Summer Digital Issue 2017 by African Voices Magazine

A Soulful Collection of Art and Literature

Summer 2017 $6.00 ($9.00 outside of USA)

ÂŠ 2017 Afua Richardson, Marvel Comics Black Panther World of Wakanda

Photo: Proclamation Punctuation

Reel Sisters 20th Anniversary Celebration October 21-22, 2017 @AMC Magic Johnson Theater, Harlem @Alamo Drafthouse Cinema, Brooklyn

Join Reel Sisters in celebrating 20 years of presenting films by women of color! Enjoy our fall season of exciting screenings, panels and events! Reel Sisters will screen more than 25 films from across the globe! For information visit:

www.reelsisters.org Follow us on Twitter: @reelsisters || @africanvoices

Reel Sisters is sponsored, in part, by the New York State Council on the Arts, Brooklyn Arts Council and New York City Council members Jumaane Williams and Laurie Cumbo.

VOLUME NO. 14, ISSUE 34

Founded in 1992, published since 1993

270 W. 96th STREET, NYC 10025 Phone: 212-865-2982 www.africanvoices.com PUBLISHER/EDITOR Carolyn A. Butts BOARD CHAIRPERSON Jeannette Curtis-Rideau PRODUCTION MANAGER/ COPY EDITOR Obinwanne Nwizu POETRY EDITOR Mariahadessa Ekere Tallie WEBSITE CONTENT EDITOR Sandrine Dupiton ART DIRECTOR Derick Cross ASSISTANT ART DIRECTOR AZIZA LAYOUT & DESIGN Graphic Dimensions Lorraine Rouse ADVISORY BOARD MEMBERS Sonia Sanchez Poet/Activist Marie Brown Literary Agent Danny Simmons Visual Artist/Philanthropist, Rush Philanthropic Arts Fdn. © 2017, African Voices Communications, Inc. is a 501(c)(3), non-profit organization. Donations are tax-deductible. ISSN 1530-0668 African Voices is supported with funds from the West Harlem Development Corp., Regional Economic Development Council, NYC Department of Cultural Affairs and New York State Council on the Arts.

Publisher’s Note “ Surely, they had insurance for cosmic funk. They pushed back. I pushed harder then…My dance was born in New York’s streets, channeled fractals from across the nation, adopted traditions from around the world, reimagined Ailey and Dunham, Jamison and Jackson reborn as starship troopers, flinging their Black bodies through space.” — Sheree Renée Thomas, “The Dragon Can’t Dance” African Voices is proud to have artwork by Afua Richardson, one of the leading women illustrators for Marvel Comics’ “Black Panther World of Wakanda,” and N. Steven Harris, a member of the graphic novel team for Brotherhood of the Fringe, gracing the outside covers of our digital issue. Inside the issue, you will enjoy excerpts from their comic book series and get a preview of Afua’s forthcoming series “Aquarius the Book of Mer.” The issue salutes the emergence of Black women comics as a force in creating opportunities for graphic novelists of color to share their work. Following in the footsteps of Civil Rights activist Jackie Ormes, the first African-American woman cartoonist, Regine Sawyer is the founder of Women in Comics Collective International, an organization devoted to supporting women illustrators and comic publishers. Trailblazing entrepreneur Ariell Johnson, founder of the popular comic store Amalgam Comics & Coffeehouse in Philadelphia, recently received a $50,000 grant from the Knight Foundation to expand her outlet for comic book enthusiasts. Enjoy the stories in our special issue and support the graphic novelists by purchasing copies of their books and posters. The issue also includes “The Dragon Can’t Dance,” a short fantasy story by Sheree Renée Thomas, author of “Sleeping Under the Tree of Life” and a fine selection of poems by Lynne Thompson, Quincy Scott Jones and Roman Johnson, among other talented writers. African Voices’ first double cover issue celebrates the power of graphic novelists to transform society through envisioning a future where good triumphs over selflessness and greed. Graphic novelists create super heroes to help us cope in times when the world is turned inside out. They inspire us to survive unimaginable odds. Our artists are taking the lead and we can join them. Let’s use our super powers of activism to tilt the world in a better direction so that future generations inherit a healthier planet — spiritually and environmentally.

Outside Covers: Afua Richardson and N. Steven Harris.

For I am here, there you are: we exist, moving one in separate space. ÂŠ 2017 Sherese Francis

Oiled memory: be tree anointed on forehead, be light remembered. ÂŠ 2017 Sherese Francis

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Contents GALLERY 22

The Gallery — Renaissance Woman Afua Richardson Takes Comics World by Storm

FICTION AND BOOKS 10 The Dragon Can’t Dance by Sheree Renée Thomas 19 Interactive History for Young Readers by Debbie A. Officer 20 Paying Homage: An Artist’s Ode in Paintings on Wood with Paper, Scraps, and Memory by Debbie A. Officer 25 The Expat by Ozimede Sunny Ekhalume

POETRY 2 Haiku by Sherese Francis

9 Ars Poetica on Being a Black Poet from Memphis by Roman Johnson 16

YEYE’S Garden by Mawiyah Kai EL-Jamah Bomani

Afua Richardson, The Gallery, page 22.

21 Monk by Angel C. Dye 21

Before the Media Makes You a Man by Angel C. Dye

Daddy Registered Republican in 1931, by Lynne Thompson

My Life According to Brenda M. Osbey by Lynne Thompson

This poem would like to start with “Thank you.” by Quincy Scott Jones

IN THIS ISSUE 6

Contributors Bios

A Farewell Note From Poetry Editor Mariah “Ekere” Tallie

30 African Voices Interview with Children’s Book Author Zetta Elliott 33

Artist Profile: Spotlight on Award-winning Graphic Novelist N. Steven Harris

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

BROOKLYN Pratt News & Magazine 477 Myrtle Avenue Brooklyn, NY 11205

PHILADELPHIA, PA Horizon Books 901 Market Street Philadelphia, Pa.

If you would like to sell African Voices magazine, please contact Ubiquity Distributors at 718-875-8047 or e-mail info@ubiquitymags.com.

Contributors Bios Mawiyah Kai EL-Jamah Bomani is a native New Orleanian Writer and Spirit Woman. Mawiyah’s writings have appeared in The Crab Orchard Review, Dark Eros, Catch The Fire, Freeform Magazine, Beyond The Frontier, Kente Cloth, Fertile Ground, Family Portraits, Chicken Bones: A Literary Journal, Survival Digest Quarterly, From A Bend In The River, Thicker Than Water, The House of Misfit’s Guide to Spiritual Enlightenment, Essence Magazine, Keeping it Hushed: The Barbershop African American Hush Harbor Rhetoric, Looking for Soul, Black Poetry Music, The Louisiana Poetry Project and Women’s Issues and Feminism in the 21st Century. She wrote the plays “Brown Blood Black Womb.” She is also writer of the plays “Spring Chicken,” “Crows Feet,” “Bourbon and Hair Anthem.” She won playwright of the year for her play “Spring Chicken,” in 2013.

Mitchell L. H. Douglas is the author of Cooling Board: A Long-Playing Poem and \blak\ \al-fə bet\. His next poetry collection, dying in the scarecrow’s arms, is forthcoming from Persea Books in 2018. Douglas’ poem “After Murder” is featured on africanvoices.com.

Angel C. Dye is a poet from Dallas-Fort Worth, Texas by way of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. She is a graduate of Howard University and is an MFA in Creative Writing candidate at the University of Kentucky. Her poetry has appeared in Sixfold Journal, Black Earth Institute’s About Place Journal, and 2 Leaf Press’ Black Lives Have Always Mattered anthology. Angel has been awarded by the Middle Atlantic Writers Association, the College Language Association, and Tuckson Health Connections. Her work grapples with such issues as living in poverty and living in a single parent home with an incarcerated parent.

Ozimede Sunny Ekhalume is a pharmacist and an author. His fiction has appeared in The Missing Slate, Kalahari Review, African Writer, Café Aphra, Poetry Pacific, Winamop and Africa Book Club. His storybook for children was shortlisted for the 2016 Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA) Prize for Children’s Literature. Ekhalume is currently working on a collection of short stories and a novel.

Sherese Francis is a southeast Queens-based published poet, writer, blogger and literary curator. She has published work in journals and anthologies including Newtown Literary, Blackberry Magazine, Kalyani Magazine, Near Kin: A Collection of Words and Arts Inspired by Octavia Butler and Bared: Contemporary Poetry and Art on Bras and Breasts. Her current projects include her Afrofuturism-inspired blog, Futuristically Ancient; her southeast

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Queens based pop up bookshop/mobile library, J. Expressions, for which she received a 2017 Queens Council on the Arts grant; an upcoming fantasy novel, The E; and poetry collections in progress, “And the Water Breaks” and “Lady Liberty.”

N. Steven Harris: See page 33. Roman Johnson is a Watering Hole fellow, and winner of the 2015 George Rufus Lindsey Scholarship for Male Poets. He loves sweet potato pie, gumbo, and shrimp and grits. He is proud to be from Memphis, Tennessee.

Quincy Scott Jones’ work has appeared in publications such as the African American Review, The North American Review, and The Feminist Wire, as well the anthologies such as Resisting Arrest: Poems to Stretch the Sky and Red Sky: Poetry on the Global Epidemic of Violence Against Women. He is a Cave Canem Fellow and a VONA alumna. With Nina Sharma, he co-created the Nor’easter Exchange: a multicultural, multi-city reading series. His first book, The T-Bone Series, was published by Whirlwind Press in 2009.

Afua Richardson: See The Gallery, page 22. Sheree Renée Thomas is the author of Sleeping Under the Tree of Life (Aqueduct Press, named on the 2016 James Tiptree, Jr. Award “Worthy” List and honored with a Publishers Weekly Starred Review) and Shotgun Lullabies: Stories & Poems. She is the editor of the groundbreaking anthologies, Dark Matter: A Century of Speculative Fiction from the African Diaspora (winner of the 2001 World Fantasy Award) and Dark Matter: Reading the Bones (winner of the 2005 World Fantasy Award). Her work has been translated in French, Urdu, and Spanish and her essays, articles, and reviews have appeared in the New York Times and other publications. Based in Memphis, Tennessee, Thomas is the Associate Editor of Obsidian: Literature in the African Diaspora.

Lynne Thompson is the author of Start With a Small Guitar and Beg No Pardon, winner of the Perugia Book Award and the Great Lakes Colleges New Writers Award. Recent work has appeared in Poetry, Ecotone, Prairie Schooner, African American Review, and Crab Creek Review, among others. Thompson is Reviews & Essays Editor for the literary journal, Spillway. She is winner of 2017 Tucson Festival of Books Literary Prize, and the Stephen Dunn Poetry Prize in 2016. She received a Master Artist Fellowship from the City of Los Angeles for 2015-16.

African Voices Hosts Writing the Marvelous Real: Stories for Magic Folks Whose Eyes Are on the Future Join A Master Craft Writing Workshop on Speculative Fiction Space is limited, register in advance! When: Aug. 18, 6:30 pm-8:30 pm & Aug. 19, 2 pm-4:30 pm Where: African Voices, 270 W. 96 Street (bet. Bway & West End Ave.) Sheree Renée Thomas, the author of Sleeping Under the Tree of Life, will host the workshop in celebration of African Voices 25th Anniversary. Explore “the marvelous real” and develop unique stories that will be shared in a nurturing and creative environment. Register for both days or one! Registration Fee: $65 (2 days) or $35 (1-Day) Register: www.africanvoices.com or call 212.865.2982 Have an opportunity to have your work published in Trouble The Waters: Tales from the Deep Blue, a new anthology of water-themed speculative short stories!

Memoir Writing Workshop Starts Oct. 25, 2017!

Bring a Writing Buddy!

Do you have a story to tell the world? This workshop is for anyone interested in writing. You will be guided in the process of crafting a well-told story in a nurturing environment. Create an outline for your book or revise written work in 8 sessions. Fee: $225. Venue: 270 W. 96 St., NYC Call: 212-865-2982 or www.africanvoices.com

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Ars Poetica on Being a Black Poet from Memphis I am a poet, black like the color of the Wolf River, and I talk slow but my mind is sharper than the crease my daddy swears every pants must wear. Poetry is Memphis blue nights and saying man like it rhymes with rain it’s watching black men kamakazee into the air hearing the congo rang out on the river of people dancing. Poetry is knowing black bodies were sold up from the Mississippi on Auction Avenue and you can still hear the voices at night. Poetry is watching my niece graduate from Central High watching ebony-faced young people glaze across the graduation stage. Poetry is freeing your tongue. It’s writing in the southern patois of your grandmamma her honeysuckle proverbs. It’s knowing that everything black southern folk do is poetry. © 2017 Roman Johnson

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FICTION

The Dragon Can’t Dance by Sheree Renée Thomas

The first time I danced, I hated it. Six years old, skinny as a string bean, shy, observant, the last thing I wanted was to be pulled into my nana’s long, strong arms, and swept onto the makeshift dance floor at her birthday party. My hair was tightly braided, laced with the new gold and white beads Mama bought just for the occasion. My freshly oiled temples smelled like heaven, hurt like hell. Coconut and mango braids throbbed with the beat that thumped from wood veneer speakers sprawled across two wobbly card tables in a corner of the garden. Nana threw back her head and pranced, that’s right, pranced past my two uncles, my sisters, Papa and Mama, past all her old neighbors and church friends, and rolled her ample hips like a much younger woman. I was scandalized! Everyone clap clapped and howled at the vision, bellies full of roti and spicy jerk chicken. Nana wore red. And she looked amazing, a juicy hibiscus blossom in her hair. “Four score! Four score!” she cried, channeling Lincoln or the Bible. The sparkly eight and zero bobbed and weaved on her rainbow crown. In her birthday hat, she looked like a goddess or a ten year old. I could not tell which, before she reached for me, and I was swept into the swirl of sweat and laughter, the deep pulsing music, the mass of warm brown arms and legs, fiercely dancing in her herb garden behind her brownstone in Brooklyn. As she tugged and jerked my freshly cocoa-buttered arms back and forth, a wicked puppeteer, I was mortified. Not like the time I spilled soda on my white skirt at school, and the big girls pointed and teased me, shouting, “Sanaa started her period! Sanaa started her peer-ree-odd!” It seemed as if everyone in Crown Heights had gathered to see my humiliation. They say the dragon can’t dance. At six, neither could I. But that was then. Thinking about it now, I cannot believe how much love I took for granted. I’m talking about real love, the kind you can touch with your own hands and feel its arms around you and breathe in. When nana made me dance at her eightieth birthday party, I was so embarrassed, so afraid I’d make a fool of myself, that her joyful, public love of me felt more like a slap than a celebration. While other kids tap danced and moonwalked over the old children should be seen and not heard thing, bucked and clamored for adult attention, any attention, I preferred back then to recede into darkness, to be the silent night that cloaked the bright lone star. Nana wasn’t having none of that. When she pulled me into her arms that smelled like cinnamon, sweet milk and lime, I was angry. I felt exposed, naked. Dancing exposes you. In dancing, your body, traitor flesh that it is, reveals all the things your spirit tries to hide. Drawn from the margins into the center of 10

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my big family’s love and laughter, all the vulnerabilities, all the hopes and questions, all the fire spark of early, tentative temptations flowed through me, flowed out of me — and I hated it. Then. Then the drumbeats in my feet, the longing to fly that flamed through my limbs, possessed me. The sensation singed skin, engulfed my anxiety, burnt away my invisible cloak. After that night, dancing became addictive. Me and my girls, we used to turn up, shut it down right there in Goat Park. While the boys were out on the asphalt, sweating and cursing, checking bricks and trying to dunk in their throwback Jordans, we would be over by the raggedy ass slide, far away from crying babies and fussing nannies cussing in their mother tongues, but close enough for the fine boys to see us, making moves, moving in time, and imitating our favorites. Chanel could fract better than anybody. Her arms and hands flying in precise, quick fast patterns. Her sharp elbows were arrows that pierced the air, even her long spiraling locs swung in time to her rhythm. Bijou’s neck and thighs were like that old school silly putty. She could stretch and slide, whine and grind like she was all water, not bones and flesh. Me, I was the choreographer, always been, always will be. Sanaa, Queen of the Stans. I could do all my girls’ moves and then some I never shared. Even back then, I dreamed new steps and stans in my sleep, woke up counting beats and wrecking rhythms, even when I brushed my teeth. To dance was to live. Other younger girls and little children sometimes watched us from the sidelines, tried to mimic our moves. None of them had enough booty yet, the extra bounce for the ounce that added that special polyrhythm. But I wasn’t stingy. I taught anyone who wanted to learn and have fun, and some of them were really very good. Back then, I gave my moves away for free. “Might as well,” Bijou used to say. “They gon’ steal it anyway.” Chanel disapproved, flinging her locs back to underline the point. “You can’t give away everything, Sanaa. Some stuff you got to keep for yourself.” It was when they asked us to perform at the Rucker Park Streetball Fest, an annual fundraiser against police brutality, for the families of the latest victims, that it all changed. That’s when Isis first saw me. We couldn’t believe that Ice came to Manigault. Her appearance was completely unannounced, otherwise she and the Goat would have been swamped by fans and paparazzi. She was promoting her upcoming release and would be the celebrity judge for the tournament. Everyone and their mama, folk who know damn well they couldn’t ball or stan, was trying to get up in that competition. It was chaos. Harlem was out of control. There was no way they were going to be able to hold the people back, but we weren’t ordinary people. I had been waiting for a chance like this since beyond forever, and now here it was. I had no idea just how jacked up it would be. While the seconds counted down before curtains, my stomach filled with a hundred steely butterflies. Their wings shredded my confidence, then my doubts. After collaborating with Isis for so long, I still felt anxious, still felt the nervousness before I was tasked to move the crowd—her crowd. But just like the times when I battled street crews with Chanel in Goat Park on the West Side and with Bijou on the drummer’s hill in Harlem, my nervousness was quickly replaced with extreme focus. When green zeros filled the air above me, I watched our splendid bodies explode into action. As I moved I almost forgot that the force behind Isis’s explosion was my own. Under my stage lights, my skin glistened like blue-black diamonds. I did the counts in my head, allowing Isis’s music to flow through me, flow with me. Inside my crystal cave, as I called the room designed for my unseen solo performances, I danced with only the barest of clothing. Dark brown threads designed to wick sweat, designed to match my skin, monitored african Voices

and transmitted my every movement to Isis without hindering my movement. I was the behind-the-scenes choreographer and the spotlit superstar—all at once. As a child, like many girls, I used to dance in the middle of my room, until one of my sisters would walk in. Then I would stop for a moment and giggle, then begin the dance again as if no one was there. As I danced alone, I was the brightest star, the only star in my imagination. In the crystal cave, whose walls sparkled with light and data and pulsed with the music’s rhythm, the illusion was the same. In the cave, I was the puppet and the puppeteer, a tamed dragon. Instead of breathing fire, I was the flame. Management wanted to install climate control, to reduce the possibility of my sweat damaging the software and equipment. Under our special contract, “unprecedented” my agent had said, there was a severe gag order—proprietary tech and cloak-and-dagger secrecy—and clause after clause after clause. So many fine points and legalese that I finally signed it when my agent emphasized the number of unprecedented zeros that would grace my first check. Management was worried about me damaging the equipment, but no one was worried about the equipment damaging me. Climate control for their suit. Ksst! I laughed at this, said I preferred to sweat. Surely they had insurance for cosmic funk. They pushed back. I pushed harder then. It would make the dance more authentic, and Isis, despite her meteoric rise, needed all the help she could get. My dance was born in New York’s streets, channeled fractals from across the nation, adopted traditions from around the world, reimagined Ailey and Dunham, Jamison and Jackson reborn as starship troopers, flinging their black bodies through space. Isis was born in the city of a thousand suns, her voice quickly becoming the anthem of a legion. To deliver, I needed to feel the saltwater beading on my skin, to feel the fire coursing through me. I needed it far more than Isis and her backup dancers, gifted girls who twirled and stamped in perfect synchronized steps. I watched as the dancers performed my choreography, as Isis, the blazing star, performed my steps mere nanoseconds after my own movements, the delay an unavoidable consequence of the ocean between us. Mistress of my crystal cave with its vital signs monitors and cords, its wall-to-floor screens reflected the sold-out concert stage and the audience that screamed four thousand miles away in Freetown. I could see the stadium reflected all around me. Each set for Isis was a variation of an ancient Egyptian or other pseudo-African theme. Over the last of our fortycity tour, the world had seen Nubians and Pharaonic Pyramids, Dogon masks and references to alien close encounters with the inhabitants of the Dog Star, Sirius. The last show in Paris had Isis lounging on Napoleon’s tomb, surrounded by obelisks and giant replicas of herself. Tonight’s show in Sierra Leone, diamond capital of the world for centuries, was an ahistorical remix of surrounding nations. Our biggest number—my biggest number—would find Isis rising up from a rolling pink lake like the one in Senegal, its waves carrying her up to the base of a skyscraper-sized baobab tree that held her throne. All praise Isis, Queen of Life. For her finale she would appear to break into a hundred pieces, then resurrect herself for the last song. Even though Isis could not create her own dance, I knew better than anyone how good she was at creating her own myth. Friendships, family, and fans, she hustled them as deftly as a goddess. All were ripe for sacrifice. “We sisters,” she had said when I had mustered the courage enough to tell her I was gone. Even her voice had taken on my cadence. She could code-switch with the best. “You need me, I need you. Sanaa, Na-Na, they can’t do this without us. I can’t do this without you.” I guess Management had told her I was serious this time, so Isis made a special live-in-the-flesh personal visit to me. It had been a long time. It caught me by surprise, and I was angry that she could still flatter me, that I still cared so much about her opinion. I was suited up, the brown fabric covering me like a second skin. She stared me down, watching me hungrily. Like my 12

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hips, my skin, my blood she wanted more than food, than air itself. For what it’s worth, Isis had plenty game. I didn’t want to play anymore. I no longer welcomed her visits. “Na-Na.” I didn’t answer. Walked off the set, manually raised the lights in the cave. No illusions now. Just the truth. My heart rate skyrocketed. Management monitoring me could tell I was about to bust a gut. The cave suddenly filled with the hiss of fresh oxygen. “Sanaa?” I turned from my wet bar, nothing fancy, just aloe juice and wheatgrass shots and whatever “proprietary” ingredients they stashed in the energy blasts. The nasty taste, like much of my life in the cave, I had long gotten used to. Isis had completely shaved her head. Only little blond stubble, her new growth, was visible, and the telltale tiny cuts on her scalp where Management had implanted nanitic sensors. The old scars still looked like angry red ants. Unlike the dark ones that dotted my spine and every limb. I realized I had never seen the real Isis or her natural hair. When we first met in Goat Park she was rocking a red Afro and Bootsy shades. She looked like Little Orphan Annie and the Mack. I must have looked at her like I was crazy, but how could I not be? I had wanted to be a dancer, but now nearly all of my flesh sang the body electric. Mite-sized robots, nanites translated my thoughts to movements. Management’s processing banks instantly transferred this data to satellites that downloaded it to Isis, wherever she was in the empire star. My dance became Isis’s own. An interstellar duet, imperceptible to the media or her global fans, we were captives of the flame. And zeros or not, I was losing, had lost nearly everything. When my nana died, Management would not let me go to the funeral. I was furious. Trapped in the crystal cave, I raged for days until my body was spent. Isis was scheduled to perform at a major, international awards show. I could not be spared. The satellites watched over both of us, no matter how far apart we were, no matter how much I grieved. Despair filled my crystal cave. “Oh, this,” she said and raked freshly manicured pointed nails across her crown. Her fingertips looked like daggers. Manicurists and stylists were sent to me each week, but I kept my nails, my hair simple. Who would ever see me? “Management wanted me to cut it,” she said. “They won’t tell me yet what they’re going to do to my hair. You know them. Always got some next level plan for me to take over. First music, then the world.” She laughed carefree, the way only white girls could, and walked over to me. She smelled like roses or was it that flower my nana used to wear, the one in her garden. I had to work harder and concentrate to remember, to hold on to where my family and I used to live. To remember their faces, and the foods we used to eat, my friends, Bijou, Chanel, even the fine boys in the park, everyone that Management paid off long ago so they would forget me. I was losing parts of my memory, losing parts of myself. I couldn’t believe I used to love her. “We are like this,” Isis said. She grasped my hands, formed a knot. “Sacred. Nothing is more sacred than sisters, than the bond we have.” I wanted to cry, but I was too exhausted. Did she even care that I no longer remembered my sisters’ names? “I love the new choreography, love it! Girl, you’re brilliant! With it, there is no way we can’t make history. Not this time. We’re selling out everywhere, and I mean everywhere. So you can’t leave now. You can retire later but not now, Sanaa. And you know I love you.” african Voices

Why it got to be like this, I wanted to know. Why can’t nobody want me, all of me, just as I am? I used to have that, didn’t I? I couldn’t remember. I let go. Her hands felt clammy, cold, inhuman. I didn’t want to be near her anymore. We were close enough. If she noticed my distaste, Isis was too professional to let on. I’m sure Management had given her a script. Isis was good at memorizing her lines. She lip-synced better than anyone who ever lived. “Got somethin’ for ya.” She handed me a box. Ksst. I didn’t want any more payoffs from her, no more expensive trinkets and souvenirs. What’s the use when I no longer had a life? “Go ‘head, open it,” she commanded. There was the Isis I knew. I snatched it from her open palm. “I don’t need your toys, Ice, I need my freedom.” I tossed the velvet ribbon and opened the latch. A gold and diamond encrusted ankh decorated with a scarab beetle rested on a white satin lotus flower. “Thanks.” I walked away. I needed to shower, to sleep before the next rehearsal. It was obvious that neither Isis nor Management cared about me. Something about geese and golden eggs. As I turned the lights back off, I could see Ice’s face before she slipped out the door. If I didn’t know better I would have sworn she was crying. “Keep it,” she said before the cave sealed me in. “I have one, too. Just like it. You might need it one day.” Something about the way she said that, no hustle, no hype, that made me shiver. I walked back from the sauna room and into the main set, raised the lights. The crystal cave hummed quietly. The big screens were turned to a saver mode. Pictures of the past tour dates flickered by. Barcelona, Rome, Munich, Istanbul, Amsterdam, places I might never live to see. So why would I need a gaudy necklace, even if it was worth two mints? I picked the box off the floor and examined it. A typical jewelry gift box, plush, expensive looking. I flipped it open, pulled out the cross-like ankh. I was offended because it was like something Isis’s press crew would hand out in swag bags. Besides the crap ton of diamonds, nothing special. Or was it? “Music: Ndegeocello, ‘Dance of the Infidel,’” I said. Light trumpets and jazz drifted through the air. I set the box down on a coffee table and sank into the couch in the rear of the cage. The seat cushions molded themselves around my body, enveloping me like a cozy cocoon. The amulet was expertly made, heavily encrusted with jewels. But it wasn’t the jewels Isis wanted me to see. There was something beyond them. Something extra that she hadn’t wanted Management to know. I traced my fingertips along the curves of the ankh, then noticed that the largest diamond was in the center, below the scarab. I stroked it with my thumb, then pressed down hard. To my surprise, the amulet broke apart. My left hand held the bottom of the cross, in my right was the top of the golden bow with the scarab beetle. I held the dagger in my trembling hand, and sank deeper into the couch. The blade was sharp, lethal enough to pierce skin, slash arteries. Ice said she had one of these, too. Was that her retirement plan all along? I rejoined the ankh, held it by its glittering bow, placed it carefully on the table. They said the dragon can’t dance. I always thought that wasn’t true. Looking in the mirror that was my crystal cave, I didn’t know anymore.

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A Farewell Note From Poetry Editor Mariah “Ekere” Tallie Over 20 years ago, my writing life began to take shape because of a beautiful soul named Carolyn Butts and her arts newspaper, African Voices. I was eager to explore journalism, write poetry, and meet other writers and artists engaged in cultural work. Carolyn was bringing cultural workers together at events all across New York City and in the pages of her publication. It was a perfect match! I had no clue it would last for two decades. I’ve done amazing work through African Voices, and I’ve served in many capacities: volunteer, writer, staff writer, senior writer and finally poetry editor. Each of these positions has helped me grow as a writer, person, and member of the artistic community. My gratitude to Carolyn runs deep. She makes the work of bringing forth this magazine, producing a film festival, organizing book signings, curating art exhibitions and bringing creative programs to young people in schools look easy, but it is a mountain of work. Carolyn does it because she cares about ensuring that those of us who are searching have an opportunity to create and have our work recognized are given it. The most important thing we do at African Voices is to provide space for folks in the creative community to share their work and have their say. I have said much of what I needed to say through African Voices. As poetry editor for the last five years, it was a joy to open the door for many poets across the country whose work has been presented in our pages. There have been many highs! African Voices has provided me with an amazing foundation. Now, I need to say new things and I have to move in new ways I can feel but have yet to uncover. It’s time for me to go and “build me a home.” Angela Kinamore is African Voices new poetry editor and she is ready to embrace your voices and put her own fantastic stamp on the publication’s history. Welcome her! African Voices is one of a kind. It is independent. It’s for you, whether you have a degree or not, whether you are 15 or 95, whether you write sonnets, slam, or both. This magazine is for us, and I hope you’ll support it as it has supported so many. One, Mariahadessa Ekere Tallie

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YEYE’S Garden Men in black suits pull-up in In black cars yeye’s garden sprouts anti-monsanto sentiments these men are convinced that yeye is a threat to our national health Mrs. Julia Henry also known as Yeye Lumumba is practicing medicinal healing with food she has no license She has no medical degree no true plant knowledge only someone as unstable in their thoughts as this old woman would believe that food should replace pills the men say yeye has committed crimes against monsanto anyone found to be consorting with her will also earn a spot on the government watch list her crimes will not go unpunished she is a modern day witch — a heretic she has conjured in the vicinity of a city block an insatiable appetite for organic fruits and vegetables she has cast a spell on your children from her cauldron of lies she has forged their taste buds against corner store juice and what has she given them in return black butterflies kuka kale pomegranate cassava guava mango Ivy gourd green juices sweetened with agave I bet you never heard of agave before Mrs. Henry and her sorcery thrust it down your throats she has made everyone among you you good christian shoppers fall victim to her paganistic hijinks think about how care-free life was for YOU before she told you to avoid the foods sanctioned by your government Mrs. Henry has fed you the monsanto conspiracy when in actuality 16

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genetically modified just means we are God’s kitchen elves in our laboratory workshop we exist solely to take some of the worry off the man upstairs on bigger issues

so he can focus

between every smile and head nod the men in black suits shake hands with neighbors neighbors who one by one fill trash bins autographed by the FDA with fruits and vegetables foregone offerings from yeye’s garden after having successfully brainwashed the neighbors the men in black suits refocus their attention on us they rob and pillage the earth that was yeye’s garden stripping the harvest grown by yeye’s hands my hands and my brother’s hands one of them smiles and squats down to whisper to us children safety first and foremost is the role of the government and if brother and I are to grow up big and strong we must eat foods blessed by the FDA then he squeezes a tomato until it bleeds back into the earth from whence it came and foully he cuts his eyes across the shadow of yeye’s dying garden while his comrades gleefully season ravaged blotches of pubic greenery with salt a whole row of tomatoes and kale are forced to give up the ghost these gardens are un-american old woman they are communist manifestos embarking on the plight of an untelevised revolution one that will not see the light of day this soil this earth is crawling with an infestation of deep-seated toxins if you attempt to grow again you will face prison time ten years old woman and take my word for it this earth will face a solemn violation we will return with the open mouth of a cement mixer closing off your crimes once and for all and you old woman will watch the final curtain call for this community garden of yours in the same breath that the engine of the lead car is revved he exclaims SHE IS A GREENHOUSE TERRORIST all the while his comrades bade him to leave the 95-year-old great grandmother to break as all brittle objects do under extreme pressure african Voices

yeye looks at my brother and me and whispers my bombs little ones are laced with shrapnel pellets of organic shit straight from the backside of those three german shepherds sleeping under my kitchen table I will keep growing like the anti-american backslider I am And when I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t grow when these hands cannot shatter a path through cement I will die a woman I will die A WOMAN I WILL DIE A WOMAN unable to be genetically modified by man ÂŠ 2017 Mawiyah Kai EL-Jamah Bomani

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BOOK REVIEW

Interactive History for Young Readers by Debbie A. Officer

Interactive books are known to keep little ones busy opening flaps, touching pop-up features, or pressing buttons. However, a newly published work, “Mary Bowser and the Civil War Spy Ring” by Enigma Alberti and Tony Cliff, in the “Spy on History Series,” is bound to keep pre-teen sleuths equally busy this summer. For the purposes of clarity, Workman Publishing explained the authorship of their series. Enigma Alberti “is the nom de plume of a secret cadre of authors who are each writing a book in the Spy on History Series.” This bit of information lends itself intriguing to some. Readers of Nancy Drew mysteries, which appeals to middle-grade readers, will delight in this new historical mystery about an AfricanAmerican woman who worked as a spy during the Civil War. Mary Bowser was born into slavery near Richmond, Virginia in the 1840s. Her life as a Union spy is at the heart of this first introduction to this series. A unique figure in the history of this period, Bowser led an interesting life. While she worked as a slave for Eliza Baker and John Van Lew, they took keen notice of her skills and intellect. She was sent to a school in Princeton, New Jersey where she learned to read at a time when it was illegal for African-Americans to do so. Later, Bowser went on to become a teacher. Facts about Mary Bowser’s life aren’t easy to find, but remnants of her existence and contribution to American history can be found in baptismal records and in the writings of Eliza Baker. According to Alberti, “Stories like Mary’s leave us with a lot of questions, not just about her, but how history is written, and who writes it. Few people realized how important Mary’s life was at the time.” Readers will open an envelope and use the tools inside to decode messages, solve a mystery, and learn techniques Bowser used. Skilled with a photographic memory, she worked as a servant in the Confederate White House of Jefferson Davis. Posing as an illiterate servant, Bowser was part of a spy ring organized by Elizabeth Van Lew, the daughter of Eliza Baker and John Lew. Sharing the book series’ value for readers, Albetri states, “the history of the entire war is incomplete if it doesn’t include Mary.” This cleverly designed book will have readers waiting for the future release of installments from its brilliant team of authors. “Mary Bowser and the Civil War Spy Ring” By Enigma Alberti, illustrated by Tony Cliff Workman Publishing, 96 pages Ages 10+ ISBN: 9780761187394

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BOOK REVIEW

Paying Homage: An Artist’s Ode in Paintings on Wood with Paper, Scraps, and Memory by Debbie A. Officer If the popular adage art imitates life is true, then artist and children’s book author Javaka Steptoe has illustrated the core meaning of this in his most recent work. “Radiant Child: The Story of Young – Jean-Michel Basquiat” is vibrant, rich, and a refreshing addition to the genre of children’s publishing. It is a personal tribute using collages to piece together the journey and the varied inspirations of one of the 20th century’s most intriguing artists. “Radiant Child” begins on the streets of Brooklyn where Basquiat was born. It is the place where children played double Dutch and hopscotch and where the young subject of Steptoe’s work would’ve eaten sweet ice while dreaming of becoming an artist. The traditional biography about an artist is usually accompanied by reprints of their original artwork. Steptoe’s decision to use his own original interpretation of Basquiat’s works gives us a refreshing, colorful, and engaging series of collages done on wood. In a statement for his book’s current collage exhibition at the Brooklyn Public Library — Central Branch, Steptoe states: “for me, collage is a means of survival. It is how Black folks survived four hundred years of oppression, taking the scraps of life and transforming them into art forms.” This same piecing together of “scraps” is how Basquiat created his own art, using words, ephemera, and found objects to express his social and political views. “Radiant Child” fills an important void in works about African-American artists. There are several children’s biographies in the canon about artists like Romare Bearden and Jacob Lawrence, and an abundance of works about Harlem Renaissance artists. “Radiant Child” is a bold look at the life of an artist whose works aren’t usually accessible to young children. It is a gentle introduction to a complicated and important artist. Steptoe uses his collage panels to pull the viewer in, using vibrant hues and detailed images. The reader’s eyes move from the center of the page to the narrative placed around the collage. The narrative also centers around Basquiat’s first inspiration — his mother. “Radiant Child” ends with an important message about mental health. In sharing his inspiration for creating the book, Steptoe writes, “I wanted young readers and the adults in their lives to be able to use Basquiat’s story as a catalyst for conversation and healing.” “Radiant Child” is the winner of the 2017 Caldecott Medal and the 2017 Coretta Scott Illustrator Award. “Radiant Child: The Story of Young Artist Jean-Michel Basquiat” By Javaka Steptoe Little, Brown and Company Ages 6-9 years old ISBN: 978-0-316-21388-2

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Monk Ivory is dancing inside a wooden rib cage. Pleats and pant legs catch a scattered wind. The rhythm is respiration. Stop moving and you die. Bare feet side stepping from the soul— is it magic or madness that I taste a lover in the sweat salting my lips? Tonight is hardly about the promise of morning but rather the dangerous delight that darkness’ shroud croons. Brass and bass and tinkle and chime scour the scene for hosts. On earlobes, under tongues, behind teeth, between bosom, inside thighs, beneath feet is home.

Before the Media Makes You a Man

Beautiful baby boy Becoming bigger but still brilliant Behind your head or behind your back

bronzed in brown and born brave between boyhood but somehow beastly bare hands belie your body as bulletproof

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The Gallery Renaissance Woman Afua Richardson Takes Comics World by Storm Afua Richardson is an African-Native American comic book illustrator best known for her works in the series, “Black Panther World of Wakanda” written by Ta-Nehesi Coates and the first Black women to pen stories for Marvel Comics, Roxane Gay and Yona Harvey. Other works of hers include “All Star Batman,” “Attack on Titan” and “X-men 92.” She is one of the most celebrated Black women in the comic industry today for her vivid colors and diverse depictions of superheroes. Afua is also a voice actor, a classically trained musician, singer, songwriter, and performer, sharing stages with Sheila- E, Har Mar Superstar on Jimmy Fallon and performed with Emmy Award winner and four-time Tony Award nominee Melvin Van Peebles in his early production of “Unmitigated Truth: Life, a Lavatory, Loves and Ladies.” It was previously titled “Brer Soul” a small three-man show where Afua performed as six different characters alongside Peebles and guitarist William Spaceman Patterson at the Nuyorican Poet’s Cafe and the historic Apollo Theater in Harlem. Afua was also a background singer, opening for Alicia Keys, John Legend, and Parliament Funkadelic.

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“Black Panther World of Wakanda” is available on Amazon.

Afua is a self-taught illustrator, mentoring aspiring creators and created many community activist events using her art as the message to advocate change. As the recipient of the Nina Simone Award for Artistic Excellence, she has been aptly called a Jane of All Trades. Her book, “Aquarius the Book of Mer” will combine her social activism with her art and desire for peace and prosperity in communities local and aboard. “Aquarius” is due to release in May of 2018. For information on Afua visit www.AfuaRichardson.com.

Images: Mami Wata The Koimaid Queen from “Aquarius the Book of Mer.” Black Panther Issue 1 Cover and the black and whites are Black Panther Excerpts from “For the People” written by Yona Harvey.

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Daddy Registered Republican in 1931, but I learned about politics the year Mother called Mamie Eisenhower a frump. “The papers can say whatever they want,” she said, “but those silly bangs and her stupid hat don’t do it for me.” (She said this as she crushed my shoulders between her knees, hot-combing my kinky school- girl bangs.) “Didn’t her husband have an affair during the war?” I took it as a sign that Republicans should not be living in the White House. At first, Daddy, immersed in the copy of Life magazine I’d seen him linger over more than once in the last six months, didn’t respond. On its cover, a snapshot of the first Negro woman ever to appear there—Dorothy Dandridge—one bronze shoulder exposed, a red rose high-lighting her hair, a smile that made men. “I agree,” was Daddy’s peculiar reply, “Dorothy is one god-damned fine-looking woman.”

My Life According to Brenda M. Osbey Made of dry rot and tenpenny nails pressing roots of ginger underfoot on my daddy’s land My grandmother dead and buried flowers on the altars cinnamon out the back door I could tell you they died one after the other and a longer time no one will speak of I sit on my front porch into the night The night a bastard gleaming

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FICTION

The Expat by Ozimede Sunny Ekhalume On the production line, he sighted one of the pickers tuck away sachets of powdered milk into the cups of her bra. This didn’t bother Tosan anymore knowing they would soon tire out. Some would go as far as stashing milk in their underpants. He knew it was muggles – new factory hands – who snitched milk that they would later lick dry inside the toilet or during their break time. It took a few days for them to realise their folly when their stomach would start to run from too much lactose. Nobody thereafter needed to warn them against pilferage. Of course, there was no way of them smuggling milk out of the premises. Each production staff was searched down to their briefs before they left the factory. Anyone caught with milk was dismissed immediately. So they were forced to consume any milk they pinched within the factory premises. Tosan’s intercom beeped and he lifted the receiver. It was CEO calling for a meeting. He picked a pen and his diary, switched off his air conditioner and hurried out of his glass cubicle. “This company is bleeding and the chairman has asked us to do something fast or we will all be fired by the end of the quarter,” CEO, seated behind a massive mahogany table, said to the five Divisional Directors in attendance. On the wall above his head hung the picture of a goddess with multiple arms. Despite the air conditioner, beads of sweat formed on CEO’s brow. His fingers quivered as he gesticulated. A cigar dangled between his lips. It was a no-smoking organization. But CEO exempted himself from the rule. He sipped black coffee from a cream teacup and wiped his bushy moustache. The coffee was extra strong, Tosan could tell, from the smell and thick-black color. The whiff of the cigar and the coffee gave the office an edgy atmosphere. CEO was an expatriate. He seemed to do the least in the company but earned multiples of what the highest paid Nigerian received. He was paid not for the value he added but for his color and “expatriate-ness.” Many wealthy Nigerian business owners believed an expat was an expert. They believed expatriates were better than their compatriots even if they cost the company far more. Tosan was tired of seeing cheeky job vacancies that said, under qualification and experience, “Expatriates only” or “Must be an expatriate.” As though foreignness equated competence. CEO enjoyed fantastic perks which no Nigerian staff member was entitled to. This included a yacht which ferried him after work from Apapa to his house in Ikoyi so as to beat the evening traffic gridlock. He liked to bully the staff in a desperate attempt to retain his position and perquisites of office. He browbeat to cover up his incompetence. Since he took over three years ago, the company’s cash cow brand, Mamari, had seen its fortune nosedive. Mamari’s position as the market leader had been seriously challenged by competition. The brand’s market share had plummeted. african Voices

“What to do, I know. I will tell you,” CEO continued, bopping his head importantly. Tosan imagined that if one restrained CEO from gesticulating and bopping his head, he wouldn’t be able to express himself. His meetings mostly were not a discussion forum but a classroom where he, the teacher, passed instructions to his pupils. “We will have to increase ullage by dropping grammage for all SKUs of Mamari without reducing our price.” The Sales and Marketing Director, Duduyemi, seated next to Tosan, tapped him on the knee. The directors glanced at one another furtively from the corners of their eyes. They read shock and disapproval in one another’s faces. CEO cleared his throat, reclined in his seat and continued. “Top secret, this must be kept. So that it doesn’t get to the authorities. We will drop 20gm sachet to 19gm, 15gm to 14gm and 10gm to 9gm. But their original labels and prices, they will all retain. Our consumers will not notice the change. With that, from my calculations,” He crunched his calculator and squinted at the screen, “an extra N1.23b a month, we will be making.” He spoke in a thick accent, his ‘T’ sounding like ‘D’. Tosan couldn’t believe CEO was suggesting the company scam the consumers. The directors kept quite. By now they knew it was futile antagonising him. He had become blinded by desperation. CEO’s mobile phone lying on the table bleeped. He said, “Excuse me. To my wife, I need to speak.” He answered the call, his voice demure. CEO was a henpecked husband. Tosan had witnessed an occasion where the wife talked down to him at the Ikoyi club. The wife spent her entire life socializing at the Ikoyi club and the Boat club. CEO had made the company spend millions sponsoring events at both clubs not necessarily because those events were beneficial but because his wife had insisted. On the phone, his wife seemed to be doing most of the talking as CEO mainly said, OK, OK. Yes, please. Thank you. Done, he hung up. He stood and strolled across the room with one hand in his pocket and the other clutching his cigar. He seemed to feel cool with himself as he continued his conversation with the staff. “This is an ingenious way to increase profit since we have not been able to grow our volume. Implementation must start immediately and there should be a seamless handshake across all departments. Tosan, the volume of all filling machines, adjust immediately. The production floor, tomorrow, I am coming to inspect.” Tosan cleared his throat and said tentatively, “CEO,” The CEO had insisted he be addressed not by his name but by his job title. “that would be a criminal offense. You want us to short-change the public?” Duduyemi whispered, “NAFDAC will seal of the company if they find out.” CEO laughed and said, “This is Nigeria. Give me a break. NAFDAC won’t find out. And if they do, we will settle them with an honorarium.” In his warped mind, a bribe was an honorarium. He plonked on his seat and flicked off ashes from his cigar into a tray. He took a long drag and puffed out a plume of smoke. “Guys, I did not call you for a discussion. You either implement or your resignations, you hand me.” Tosan found his courage. “CEO, I will neither implement nor resign.” Duduyemi said, “Me too.” The other three directors were silent. CEO sprang up and banged the table. The coffee spilt leaving dirty-brown blotches on the white papers on the table. Wagging a finger at Tosan, he said, “If you cannot implement, your subordinates, I will get to do it and you, I will be firing.” He sucked in air loudly through clenched teeth. “I am not liking this. Meeting dismissed!” The skin on his 26

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brow turned white. His entire frame shook. He went to the door, flung it open and beckoned to the directors to leave. He held the door ajar as they filed out quietly. He banged the door after the last person. *** Tosan ruminated over the events of the past few days as he drove. CEO had bypassed him to carry out the fraudulent scheme. His immediate subordinate, the Production Manager, had been too willing to lick CEO’s boot. A staff member told Tosan he overheard CEO promising the Production Manager his position – Production Director. The first batch of the under-filled milk had been shipped to the market the previous day. Tosan slammed on the brake to negotiate a pothole on the pitted road. Bumping from the opposite direction was a now familiar car, a black Toyota Camry. As the vehicle drew close, Tosan turned his face to peer at the lady behind the wheel. The woman locked eyes with him briefly fluttering her fake eyelashes. Almost on a daily basis on his way out of his estate, Tosan ran into this woman who unlike others never averted her eyes at his gaze. Her boldness was becoming uncomfortable for him. Tosan was on his way to see the chairman. He had sent a text message to him requesting a meeting. He didn’t get a reply until three days after. The chairman had scheduled to meet with him today. He had not discussed his move with his colleagues. He didn’t trust them. Someone might snitch on him. He was determined to report CEO to the chairman. He would go it alone. CEO summoned the directors to a late meeting – 7:30 pm. He had just returned from the chairman looking subdued. He wanted to know who reported him to the chairman. Everyone including Tosan kept a straight face. He lit a cigar and plopped on his chair. He gazed at the ceiling and shut his eyes for what looked like eternity. After a while, he opened his eyes and spoke in a conciliatory tone explaining that whatever decision he took was to save the business and everyone’s job. He said the chairman had ordered that the grammage reduction be discontinued immediately and all stock sold to the market be withdrawn. He announced that the meeting would continue the following morning to discuss in details the withdrawal plan. “Does anyone have anything to say?” he asked. “Otherwise the meeting has ended.” Tosan said, “CEO, that was not the way to go. There are several ways we can improve this business without defrauding the consumers.” Others nodded in agreement. “It’s OK. Tomorrow, come up with your suggestions. Tomorrow, we see,” CEO said and turned his attention to the screen of his computer, indicating that the meeting had ended. *** Staff members gathered in groups on the corridor and in their offices to celebrate the exit of an inept tyrant. CEO had just been matched out of his office by a bevvy of stern looking security men. It happened during the Monday management meeting while Tosan was making a presentation and battling with the overpowering whiff of incense burning in a small crucible lying at a corner. The men burst into the meeting without knocking. The tallest of them all confronted CEO, “Are you Mr. Sharma Balachander?” CEO replied in a trembling voice, “Yes, yes,” shaking his head. CEO shook his head when he meant yes and nodded when he meant no. The men, apparently acting on the instructions of the chairman, asked him to pack his belongings. Tosan and others looked on astonished. The men thereafter escorted a jittery Mr. Balachander out of the premises. As the news spread around the company, there was a wild jubilation. The rhapsody was like that of the day, some years ago, when the late maximum ruler, Abacha dropped dead. african Voices

This poem would like to start with “Thank you.” This poem appreciates your patience and acceptance even though at this point you have no idea what this poem is about. This poem would like to offer you the occasional word count for your convenience: forty-five and counting and you’re still here. (Thank you.) This poem wants to shake your hand wants to pat you on the shoulder is resisting the urge to offer a full embrace just incase you’re not comfortable with that. This poem does not want to get too personal. Doesn’t want to unravel you like thread off your jacket, wants to ask “Hey where’d you get that jacket?” not “Why you always dress so clean?” or “What do mean America? Where are you really from?” and no “C’mon, you have to be mixed.” No this poem does not want to do this. This poem wants to be a happy poem offer you a smile hoping you’ll offer a smile back. (if not, that’s fine) Why attack you with words? - one hundred seventy one and counting Still having fun? Okay this poem won’t even mention security like the guards in front of libraries that need to see your i.d. or a new friend that hears you speak and decides your hometown must be white or the white boy that dresses like a flyboy and says to your face i’m trying to look more jive or the five officers looking for a suspicious character and need to see your i.d. or the roommates when something breaks and you’re the one always left holding the broom or the elevator in the conference hall where people pause even though come in, there’s plenty of room or the cops that can’t believe you teach here and need to see your i.d. in order to keep the neighborhood safe and just to be safe 28

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this poem won’t even mention sex so please dismiss any reference to strangers encroaching in the dancehall cause you’re moving and smiling and alone and so tall and so strange so exotic and something to kiss to caress to feel to grind and play for a night or a song then push you away.

This poem will say nothing of any fetishes or obsessions or psychic scars left by microaggressions you may still carry like that time you went to visit your fair-hair friend in a straight comb town and barely preteens you two found some random yard sale and while thumbing through books and records and whatever was there some white-shadow woman noticed your nappy black hair and leaned in behind you close to your ear whispering “Need a basketball?” This poem won’t mention that at all. no this poem wants to convey silence or violence silence being the most violent word this poem knows. this poem will now go.

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AUTHOR INTERVIEW

African Voices Interview with Children’s Book Author Zetta Elliott A poet, playwright, novelist, children’s book illustrator, essayist, and activist for diversity and equality in publishing, Zetta Elliott pens stories about the lives of children and young adults. A Canadian native and Brooklyn resident, her work has appeared in many anthologies, including the “The Ringing Ear: Black Poets Lean South” and “Coloring Book: An Eclectic Anthology of Fiction and Poetry by Multicultural Writers.” Her essays have been published in The Huffington Post, Publishers Weekly, and the School Library Journal. Her plays have been performed in Chicago, New York, and Cleveland. Her picture book, “Bird,” won the Paterson Prize for Books for Young Readers. She has nabbed a Children’s Literature Association’s Article Award for her essay “The Trouble with Magic: Conjuring the Past in New York City Parks.” Recently, African Voices had a chance to speak with Elliott about her motivations and work in children’s literature. AV: When did the writing bug bite you? ZE: I’ve been telling stories since before I knew how to write, but I always enjoyed opportunities to write in school. I don’t think I started writing outside of school until my high school English teacher, Nancy Vichert, took me aside at the end of Grade 9 and said, “If you want to be a writer, you will be one.” I had no idea how to become a writer but I definitely thought I needed someone else’s permission or some kind of training, and my teacher relieved me of that delusion. I started writing more after that and two years later started my first novel. I read a lot of Dickens (and other British literature) as a teen in Canada so my writing voice sounded British and formal…it wasn’t until I moved to the US in my 20s that I learned how to decolonize my imagination and find my true voice. AV: Why do you focus on children’s literature? ZE: I didn’t start out writing for kids, but I’ve worked with youth for almost 30 years and I often couldn’t find the materials I needed to teach effectively. Every kid deserves to see their life reflected in the pages of a book, but so many of us never had that mirror. I had a girl in one of my classes who was being bullied because her mother was in prison and I couldn’t find a single mirror book for her, so I wrote one myself (“An Angel for Mariqua”). I wrote about my parents’ divorce and how it feels when your father starts dating someone new (“Room in My Heart”). I realized that writing for kids was a great way to heal some of the wounds I’d been living with since my own childhood. I could also take a book I loved as a child and rework it so that a Black child was at the center. I looked at what was available here and in Canada and just became furious that so little had changed since I was a child desperately seeking mirror books. My father used to say, “If you see something that needs to be done, don’t wait to be asked—just do it.” That can be a 30

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trap for Black women, but writing books for young readers is a way of healing myself and serving my community at the same time. AV: You have a doctorate and worked in academia. What made you decide to leave the academy and pursue writing and publishing full-time? ZE: I never intended to become an academic. I graduated college and felt frustrated that so little of my formal education focused on Black history and culture. I never had a Black educator until the last semester of my last year in college, and he introduced me to Jamaica Kincaid. Then I spent the summer in Brooklyn with my father and decided to do my BA over again, this time focusing on Black literature. A professor in Toronto suggested I go to graduate school instead, and so I returned to the US and earned a PhD in American Studies at NYU. I had Black professors and my cohort was majority Black—it was a completely different learning experience. But I was still working with kids the whole time and I struggled to make my scholarship relevant to them. So I took a year off, wrote my first adult novel (“One Eye Open”), and then finished the degree and used contingent academic positions to fund my writing life. But the academy has changed since I earned my degree in 2003; there are very few visiting positions and plenty of adjunct positions. I took a tenure-track job at a community college but knew I couldn’t stay past three years when the teaching load would jump to 4/5. I saved $30K and quit my job so I could focus on my writing full-time. It was a little scary but I have no regrets; I still give talks on campus, I can prioritize my writing projects, and I still publish essays on the racial disparities in children’s publishing. My scholarly training gives me a certain credibility and that opens doors that might otherwise remain closed to an indie author. AV: What led to your decision to self-publish? ZE: I naively thought it would be easy for me to get an agent and a publishing deal. When I sent my first novel out, I got such an enthusiastic response that I thought I’d have multiple offers and a six-figure deal in no time. Then, after six months, there was silence. So I started writing for kids and sent those stories out instead, and again got a really positive response: “You write beautifully but there’s no market for this.” I did a little research into the industry and found the statistics compiled annually by the CCBC; their data proved that institutional racism was preventing many Indigenous writers and writers of color from getting their books into kids hands. I won a few prizes for my first picture book, “Bird,” but still couldn’t get an agent or editor to sign me. So I started to self-publish some of the 30 manuscripts I had sitting on african Voices

my hard drive. I was uncomfortable serving as art director at first but grew more confident after the first few illustrated books and found talented artists who understood my vision. Now I have an agent and she sold three books to corporate publishers last year, but those books won’t come out until 2018 or later. I still self-publish because I have stories that I know will never appeal to mainstream editors who are overwhelmingly straight, White cis-gender women who don’t have disabilities. Most reviewers are White women, most educators and librarians in this country are White women, and I suspect most booksellers are, too. I can’t wait for people who aren’t from my community to recognize our “urgencies,” to borrow a term from June Jordan. AV: We see you as a literary activist, you are very vocal about the lack of diversity in children’s books. Have you seen any positive changes in children’s lit since you started? What more needs to be done? ZE: I haven’t seen positive changes in the publishing industry; in fact, the stats show that while the number of books ABOUT Blacks has soared, the number of books by Blacks has actually gone down. So when you just say, “We need diverse books,” the industry responds by giving more White writers more opportunities to write outside their race/ culture. We still aren’t addressing issues of equity and access to opportunity. You know what Frederick Douglass said: “Power concedes nothing without a demand,” and we don’t have a movement that’s demanding change. It’s not unlike police forces across the country—you can’t “fix” the issue of police brutality simply by hiring a few more Black and brown rookie officers because the problem is culture and systemic. Publishing remains an overwhelmingly White profession and no one is holding them accountable for that— and a few more brown interns won’t create real change. We’re seeing a new “trend” in books that are marketed as Black Lives Matter narratives, and those authors are “getting paid,” but that doesn’t mean our actual lives and stories matter to publishers—they’re just trying to sell books (to Whites). I’m an advocate of community-based publishing and organic writing. We can be creators and not just consumers of books packaged by cultural outsiders. I look at television and see so much change—more ways for creators to tell their stories online, on cable, on Netflix, Amazon, etc. I think we need multiple strategies and that means not giving up on integrating the Big 5, but giving equal energy to small presses, self-publishers, digital publishing, and using our own platforms (podcasts, blogs, web magazines) to review and market our stories. I have 26 books for young readers and most aren’t eligible for review, which means librarians won’t acquire them for their collections, bookstores won’t stock them, and folks generally just don’t know what’s available. Home libraries improve kids’ academic performance so we also have to focus on changing the culture of consumption in our communities—books are an investment in the future (unlike sneakers). We have to create a new generation of dreamers so we have multiple visions of what this country can become. AV: Wild card: what music are you listening to these days? ZE: I generally write with the TV on! But sometimes, I turn it off and listen to Pandora instead. My current station is a mix of Emeli Sandé, Alice Smith, Solange, Sia, and Lianne La Havas. Sometimes, I get hooked on a particular song, so I had “Formation” on steady rotation for a while and “Rental Love” by Lake Street Dive.

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ARTIST PROFILE

Spotlight on Award-winning Graphic Novelist N. Steven Harris Award-winning illustrator N. Steven Harris has had a career spanning over 20 years in the comic book industry. Steven is a two-time Eisner nominated, four-time Glyph award-winning graphic novelist. He recently received a Virginia Library Association Graphic Novel Diversity Award for “Watson and Holmes,” published by New Paradigm Studios. His highlights include “DC Comic’s Aztek: The Ultimate Man,” a character which he co-created along with Grant Morrison and Mark Millar, for DC Comics. His credits also include “Batman: Officer Down,” (DC Comics), “Generation X, X-Force,” “Deadpool Annual ’98” (Marvel Entertainment), and a comic book called “The Crush” (Motown, Image Comics). In 2011, Mr. Harris collaborated with the late L.A. Banks, best-selling novelist of “The Vampire Huntress Legends” series, on a comic book adaptation published by Dynamite Entertainment. He also illustrated a Jimi Hendrix motion comic called Mojo Man released through iTunes and has worked on the Voltron comic, based on the 80’s cartoon, also published by Dynamite Entertainment. His most recent project is SOLARMAN from Scout Comics, a remake of the late 80’s and early 90’s Marvel Comics character, which is getting some interest as a TV series. He also teaches young people through arts organizations, and does storyboards for advertising agencies like Ogilvy & Mather and Berlin Cameron, on products like Samsung, and Glaceau Vitamin Water. He has participated in gallery shows showcasing comic book art in New York, Philadelphia, Georgia, Chicago, California, and Japan. Website: www.nstevenworks.com

Brotherhood of the Fringe A nation has been occupied and colonized for 30 years. We focus on a young woman, named Jasira, native to the nation, who works as a journalist. The corporation that employs her is part of the colonial occupying power. Secretly she works with a revolutionary group called the Fringe whose goal is to expel the invaders from their once proud and peaceful nation. Eventually Jasira is discovered, apprehended, brainwashed, and transformed into a living weapon to be used to terrorize her people and to seek out and destroy the Fringe revolutionaries.

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ÂŠ 2017 N. Steven Harris Black Speculative Arts Movement