The Reason Behind My Voice

                               Until the lion has learned to write, every story will glorify the hunter.    - An African Proverb Photo showing Manchile at his book launch in Grand Bay  Historian and author Mr. Harian  Manchile  Henry is a true son of the soil. He attended the Grand Bay Boys School and then moved to England, where he furthered his education.  In 1982, he attended a lecture series by Mr. Yosef Benjamin Jochannan and Ivan Van Sertima. Two great men whose findings have had a tremendous impact on Black history. Manchile has made considerable contributions to Dominican history. He has lectured in St. Lucia, St. Thomas, and Dominica. In 2020, he hosted a radio show on Liberty FM in St. Lucia. Mr. Henry firmly believes in passing on the knowledge of our past to younger generations to ensure posterity. Hence the reason he frequently visited schools such as...

                                                  I Am Not Alone.                                                                                  Photo by Saffu on Unsplash If we are anything alike, then you most likely value solitude. And there is nothing wrong with that. However, there are lessons that we need to learn alone and those we need to learn through community.  Photo by Hans Vivek on Unsplash I am finally brave enough to embrace a lesson that the Universe has been trying to teach me for some time now. Whenever I go through hard times, my first instinct is to isolate myself. I hav...

Photo credit: Cash Macanaya on Unsplash Do you write people off or do you take them as they? While on my much-needed hiatus, I was able to do some introspection about life, people, and the spaces I occupy presently.  Photo by Dom Aguiar on Unsplash Earlier this year, I experienced a great betrayal (at one point or another, most of us have experienced this or will - it is part of life). I won't go into much detail, but it was from someone I held very dear and in high esteem. In the end, I realized that not everyone sees you as you see them.  People are complex - not complicated but dynamic.  Photo by Jeffery Erhunse on Unsplash If we are honest, we will admit that the people in our lives hold different roles for different folks. Someone we may deem as a hero in our story may very well be a villain in someone else's. I am sure that you have played a villainous role in someone's life. And that is perfectly fine because people are complex - multifaceted.   Take a ...

 Not Afraid of Winning! Photo by Laurent Perren on Unsplash Like most writers and artists, I struggle with imposter syndrome and anxiety. I almost could not sit down and wield myself to write this blog.  I am learning that the first step to recovery is acknowledging you have a problem. I own that I am often afraid to pick up a pen and write, take my brush and paint much less to share my creations.  Don't get me wrong, I know greatness is in my bones. I know I can bend words and start a movement if I choose. But deep down, when the accolades are covered in dust, I tend to forget the kind of magic that exists within me. Some parts of me refuse to believe that I deserve to win.  Luckily, I am not alone in this battle and one of the perks of being part of a creative community is that you always have the wisdom of others walking you home. I'll always be grateful for my fellow writers (Edd and Erwin) and friends like Novie and Lisa who always encourage me to "do something...

Photo by eberhard 🖐 grossgasteiger on Unsplas h It took me a while but I am finally woman enough to admit it. I used to be afraid of being happy. I was afraid of experiencing joy.  It might seem silly, I know. But cherophobia is more common than we care to admit.  I think much of my fear stemmed from the false narratives I was fed as a child. "After laughing is crying" I would often hear. Whether it was on the basketball court, at school, or home. It did not take long for me to associate joy and sadness. I came to view happiness as a preamble to mourning. Photo by eberhard 🖐 grossgasteiger on Unsplash After hours of playing basketball or swimming in the river without my mother's permission, I would come home to a waiting belt. No matter how much I enjoyed myself that joy was overshadowed by the punishment.  I had my first and only birthday party at 12 years old. I enjoyed it. But soon after that, I lost most of my friends who came to the party. Part of me wished my mo...

Annie Spratt on Unsplash I once wrote a poem about succulents. But the truth is I was writing about myself and my story. Indeed, I had come a long way and progress looked good on me. (Poem can be found in my book Bonfire available on Amazon.com) As we celebrated the stories of many women and how they changed the narrative, I began thinking of my story. Many will try to convince you that they know me or know my story. But albeit, I beg to differ. The truth is no one knows my story like I know my story. And no one can tell my story like I can tell my story.  I never wanted to become a teacher; that was my mother's dream and pretty soon it became mine. I handled that dream like it was an heirloom or a rite of passage. Something handed down to me and by all means, it would enable me to lift the family name, rinse it from the mud and hold it towards the sun.  Teaching would be easy. Everyone would be proud. They would all be happy for me. These were my thoughts. This was not so an...

  Photo by Eye for Ebony on Unsplash It is the story I hear at almost every family gathering or every other weekend when I decide to go home. My mother tells this story the best and although I have very vague recollections, I can attest that there is truth to it.  She says that as a child, I would not fall asleep at night unless she came to tuck me into bed. It was then that I would demand she sang me a song. She recalls there were times she would send my father to tuck me in but I would not relent. I wanted her to come by any means necessary or there would be sleep for none of us.  Between laughs, she recalls how tired she was from caring for four children during the day but I would have none of it. I would not be happy until she began to exercise her vocal range. She sang songs about her faith, our folklore, and nursery rhymes. The little spider went up the water sprout countless times and I am not sure if he/she ever made it out.  My mother hardly ever made it to...

  Photo credit: Humprey Muleba As a child, I looked forward to my father making it home after a long day at the farm. I remember staring at him and cupping my face while he ate or did something around the house. He knew that look. He knew I needed to hear another one of his stories so he would quickly complete his task or tell me one of his famous tales between bites.  I recently reflected on my relationship with my father and my relationship with storytelling. I love stories; it is carefully knitted in the fabric of my being. It brought me great joy to sit and bask in his well-crafted stories. My father is masterful at what he does and it still brings me great joy to listen to him even now. It does not matter that I have heard one of his stories before. I will still listen again and again. Until he grows tired of telling them (I hope he does not) because the truth is he will not always be there to tell me stories of his youth; of when he met my mother or when my brothers and ...