, but Yah looks at the heart” Do not look at her appearance. Her lips are swollen, unattractively pouty. Her smile is bitchy. Her frown is woven into her skin It’s the inheritance of her melanin.
Written by Victoria Inyang-Talbot Today moved ahead, Leaving a debris of memories for you to find. Will you put them away in the drawer of last year’s discontent? Or will you file them with the missing buttons from last month’s rain? *** I would’ve loved to pick the lock On the other day’s masquerade, And leave a message where the offending number was. *** Then you’d know I’d been And it’ll
Written by Victoria Inyang-Talbot The rain came yesterday And washed away the dreams You left to flower on the patio. Will you find another pot To nurse yet another regret Into a hedgerow? Maybe this time It’ll be a trestle of tomatoes And chillies to add colour To the cucumbers you grew last year. Image: Isabelle Boucher About the writer: Victoria is a Nigerian-born – British by naturalisation
By Amy Doyley They. Fought for the privileges To co-exist and to pro create. All odds battled. It was a choice to have us and to keep us here You. Fight for the right to live your own life You fear that when the ashes turn to dust You’ll be thrust into the realm of realness And that’s all that will exist Cyclical movements of metabolic rates How high are the stakes?
Eleanor T. Khonje There is a thirst at the core of my soul, A hunger seeking to feel each crevice; To know each perfection with its imperfections, To know of the space which shapes the definition of I. My characterisation of self As I know and live it is determined by me, And meeting the kindred Is a matter of sacredness. In this space, there lives a