The Reason Behind My Voice

                                                  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...

  The Adinkra symbol  Sankofa has   been heavy on my mind lately.  The symbol is a bird that flies forward but looks backward. It means "Reach back and fetch it." Photo credit: Adinkra Corner How many times were we told that we should not look back, only forward?  Poets like Lucille Clifton were always "reaching back and fetch it" for great wisdom resides in the past. When Hurricane Maria struck on 18th September 2017, life as I knew it was over. Instead of celebrating my 25th birthday that year, I was salvaging my belongings. I concentrated on all that was lost. I held grief around my neck and, my waist and I carried it with me for years. When my birthday comes around, so does a great sadness. Photo credit: Melchior Damu     A few days before my birthday this year, I subconsciously began noticing things that had survived the floodwaters. Like my family, my guitar (which I haven't touched in years), my hot wheels cars, my favorite fountain pen, and my ...

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...

                                                                    Photo by Hans Isaacson on Unsplash I recently listened to the Talisman album by Colton T and it has been on repeat since then.  In all honesty, the compilation has given me fuel to continue creating but it also helped me realize how difficult it is to create when we have been fed false narratives. "It is my story. I will write it." Too many people wanted to write my story for me. Too many hands attempted to spin my narrative. It was and still is my life and I had to be brave enough to live it on my own terms.  Too many times we allow others to project their fears onto us. Too many times we drink the potions we are offered and take it as gospel.  They will try to tell us how our dreams are too big and ...

  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 ...