African Voices - Spring Digital Issue 2022

African Voices

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African Voices

VOLUME NO. 18, ISSUE 39

Founded in 1992, published since 1993

325 Lafayette Ave., C.F. Suite, Brooklyn, NY 11238 Phone: 212-865-2982 www.africanvoices.com PUBLISHER/EDITOR Carolyn A. Butts BOARD CHAIRPERSON Jeannette Curtis-Rideau BOOK REVIEW EDITOR Debbie Officer FICTION EDITOR Emely-Ann Rodriguez POETRY EDITOR Lora René Tucker ART DIRECTOR Derick Cross ASSISTANT ART DIRECTOR AZIZA PRODUCTION EDITOR/ COPY EDITOR Denile Doyle LAYOUT & DESIGN Creative Ankh Pittershawn Palmer © 2022, African Voices Communications, Inc. is a 501(c)(3), non-profit organization.

ISSN 1530-0668

PUBLISHER’S NOTE I want to thank you for being a loyal reader and supporter of African Voices magazine. We are dedicating our 30th Anniversary to the spirit of resilience. We have survived. Our pages are filled with artists, poets and young writers who are affirming life amid challenges that our world has not witnessed in 100 years.

We are the tree that leans into the storm until it passes. Our front cover artist and muralist Sage Gallon elegantly portrays a young woman surrendering to the storm’s power. She embodies the act of living in faith and centering herself. A tree’s strength lies in its connection to the earth and all that is. Trees have an extensive root system and tap into a limitless source of energy to withstand each storm that passes. Faith keeps us grounded. It is our key toward moving forward through our challenges and losses.

Artists, writers and visionaries have always provided sustenance to our souls. A song unlocks a memory and carries you through grief. A painting or photograph brings you joy by embodying an experience that brings you comfort and inspiration. Poems and literature offer the same remedies that reach us consciously and subconsciously. Art is the food we crave in times of crisis and celebration.

As our world emerges from the pandemic, African Voices will publish a special anniversary collection honoring past struggles and introducing the next generation of artists who will boldly lead us into a future.

In our spring and summer issues, we are proud to publish the six winners of our Her Stories Writing Contest. African Voices and Girls Read to Write sponsored a flash fiction and short story competition for women writers of color.

Join us in congratulating our young storytellers Kylie Kamau, Svaha Williams, Ameena Rafeek, Katheryn Prather, Aponi Kafele and Amaya Farrell for being the lights that carry us through the storm!

African Voices is supported with funds from the National Endowment for the Arts - American Rescue Plan, New York State Council on the Arts, NYC Dept. of Cultural Affairs and Literary Magazine Emergency Fund.

Front, Inside Front and Back Covers: Sage Gallon.

Mother Earth’s Cries

by Ameena Rafeek

As the water flows, Mother Earth cries for her land.

Never-ending flow.

The greenery blows, As Mother Earth sways and shakes.

Pools of tears below.

In comes the sunlight, Peeking in through the mountains.

A new light, a glow.

Mother Earth’s teardrops, They grow and nourish the Earth.

And her cries echo.

Visit www.africanvoices.com to see Ameena Rafeek’s “What Happened to the Larsons?”

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CONTENTS IN PASSING 6

In Passing: Cliff Frazier

POETRY 4

Mother Earth’s Cries by Ameena Rafeek

13 Mother Mythic by Gloria J. Browne-Marshall 15 Changes by Nadia Bongo 16

Our Mothers by Kevin Powell

20 April 3, 1968 by Lora René Tucker 26 When I am Sad I Crumple by Lolita Stewart-White 34 Duende by Quincy Troupe

FICTION 11 Storm Warning by Katheryn Prather 12

The Dreams of a Dancer by Kylie Kamau

14 Good Hair by Aponi Kafele 17 Bathala: a Biomythography pt. 1 by Scott Ortega-Nanos 27 Woman of Steel by Lucy Mwelu

BOOK CULTURE & REVIEWS 30 A Bodega of Words: An Organization Feeding the Minds of New York City Families

by Debbie A. Officer 32

Duende: Poems, 1966-Now by Quin­cy Troupe by Quincy Troupe

IN THIS ISSUE 8

Contributors’ Bios

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Her Stories Bios

GALLERY 22 Sage Gallon: A Self-Taught Artist Lights Up Our World

African Voices print editions can be purchased at the following locations: MANHATTAN Studio Museum in Harlem 144 W. 125 St. New York, NY 10027

MANHATTAN Sisters Uptown Bookstore 1942 Amsterdam Ave. New York, NY 10032

BROOKLYN African Voices 325 Lafayette Ave., C.F. Suite Brooklyn, NY 11238

If you would like to sell African Voices magazine, please call us at 212-865-2982 or e-mail africanvoicesart@gmail.com.

I N P A SS I N G

CLIFF FRAZIER A MAN FOR ALL SEASONS AND A LIFE OF PURPOSE

By Herb Boyd, and Aliya Frazier and Minerva Diaz © 2022 Courtesy Amsterdam News

In a life that was as inexhaustible as it was purposeful, it’s not easy to label Cliff Frazier. Through his commitment to a sundry of organizations and institutions, he touched a multitude and inspired countless number of aspirants in the world of business, community and humanitarian service, and the arts. Cliff, a veritable renaissance man, made his transition on Feb. 3. He was 87.

Photo Credit: Courtesy Dwyer Cultural Center

Cliff was born on Aug 27, 1934 in Detroit, Michigan to Larney Frazier and Willa Mae Revely; and much later attended Wayne State University. Earlier in his life, as an actor, he appeared in numerous theatrical and television productions. His legendary performance in Samuel Beckett’s “Krapp’s Last Tape” was reviewed by one of USA’s most influential Broadway director and drama critic, Harold Clurman, with the following comment: “Frazier’s performance was masterful. He is one of the finest actors in the United States.”

“Although Cliff and my life in art was well connected … ,” said Woodie King, Jr. of New Federal Theater, recounting their early years together in Detroit in which they performed separately to rave reviews in a trio of plays “Study in Color” by the late Rev. Malcolm Boyd. Later, after this success they embarked for New York City in 1965. “He was cautious about leaving…he wanted to teach and train young people.” Upon arrival in New York, Cliff landed the lead role in “Lorenzaccio” by Alfred De Musset, King continued. “It was a big hit and I was able to secure a job with the help of Robert Hooks at Mobilization for Youth. Cliff ran the training program for young people of color in acting and theater arts.

“Cliff was always looking ahead,” King added. “He hooked up with Voza Rivers and Ademola Olugebefola to start the Dwyer Culture Center in Harlem. We kept up a long and productive friendship and he served as Chairman of the New Federal Theatre’s Board of Directors for 15 years, during which the NFT honored Ossie Davis and Sidney Poitier.”

In 1968 after Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated, Cliff left his acting career and dedicated himself to the fulfillment of Dr. King’s vision of a “Beloved Community” free of the evils of racism, poverty and violence. He created programs and activities specifically aimed at fulfilling this vision.

Cliff lived a life devoted to the “Beloved Community.” During the 60s, 70s and 80s, alongside Ossie Davis who was the driving force, Cliff helped change the face of the media industry. Through organizations like Community Film Workshop Council (CFWC), Third World Cinema (TWC) and the Institute of New Cinema Artists (INCA), they were responsible for training and obtaining opportunities of employment for over 2,000 Blacks, Latinos, Asians and individuals from low income communities throughout the United States and Puerto Rico, in the film, television, recording, advertising and allied media industries.

In 1983 he won an Emmy for “To Be A Man” along with one of the alumni of CFWC, TWC and INCA, who’s an industry trailblazer; Neema Barnette, a producer/director, the first African American woman to direct a television situation comedy and who has directed numerous

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television shows and feature films. In 1986, he founded International Communications Association (ICA), a Harlem-based nonprofit organization, to continue the successful work of CFWC, TWC and INCA. In 1992, Cliff, as ICA president, obtained the Dwyer Warehouse.

In 1998 ICA, partnered with Cross Construction. The result is the10story, 51-unit Dwyer Condominiums and The Dwyer Cultural Center, and 7,000 square feet of community space, located on the lower level, is owned and managed by ICA. Located in Harlem, the Dwyer Condos and the Dwyer Center, replaced the former 9-story Dwyer Warehouse but the design recalls the original building’s facade.

In 1995, Cliff was appointed Executive Director of New York Metropolitan Martin Luther King Jr. Center for Nonviolence (NYMLK), which utilizes the Kingian principles, philosophy and methodologies to positively impact the problems of social justice.

In collaboration with the Morrisania Revitalization Corporation, NYMLK provides social advocacy work and institutes educational, job training and employment programs that sustain community Neema Barnette and Cliff Frazier at Emmy’s Awards ceremony development and further the cause for peace, progress and nonviolence. NYMLK partnered with SUNY’S Advanced Technology Training and Information Networking (ATTAIN) in establishing a state-of-the-art high tech computer laboratory to provide digital parity for communities in the South Bronx that have had limited access to computer technology.

For the past 17 years, NYMLK has organized and lead its Annual Interfaith Celebration for Religious and Racial Harmony. The group unites Christians, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists and other faiths. In 2001, NYMLK become a Non-Government Organization associated with the United Nations.

In 2000, he co-founded the Harriet Tubman Charter School in the Bronx, along with NYMLK and the African American Legal Defense and Education Fund. It was the first charter school awarded by the New York State Board of Regents.

Cliff Frazier and Ademola Olugebefola, the founders of the Dwyer Cultural Center. Photo: AV Archives

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Contributors Nadia Bongo writes poetry and fiction when she is not tutoring. Having grown up in Libreville (Gabon) and Neuilly sur Seine (France), she now lives in New York. In 2018, she was selected to attend a Cave Canem workshop. She is a Winter-Spring 2021 Brooklyn Poets fellow. Nadia’s work has appeared in Newtown Literary and the New York Public Library zine. Currently, Nadia enjoys the work of Rimbaud, Audre Lorde, and Ovid.

Gloria J. Browne-Marshall is an author, activist and a playwright. Her recent poem “white privilege” was published in Esthetic Apostle Journal. Her first poem “Dreamers Americanus” was published in 1990 in Quarterly Black Review. She is an unabashed renaissance woman for social justice. Her produced plays include “My Juilliard”, “Killing Me Softly”, and “Jeanine.” Gloria’s nonfiction books include “Race, Law, and American Society: 1607 to Present” and “The Voting Rights War.” Lucy Mwelu is a writer living in Kenya.

Sage Gallon: See The Gallery on page 22.

Kevin Powell is a poet, journalist, civil and human rights activist, filmmaker, and author of 14 books. His 15th will be a new collection of poetry, Grocery Shopping With My Mother, coming out in December from Soft Skull Press/Penguin Random House.

Scott Ortega-Nanos is a bookseller, musician, and young father in Oakland, California. He runs the bookstore for the Oakland Public Library and is an editor for Uwazi Press.

Lolita Stewart-White is a poet, filmmaker and educator who lives and works in Miami. Her work has appeared in Callaloo, Kweli, Green Mountains Review and Beloit Poetry Journal. She has received fellowships from Cave Canem, The Atlantic Center for the Arts and the Sundance Screenwriter’s Lab. Quincy Troupe: See page 34 in book review section.

Lora René Tucker is Brooklyn born and educated; now living in Sag Harbor, NY. Lora has had her poetry featured throughout the New York Metropolitan area since 1992, has over 30 years working for racial and social justice and teaches and facilitates antiracism and cultural empowerment seminars. As the “Therapeutic Poet,” she self-published her first book: Writes of Passage in 2010.

REEL SISTERS DEDICATES CIVIL BRAND SCREENING TO CLIFF FRAZIER

A Community Tribute to a Mentor & Friend You are cordially invited to join Neema Barnette & special guests for a screening of Civil Brand in memory of Cliff Frazier, cofounder of the Dwyer Cultural Center.

RSVP: 212.865.2982

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Dwyer Cultural Center | 258 St. Nicholas Ave. African Voices www.reelsisters.org

Fri., June 10, 2022 6:15 pm ADMISSION IS FREE | DOORS OPEN AT 6:15 PM

Contest Biographies

Young Ladies of Color Writers Ages 8-18 African Voices is proud to introduce our future novelists, poets and prose authors! In 2021, we sponsored the Her Stories Writing Contest with Girls Read to Write (GRW), a creative writing organization founded by Sandra Proto. The organization nurtures young women writers of color ages 8-18. We are excited to join GRW in congratulating the winners of our first creative writing contest highlighting the next generation of storytellers. We are publishing flash fiction and short fiction winners in our digital and print issues as well as on our respective websites: www.africanvoices.com and www.girlsreadtowrite.com.

Amaya Farrell: Since grade school, Amaya Farrell has thought of writing as a way to let go and have fun! She enjoys reading, as well, and absolutely loves getting lost in a story, getting attached to the characters, and being taken to another world.

Aponi Kafele is a 13-year-old queer writer, singer, artist, and music enthusiast.

She is an avid believer in Black girls’ intrinsic magic, beauty, and dignity. From her home in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, NYC, she writes short stories, poems, and essays on the topics of both queer and Black experiences, fantasy, beauty, and whatever else she pleases. She dreams of living a life surrounded by art and getting her mother the butler she wants.

Kylie Kamau attends an online charter school and is in the sixth grade. She loves singing, dancing, writing, eating sushi, drinking smoothies, and looking up trivia facts. Her teachers recently said that her reading level is that of an eighth- or ninth-grader.

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Katheryn Prather is a senior at Milton Academy in Milton, Massachusetts, where she lives with her parents and little sister. Her hobbies include writing of all kinds, including songs, poetry, short fiction, and novels, along with baking, reading, and watching Marvel movies. A few of her favorite writers are Maggie Stiefvater, Madeline Miller, and Jacqueline Woodson.

Ameena Rafeek is a sixth-grader from Long Island, New York. She enjoys reading, writing, and all things related to Harry Potter, Marvel, and Hamilton. In her spare time, she also enjoys baking and looking for the best bubble tea shops in New York. When she grows up, she would like to be a professional writer.

Svāhā Williams is an 8-year-old dynamo. Her screen credits include documentaries, independent films, TV, news broadcasts, and a music video.

She plays the cello, and is heavily inspired by Kanye West, Solange, and Kelsey Lu. Sometimes she collaborates on cool stuff with her parents. She is excited about exploring an art career merging music, performance, film, and fashion. Svāhā credits her Grandma Lavern, Aunt Priscilla, and Auntie Chantal for gifting her the ability to write songs and journal.

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1st Prize Fiction Winner

Storm Warning

By Katheryn Prather

The little Black boy who lives across the street from you is squatting on his unfinished lawn with a large stick, which he probably stole from a neighboring yard after last week’s thunderstorm. Idly, he traces lines in the dirt; his focus makes him seem like a very young old person looking for answers about the future in the slope of the soil.

You catch glimpses of him while you clean the living room.

He traces a spiral until it reaches the edges of his little plot. Then he stands up, dragging his stick behind him as he steps carefully and barefoot across the dirt.

He sets the stick down horizontally, rolls it from walkway to driveway to clear his design, and stares at the newly blank canvas. His own, all-natural etch-a-sketch.

He rises onto his tiptoes to draw simple lines, parallel to the street, and stares at them like they’re the most important puzzle he’s encountered in his short decade of life.

He moves to stand with his back to the street and draws more lines, these perpendicular. Then he lifts his stick to set it against the back of his neck and curls his arms around it.

He steps into the first rectangle of the grid and pauses. Another step, paired with a pivot to face in a different direction, pressing his footsteps into his front yard.

He reminds you of your son.

Elijah used to make art with whatever he had at his disposal. Seeing his enthusiasm, you tried to introduce him to the history of it: the classics, the Renaissance — you had intended to take him to an exhibition on Expressionism when it came to the art museum.

You lift his fourth grade portrait from its place on your bookshelf to stare. Elijah’s sandy face grins at the camera, his caramel curls stick up and all around him like … like a fruit, perhaps, though you can’t think of exactly what kind.

The sound of thunder rippling down the street pulls your gaze to the clouding sky: another thunderstorm coming slowly towards you. A sense of dread or grief or both — you can’t tell which — slips down your spine. There seem to be more and more of them — these storms, these feelings — with each passing year.

The little boy is looking up, too, staring at the sky with his arms still wrapped around his stick, unafraid of the storm headed toward your little street.

Elijah had a cousin less than a month older than he was. Though his cousin, a plump little boy named Grayson, found thunderstorms to be one of the most terrifying phenomena to ever leave God’s hands, Elijah had always slept soundly through them. You thought it was the sign of a strong boy. Nearly fearless. You had been right, but that didn’t make you happy.

The boy across the street frowns at the clouds as they move towards him, the only hindrance to his art project, and pauses to watch.

Ah, you think, now that face was your son’s too. That was how your boy looked at you when African Voices 11

you called him for dinner, or dragged him to lunch with your friends, or interrupted his artwork for a question. You smile at that face, and the boy looks at you like he can sense the change.

Through the window, you wave. His mother knows you, but he doesn’t, so he cocks his head to the side. Then, slowly, as if he needs to think through the motion as he performs it, he waves back. He steps into the next rectangle, which is closer to the street, when the door of his house opens and out steps his mother.

His head snaps up to look at her before she even speaks, and he hops from his dirt patch onto the sidewalk. He removes the stick from its place against his neck and tucks it neatly beneath the bushes in front of his house. It’ll be ready for him tomorrow, after the rain has come and gone, but his canvas will be mud.

You notice the bottoms of his feet are darker than they should be, stained from the dirt. His mother should make him wear shoes in the house, so he doesn’t track dirt all over her floors, you think.

She pulls him quickly into the house by the back of his t-shirt, her dark face shadowed with worry as her eyes find the clouds rolling over the sky. Without trying, you smile. She seems to know the importance of teaching him when to come back inside — and he seems to be learning the limits.

1st Prize - Flash Fiction Winner

The Dreams of a Dancer

By Kylie Kamau

Layla Prince dreamed of being a dancer. Her mother Mikayla wanted to dance, too, when she was Layla’s age but no one believed in her. When Layla found out they were holding auditions at the Dance Theater of Harlem In New York City, she was excited to audition but also nervous.

“Mom, what if I’m not talented enough for the Dance Theater of Harlem?” Layla asked, putting her head down.

Her mother lifted her head and looked into her brown eyes and said, “Sweetheart, you can do anything you set your mind to.”

Layla beamed and pirouetted across the floor.

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Mother Mythic My mother ain’t no Big Momma. Don’t dare cry.

She won’t pick you up gentle and kiss where it hurts, never went to the valley to send me up high.

And only says good stuff when I say it first.

She’s not the one in birthday cards, not mine.

She won’t praise my efforts that come up short, don’t know me more than I know myself or sigh because I breathe in and out. With me, she’s bored.

My mother was never Big Momma. Her embrace — it was not thickly rolled pillows of perfumed steam clinging to folks long past grown and gone their way.

No. Children were just hoarders of her golden dreams.

Was life too stony for her to break off a piece? Hungry, but preferring to feast only off the best parts of me, leaving bitter-roots to be fixed by Big Mommas it seems like Santa Clause, only come ’round when you’re sleep.

Maybe she got no Big Mommas from the start, To fight the bullies at school or the boogeymen at night, no soft hands or wordless caresses held her heart where life’s bridges were too thinly patched to cross tired.

Say I’m blessed. Blessed with her thirst, lips dry, spare, drinking from shiny cups not found on some rough table.

Tall in my power to haunt those weakened by love to share– life. Bone cold, fearing, like my mother, I’m not able.

I’m no Big Momma. Tho’ I’ve gone low raising some high, none of them are fruit of my womb or folks I can name.

Women like me, seen too much, but keep holding up the sky We’re mothers. Loving with sadness, quiet birthing pain. © 2022 by Gloria J. Browne-Marshall

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2nd Prize Fiction Winner

Good Hair

By Aponi Kafele

My neck cramps and the ironing board is stiff against my cheek. As soon as this pressing heat is over, I will stun and dazzle all the aunties and cousins at the family reunion tonight. I have been burning and burning since birth. I am the cutting of dead ends that always stretch too many inches; tender-headed as always, I initiate an amateur straightening job while Mama is away. The steam the iron has sighed into the air smells half like coconut from the pressing oil I snatched from Mama’s cabinet and half like castor oils and buttery shampoos. The makings of hours of rubbing and massaging soapy suds in the shower and braiding my hair in the foggy bathroom mirror blossom into sweet-smelling smoke that stings my eyes.

I press my cheek further into the ironing board; my small fist grips the iron, and I ignore the cramp in my neck. I’ve parted my hair as accurately as a blind man could; I reach back behind my head to tug at a section of detangled frizz. Popping it free from the butterfly clip and laying it down on the ironing board like you might position a head for the guillotine. I press down the iron and oppress my curls with heat and steam and pressure. I am coal, and every Wednesday between my mother’s legs, I become aspirations of a diamond. Chasing the shine and silky smooth of the hair of light-skinned supermodels that laugh at me from the magazines from Ms. Rodriguez’s hair salon. Commercials say I’m like a geode that must be cracked open and splintered to reveal any gem. Only when I have struggled in a way that has broken me apart into more manageable pieces am I beautiful.

I pull the iron off my hair and set it upright. After rising up, I crack every bone in my dark body, toes, thick fingers, long neck, knees smothered with cocoa butter, like a machine that should have stayed dead, springing back to life again. I run my hands through my new hair; it feels smooth and soft to the touch.

It catches the sun leaking from the windows. I ruffled my hair in excitement before looking down at thin strands, like a silk garment unraveling at the seams that had flaked off of my head, clinging to my hand.

The strands falling with feathery grace to the carpet below, my cheeks heat up, and I run to the bathroom.

Breaking open the door, I pick up the stepstool from the wall, go up on my tiptoes, and stare into the vanity mirror. I obsess over the thinness at the base of my scalp, hands dancing centimeters away from my head and face, shaking and gesturing as if I am trying to cast a spell. But the little boys and girls who ride broomsticks and hide in strangers’ wardrobes in my fantasy books don’t look like me. They have no potion that will stifle the tears welling up in my wide almond eyes, that will stop thin strands of hair from falling to the bathroom floor like the first snow. It’s then I know what they say is true, not the whispers of the neighbor whose house Mama skips when giving out pumpkin pies to the neighborhood for Christmas. But the meaning of the hands that grab for my curls, the snickers Mama is racked with when I’m late to school and haven’t had the time to “fix” my crown, wild, reaching up like sunflowers facing the sky.

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CHANGES I’ve lived through many music devices the way others have lived through social changes I remember the static of the record & the senseless pleasure of fingertips passing on the ridges of the vinyl stripped of its sleeve my country had been a colony when my parents were teenagers & they danced listening to Congolese rumba I remember the thread of the tape entangled over a white cogwheel my country the unabashed dictatorship of Makosso I clad in their platform pants and harboring their beautiful Afros my parents still rebelled against the former colonizer I remember the rainbow on the surface of the CD as you brought it to the light its body smooth like albumen easily scratched the album jumped & skipped & repeated over and over Keith Sweat said twisted over you twisted twisted over over over you like the present capitalism must save us all nowadays music is untouchable for most of us & we don’t need to feel for a song & put on an album it must be the future untouchable & imperceptible my parents and I will be gone let’s see what the young will make of it © 2022 by Nadia Bongo

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Our Mothers (for my aunt, Birdie Lou Powell) What would we be without you?

Even God herself Knows that our mothers Are miracle angels Swiping away the sun’s burns and tears With their leatherlike hands We mean Mother mom ma mommy mama mami Give birth to the earth daily Transport the moon and stars on their backs Work like hungry ancestors in orange fields Smuggle their invisible dreams in swollen ankles Sing blue songs that hang trees, double-dutch the breeze And capture the motherland in a sneeze We mean Our mothers Build and create and create and build Things Like civilizations and imaginations and love Even when they get no love themselves We mean Our mothers Are spirit and energy brushing buckets of paint Beneath our feet Means our mothers Are magicians Here even when they are not Here even when they are not Here even when they are not Thursday, May 6, 2021 10:30am © 2022 Kevin Powell from Grocery Shopping With My Mother.

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Photo: Courtesy Kevin Powell.

3rd Place Winner

FICTION

Bathala: a Biomythography pt. 1

by Scott Ortega-Nanos

Today is the eve of the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. It’s a time when Catholic families come together, to honor the sacred birth of Mary herself, who is said to have been born without sin. It is also said that Mary, so full of grace, never sinned once, in her entire life. According to Catholic history, Jesus died on the cross to save the souls of everyone, because everyone needed to be saved. Everyone—Norma laughed to herself—except for his dear nanay.

Norma loves her nanay too, but she’s especially fond of her father. Tatay Gerardo has always had a fierce, lifelong devotion to the Blessed Mother, and even custom designed a statue of Her, with an ivory head and hands which could be removed, manipulated, and then re-affixed in order to mirror the spirits of different holidays. Tonight, Norma and Tatay will pray to the statue together, and prepare it for the festival mass. *** After lunch, Norma boards a train bound for Los Banos, Laguna; her home. Los Banos is only 50 miles south of the capital, but trains move slow, and the track is winding, built wherever a path was available; sometimes wedged tightly in between rows of shanties, other times, slapped together over deep ravines, where the rail groans and shivers, and one can reach out and almost touch the tops of palm trees. The air is hot and damp, heavy with yesterday’s rainfall. Norma drifts off into sleep.

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3rd Place Winner

*** When she wakes from her dream, the train is already close to Los Banos Laguna Station. It’s late afternoon, and she can see the golden strands of sunlight lying gently across the crown of Mount Makiling. The mountain, said to be the home of the goddess Maria Makiling, is actually a large, dormant volcano, and provides the village with several natural hot springs. In the dream, a few moments earlier, Norma was riding in the same train, but fully awake. And as the north face of Mount Makiling first came into view, the train rumbled and screeched, and the earth shook and trembled. In the distance, Norma saw the entire mountain and rainforest rise effortlessly off the ground, held up by a pair of enormous legs. A tall woman’s body, made of miles (and miles) of mountain, towered above the clouds; and then, bent down.

Suddenly, a massive pair of eyes with pupils of swirling opal peered into the window of the train car, and Norma found herself face to face with a giant woman, far older than her lelang, with skin of dark brown rock; each wrinkle in her crow’s nest: a deep canyon, out of which toppled heaps of dirt, leaves, and rainwater. The large woman’s face smiled serenely at Norma, and then changed, or rather, slowly flickered. The jagged and weathered brown rock turned to smooth obsidian, and the towering figure appeared wrapped, for a moment, in a cosmic robe, the glittering dark purple of space. The faces of Maria Makiling and the Virgin Mary switched back and forth, and the crystal eyes began to cry: first tears, then blood, then rubies, ginger root, gold dust, and back to tears again, over and over. Finally, the cavernous mouth opened, and the giant woman began to speak ...

A transient chill breaks Norma away from the recollection, and banishes it to a place she can no longer grasp. Staring out the window, watching the sunlight retract into nothingness, she reaches into her pocket, and clutching her rosary, fades into prayer. *** The next 24 hours pass in traditional fashion. The mass the following day is solemn and God-fearing; the warm sound of whispered prayers thickens the air inside the church, supported by a low, steady hum of several hundred hand fans, each one being waved, meditatively and unceasingly. The feast, following the mass, is delicious and vibrant. The evening is full of its usual decorum, which Norma simply lives for; the men in the village all line up to greet her Tatay, and leave offerings for the statue.

Her sisters, Baby and Wenny, starved for the latest gossip from the city, trail behind her closely as she tracks down lelang and the other village elders, eager to give each one their mano po. The party drags on, and the younger villagers dance and drink well into the night.

But in an instant, everything stops, precipitated by the forced cadence of music being turned off midphrase, followed by silence, and then, the voice of an American man, speaking English. Norma can understand what the man on the radio is saying. But yet she cannot understand; she cannot believe it.

Arvin, one of Tatay’s students at the University, translates out loud in Tagalog for the rest of the village to hear.

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There is no more feast. There is no more dancing. The man on the radio repeats: the Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor. Norma shuts her eyes in shock. After a moment, she reopens them, and realizes that not everything is how it was before, how it’s always been. There are Japanese soldiers scattered along the street, leaning against walls with polished assault rifles slung across their shoulders. The buildings they’re guarding are newly remodeled, with painted signs in Kanji.

Something is happening here, too.

The next morning, Tatay Gerardo forbids Norma to go back to school, and the following week passes in a fog. There are daily air raids in Manila; the bombs are dropped midday. A sea of weary, blunted faces pours into the small village from the train station: desperate families, fleeing a burning city. The town swells from the influx of people. The order of things becomes a veil. One morning, while at the market, Norma sees her favorite clothes, left behind at school, for sale on a merchant’s table. Sobbing, she runs home, warm tears streaming down her face, too ashamed to tell anyone that she cannot afford to buy them back.

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APRIL 3, 1968 Lorraine Welcomed a King and his court with Gideon Bibles in the drawers, ice in the buckets.

Highly noted in the Green Book Lorraine made sure they felt welcomed With the sheets folded down and hermetically sealed soap on the vanity.

Lorraine, the quintessential hostess Briefly held him and his dream Gave them respite, even just for one night.

Memphis was his mountaintop; He told her he came back having something to prove in a city of two worlds: Proud men as human billboards Reminding narrow minds they, too, are American Facing men with centuries of disdain Group think of poisoned minds Incensed that the “service class” Deserved to be served.

Lorraine knows of service: Available all night Guaranteed safe after sundown; Yet, in 24 hours what Lorraine had to do would be more than hanging towels and fluffing pillows.

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Balcony his perch he stood looking down at his knights making plans for the promised land Sun in his eyes He vowed to return leaving Lorraine his disheveled sheets smothered cigarette in the ashtray dreams scattered across the floor Mulberry Street became the road to the promised land – But for the rest of us the road had a detour.

Like Lemmings we veered off the cliff We all fell when his throat was pierced by white hot hate speeding through the Cointelpro’s crosshairs…

Right in front of Lorraine.

Lorraine Didn’t want the attention or fame Nor the responsibility of cleaning his blood and brains She knew nothing would ever be the same So, she embraced her place in history Kept her Green Book address And changed her name. *

© 2019 by Lora René Tucker *The Lorraine Motel is now the National Civil Rights Museum at 450 Mulberry St., Memphis, TN.

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THE GALLERY Sage Gallon: A Self-Taught Artist Lights Up Our World Sage Gallon is a self-taught painter, photographer, poet, filmmaker and recording artist. Sage’s debut into the art world was a group show in 2013 called “Nebula.” It was held in an airplane hangar in Santa Monica, CA, and was attended by some 500 people. In early 2014, Sage was named in NBC’s The Grio as one of the 40 Artists to Watch. Sage is an accomplished artist with four documentaries made about his life, two of which have won awards.

Sage grew up in Hempstead, Long Island, and has lived in Washington, D.C. He moved back to NYC after living in Los Angeles for 24 years. Sage’s work has been collected and exhibited in galleries and museums across the country. In 2015, his work was exhibited at the African American Museum of Philadelphia in the “I Found God in Myself ” exhibit celebrating the 40th anniversary of “For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow Is Enuf.” Sage’s work can be seen at L’Espace De Rêve Gallery (246 Malcolm X Blvd., Harlem), Cheryl’s Global Soul Restaurant (236 Underhill Ave., Brooklyn), Art on the Ave (875 Third Ave., NYC) and Underhill Walls. Sage self-published his first book of poetry in 2021 titled “Naked Under My Clothes” and released his first album under the same title in 2015. In 2016, Sage wrote and produced a series of critically acclaimed short films titled Naked Under My Clothes and Anthology. Sage also works closely with various organizations and was recently named an Ambassador of Homelessness Awareness for AwareNow Magazine.

Having once been homeless and an addict, Sage is profoundly humbled and grateful to share his life and work with African Voices and the world.

For information on Sage visit www.sagegallon.com and Instagram: @SageGallon.

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When I am Sad I Crumple And feel thrown away like my mother was in 1944.

Blue-black baby abandoned.

Blue-black baby banished to a narrow shotgun house on Bee Road.

Sometimes she tells of the shine of the ax, the blade, how she chopped wood from Cedar trees.

Sometimes she groans about the creak of an army cot propped in a backroom where she soaked the swollen knuckles in her hands.

Sometimes she moans for the dead mother her dark fingers ache for.

Sometimes she shuns the father who left her for dead.

Sometimes I want to unfold her and smooth out all of her creases. © 2022 by Lolita Stewart-White

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FICTION Woman of Steel

by Lucy Mwelu

I dug my heels into the seemingly unassailable soil exterior with a feral desire of attaining balance.

Angling my head to the side, I stretched my burnished arms forward whilst encircling the hefty, cold steel; a Walther P99 9MM in my miniature palms. I squinted my eyes, all focus resolute on the target dummy aloof from me. It is undoubtedly bone tickling what one can simply impart themselves with by visiting good old Google. For me, it was the divine art of learning how to be a trigger-happy maniac. I pulled the trigger, my mind rushing to paint a picture of the firing pin striking the primer, the primer igniting the gun powder and finally the burning powder creating just enough pressure to push the bullet down the barrel and out the muzzle. I watched smugly as the bullet landed squarely on the dummy’s glabella; the soft area between one’s eyebrows. I took it upon myself to give that area a moniker, the sweet spot. A satiated smile crept on my lips as my arms withdrew from their elongated position. A sudden feeling of weariness swept over me but I swiftly shrugged it off. I removed my hearing protection then proceeded to hang it on a nail plummeted into the wall. I then sauntered out of the range, my legs suddenly feeling airborne.

“If it isn’t my favorite student … Lily, the woman of steel … literal steel.”

I rolled my eyes and playfully punched Victor Oduor on the side of his arm. Of course I immediately regretted my impulsive action given that the man was of stout stature. My eyes zeroed in on his perfectly chiseled jaw, his most outstanding feature. He was the man who had graciously seen to it that I had daily access to the shooting range in Lanet Barracks.

“Well, if you really think I deserve such a title then I challenge you to a battle … .”

Victor corked an eyebrow before the ends of his dried lips tugged upwards into a cynical smile.

“You do realize that I can beat you with my eyes closed right?”

“Driving a hard bargain as usual I see? Men from the west and their egos … how delightful it will be to trample all over it.”

“Women from the east and their mouths … how delightful it will be to watch you swallow your own words.”

For a moment, we stood there unmoving, our eyes locked in a ferocious duel. There was a humongous contrast in Victor’s appearance; a hard exterior complemented by beady gentle eyes. A shrill ringtone blared through the air causing us to break eye contact. I pursed my lips, my fists clenching instinctively as I stared at the screen of my phone. I let it go straight to voicemail.

“Go … we will resume our little dance some other time.”

I gave Victor a curt nod before hastening my steps toward the barracks gate. Patting my trouser’s back pocket, I fished out a fifty shilling note.

“Ah, daughter of Governor! Beautiful girl, today tea?”

“Here.”

The soldier’s calculating eyes bored a hole at the back of my head as I trotted towards my Toyota E 100. My anorexic fingers fumbled with the car keys as I blinked away the pool of tears brimming in my eyes. I finally managed to open the door, being careful not to let the soldier see my distraught state.

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Sliding onto my leather seat, I let out a strained sigh while my hands, with a life of their own, reached out to grab a packet of farasi cigarettes. I lit one of them, my numb nerves relaxing as I lavished the bliss feeling of smoking tobacco. Back on campus, I had mastered the art of releasing the smoke in chains; I watched them as they formed, dissipating in the air as swiftly as they appeared. The shrill ringtone split through the air once again, jolting me out of my pensive mood. I stole a glance at the screen, a wave of smoke straining to escape through my clinched teeth. My hands began to tremble as I reached out for my phone.

“Hello?”

“Lily? Where are you? The court session is about to begin!”

“I’m in Lanet … coming in a few, Mercy … have they started?”

“Will you just get here? The judge will be on my throat if he spots that you are a no-show! Get yourself together and for the love of God Lily, no smoking!”

“Okay, and Mercy is he-” The line went dead. I threw my head back hitting the head rest of the driver’s seat with a silent thud.

Nausea swept over me and suddenly the relishing feel ignited by my cigarette turned acrimonious.

I rolled down the window and disposed of it, sending the packet of cigarettes back to their haven.

Switching on the ignition, my engine roared to life and the car lurched forward. My features hardened as I set the gear and headed for Nakuru Law Courts.

Mercy Wahome was as tough as she was beautiful. With sizzling olive skin complemented by a striking voluptuous figure, the woman cracked necks wherever she went. A prejudiced mind would profile her as one of many Nakuru leeches upon sight but in truth, Mercy was hardworking, independent and most of all a brilliant law practitioner. Today she was dressed in bold mauve and she reverberated with confidence.

“You look like shit. “ “Good morning to you too, Mercy.”

A sympathetic smile crawled on her lips when she locked her eyes with mine. I was then engulfed in a tight embrace, a lavender laden scent lingering after she finally grew tired of sniffing the air out of me.

“So … did you finally get me Victor’s number?”

A chuckle escaped my throat as she encircled her arm around the low of my back.

“He has given his life-” “Yes yes to the country … but what about his-” “Mercy! Stop it! We are in court!”

A chuckle emanated from Mercy as we rounded a corner leading to the courtroom.

“I was going to say his heart … woman, mind out of the gutter please?”

My cheeks flushed crimson as Mercy opened the door of the courtroom. My feet suddenly became heavy, prompting me to remain rooted to the spot.

“You can do this Lily.”

The atmosphere in the courtroom was sombre. It was half empty yet it still felt crowded. Air constricted

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in my chest as my eyes landed on the man slumped in one of the front-row seats.

There he was, seated comfortably in his chair with his arms crossed nonchalantly. His ashy hair was unruly, his stubble draped with a pronounced five o’clock shadow. Trepidation suddenly infringed my being as locked-away memories began drilling their way back. He suddenly turned around, his eyes boring through mine. His mouth morphed into a malevolent smirk as if he could hear the heightened sound of my heart frantically beating against my chest.

“Lily, sit down … the judge will be here soon after he finishes his sojourn in the washroom.”

Mercy let out bouts of snorts which soon trailed off when she took note of my frozen stance.

“Lily … he cannot do anything to you, sit down.”

Mercy yanked my hand forcing me to plant my rear end onto the wooden arm chair beside her. I could still feel his eyes on me, regarding me amusingly from his table. Searing tears pooled in my eyes, but I swiftly blinked them away, not today Lily.

“All rise.”

As if in a trance, everyone rose to their feet as the judge sauntered in majestically. He motioned for people to resume their sitting positions while instructing the prosecutor to unravel the day’s case.

My mind reeled away from the prosecutor’s foghorn voice and proceeded down the path of memory lane. I was suddenly 6 years old again, the younger version of myself sprinting towards my father. He hoisted me up with his burly hands then tossed me in the air multiple times as I laughed gaily ... .

“I would like to call Lily Senene to the stand please.”

I had been so profoundly doused in my thoughts that I had not noticed Mercy addressing the jury.

Luckily, I had alighted from my train down memory lane just in time for her summoning. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me as I waddled to the stand. Feigning courage, I swore on the Bible to tell the truth and nothing but the truth.

“State your name and the reason for your presence in this court today.”

My throat felt scratchy and when I spoke my voice came out as a harsh whisper.

“My name is Lily Senene and the reason why I am here today is because …”

My voice trailed off as valour dissipated from me. Suddenly I was 6 again, terrified and voiceless.

“Miss Senene, you are required by the court to state your reason for attending this session.”

My head bobbed as I twiddled my thumbs. From the corner of my eye, I saw the judge signalling Mercy to continue. Mercy’s gaze was unwavering as she repeated her earlier question. I closed my eyes momentarily as I took in the swirl of memories churning within me. My lower lip quivered as each painful memory depicted itself across my mind, enough was enough, it was time. I am a woman of steel.

“My name is Lily Senene, daughter of Governor Philip Senene … and today I am here to plead with the court for comeuppance to this vile man … the man who continuously raped me from the time I was 6 years old … my own father.”

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BOOK CULTURE & REVIEWS A Bodega of Words: An Organization Feeding the Minds of New York City Families

By Debbie A. Officer

A Conversation with Seema Aghera of Brooklyn Book Bodega, Founded circa 2019 in Brooklyn, New York One of the defining markers of the New York City landscape is the corner store or bodega in many neighborhoods. These grocery stores cum deli, are the quintessential comfort spots for many people in big cities across the country. They don’t have the same barriers or restrictions of, say, Dean & Deluca, or Whole Foods where only the financially privileged can afford to shop on a regular basis for even basic food supplies. A bodega is a place where everyone can feel at home when they enter. Residents drop in for everything, including egg and cheese on a bagel with ketchup, lox with cream cheese, French fries with chicken fingers, Visine, emergency condoms, deodorant, kitchen supplies, beer, water, you name it.

That said, a different kind of bodega has popped up in Brooklyn with a strikingly different kind of fare to offer to its community.

A few months ago, African Voices caught up with Seema Aghera, one of the co-founders of Brooklyn Book Bodega. The organization’s name conjures up the same essence (without the food and prophylactics) of what a bodega means to a community. Founded by a small group of moms, Book Bodega has been bringing books into the homes of children around the city for the last three years. The organization started working out of a donated space at the Ingersoll Houses, a NYCHA Housing complex downtown, but grew so much that the owners had to get space at the Brooklyn Navy Yard to store their large cache of books.

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COVID-19 lockdown in spring 2020 and sporadically through summer 2021. Libraries and bookstores were shuttered, so families, especially those in need, were not able to access their usual haunts for free reading materials. Book Bodega was started with the intention of donating books to families so that all children would be able to have their own mini libraries at home. This mission proved even more important during the lockdown. Book Bodega didn’t shutter its “doors” though. Ms. Aghera and her team stepped in to help fill this gap. With a stream of volunteers and a small staff, they continued to provide families throughout the city with access to books and support materials from their base at the Navy Yard during the city’s most challenging days.

As a mom of three school aged children, the core inspiration behind all of this came from her personal insight about the lack of resources for children who lived steps away from her. A longtime lover of books herself, she said, “I’ve lived downtown (Brooklyn) for 13 years. This is my community where I am raising my kids. My kids have access to great literature, and I thought every child should have access to great literature as well. “As a child of immigrants from India, she understood from an early age the importance of children owning their own books. In 1969, her father was part of the first group of Indian men who were invited to come to the United States to study at Tuskegee University.

There is a bit of science behind the theory of 100 books, she insists. That science says if you had one hundred books it basically helps to provide you with a long life outcome. We have seen that a disparity in literacy has long-term effects. “This sobering statistic was also part of an international study released back in 2018 by Australian researcher Dr. Joanna Sikora, which was headlined in the British Guardian.

Sikora and her researchers found that growing up in a home packed with books has a large effect on literacy in later life—but a home library needs to contain at least 80 books to be effective, according to the new research.” News like this is what keeps Ms. Aghera motivated. She reflects on the early days because “when we started, we felt strongly that the idea of owning a book makes a difference for a child. There is something tangible about having a book in your hand. My co-founder Rebecca worked in education, and she saw firsthand the need for this. All the co-founders are moms and we wanted to do something” about literacy disparity.

Downtown Brooklyn, from the Atlantic Avenue shopping hub to the towers surrounding the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges, reveals a series of common New York City contrasts—milliondollar high-rise towers peppered with low income multicomplex buildings peeking out from around their borders. The children and adults in city-run dwellings are the people Ms. Aghera knew would appreciate and benefit from a Book Bodega in their community. She sees this part of Brooklyn as “the crossroads of culture” which highlights the socioeconomic gap between the residents who all share this diverse community. In order to help some of its neighbors, Book Bodega had to find new ways of getting books into homes where people were concerned about bread-and-butter issues at the height of the pandemic. It teamed up with local organizations who provided food, diapers, and other household essentials. The families would still get their boxes with food supplies, but they would also get books and learning materials for children and adults in the homes.

Ms. Aghera adds that “we had to do something. We decided to partner with organizations that were giving essential supplies in order to give out books. By the end of 2020, we were working with more than 100 organizations like Little Essentials. We even worked with schools that set up tables in their courtyards to serve communities in need.” Encouraged by the reception of the community and donors, Brooklyn Book Bodega continues to throw book parties at various locations around the borough. In early 2020, the owners had an event that brought people from “43 different zip codes,” reflected Ms. Aghera. This organization continues to strive and grow with the help of dedicated book lovers from around the city. They can be reached via their website at www.brooklynbookbodega.org, and are open to volunteers and those who wish to help fund their programs, which are free to the public.

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Duende: Poems, 1966-Now

by Quincy Troupe

by Ella Nathanael Alkiewicz

This glorious book of poetry is a compilation of Quincy Troupe’s heart and soul on the page. The reader enters the world of Troupe and gets to reflect, learn and absorb this poet’s atmosphere.

If readers are unaware of Troupe’s earlier works, they will enjoy reading portions within this publication. There are five decades’ worth of one man’s poetry encapsulated within this stupendous literary collection. They are: Embryo, Snake Back Solos: Selected Poems, 1969-1977, Skulls along the River, Weather Reports: New Poems, 1984-1990, Avalanche, Choruses, Transcircularities: New and Selected Poems, The Architecture of Language, Errançities, Ghost Voices: A Poem in Prayer, Seduction: New Poems, 20132018. His latest collection is called New Poems: 2019-2020, which finishes the book.

The reader is enveloped into the history, the times, and the life of an African-American male poet.

For example, we read musical poetry on several jazz giants like Louis Armstrong, Miles Davis, Duke Ellington. Troupe’s piece, “Miles’s Last Tune Live, August 25th, 1991” (418) of Errançities soothes the inner trumpet of his adoration.

Troupe carries throughout his books the word “eye” for the First-Person Point of View. It grew on this writer by his seventh book, Transcircularities. We read in “Pulse & Breathe” the opening line, “eye remember bone under skin as gristle of wings” (311). Troupe gives the reader cause to pause where he/she/they must consider the poet sees the world around him. The “eye” makes the reader adjust and not be greedy. That “I” would be considered oblivious to his/her/their surroundings and selfish. And Troupe is not.

Eye believe.

Troupe’s New Poems: 2019-2020 shines the LED flashlight on the last couple of years of living in America. Poems like “Coronavirus Redial” (600), “Nancy Pelosi” (639) with “Chasing Words in Lines: For Toni Morrison (1931-2019)” (649-650) inspire the readers, the poets, and the writers.

For example, in “Chasing Words in Lines”, Troupe has the closing line for Toni Morrison, “we heard the word ‘excelsior’” (650). The power and the pain hit this writer’s eyes and stung my nose with her loss. I remember where I was when the news hit the radio. I bawled for hours like I nearly did after reading his poem.

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Troupe wrote some pieces about the 45th president of the United States, too. This writer prefers not to glorify that human. The images were divinely written and explained how it feels to be a person of color in North America, today.

The fact that Troupe dedicates some of his poems to his family, friends, and celebrities is heartwarming. He recognizes their humanness and demonstrates he is paying attention to their actions and/or losses within the community. For example, “In Memoriam: For James Baldwin (1924 – 1987)” of Weather Reports: New Poems, 1984 – 1990. The line “celebrate your skybreaking smile infectious laughter” (191) gives the reader an image of Baldwin’s grin. Troupe is kind and gentle to his beloveds.

Artwork by Cuban artist José Bedia added to the book. Bedia illustrated “The Flip Side of Time” (260) in Avalanche. The reader is drawn in to investigate and exhale from the artist’s images. The poem Troupe dedicated to Bedia “The Haitian Drum Hammerers of Juan Dolio, Santa Domingo: for José Bedia” (619620) is gentle and strong as this writer imagines Bedia must be.

The poet does not implement periods or capitalized letters within his work. However, Troupe is consistent, which permits the reader to settle in and keep reading.

Nevertheless, all these poems are worth reading. The aches, the annoyances, the praises, and the wealth of words by this award-winning veteran poet should be a required reading in English classes across the Nation. Troupe’s life lives on, and we are better to read his poems.

Pub. Date: Dec. 7, 2021 ISBN: 978-1-64421-047-5 (e-book) Page count: 656 Publisher: Seven Stories Press

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Duende

for Garcia Lorca and Miles Davis it’s in the bottomless power, magic of duende climbing stealthily from earth, wrapped inside secrets, mystery infused in black magic that enters bodies in the form of music, art, poetry imbuing language with sovereignty, in blood spooling back through violent centuries, voices echoing ancient Africa, rise, thread from skins of blessed, sacred rituals, people emerge from drums as heartbeats in time when memory is revived here now through metaphor when olden voices find their way vibrating into song, rhythms stitch forgotten sounds into language beat out of them by whips on slave ships, bring back wonder of feet pounding, dance, the holy ghost lost in bloody homelands, now souls underneath rise up through bodies, spool back with talismans, hypnotic, pull ancient voodoo up in buckets filled with holy water, evoke memories drinking from whodunit secrets awakened in poetry of Garcia Lorca, Andalusian dues heard in Miles Davis’ clues vibrating anew in Sketches of Spain, andante blues © 2021 Seven Stories Press by Quincy Troupe. Excerpt from Duende: Poems, 1966-Now.

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Art: © 2020 Charise Isis, The Grace Project.