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Beatrice (90 Years Old)

Beatrice by Jasmine Kumalah

(In her Closet)

2 Pairs of Black pumps-Church on Sunday

A black dress for Friday Funerals

A Black dress for Sunday Funerals

Her old work uniform (When she cleaned house for Mrs.Reed)

A big Sunday hat w/a big ole peacock feather

I love NYC sweater her only sun buddy gave her last Christmas

King James Bible (The one her mama gave her when she was nothing but a lil girl but knee high)

.____

Tar baby is what they called her when she was the blackest girl in school, and now even as she aged her face stood like black marble. She was ninety and the wrinkles lined her face like stories worth listening to. Her body was strong, she carried the weight of years of cooking and pushing away cold nights. She had never been a small lilt hang. Her knees gave her trouble, so she shuffled slow and sure, she didn't like anybody helping her. “She wasn't no invalid “ you would hear her holler as she swatted a helping hand away. She didn't have a husband either, she didn't have much use for men, except for that one time when Buddys daddy got her pregnant. Buddy was the only man she let herself love. Now she lived all on her lonesome in a nice little house , with a big ole garden in the back . Every Sunday she sat front row in Pastor Bradys Baptist church on the corner, the same one she went to as a little girl.

_____

[Phone Ringing]

Ring

Buddy :Hello … Mama

Beatrice : BUDDY , Is that you

Buddy : Yes Mama

Beatrice : Buddy can you hear me boy

Buddy: Yes mama

Beatrice: Well Speak up boy , How you doing and hows that wife of yours and hows my baby boy Roy.

Buddy : They are all fine mama, Roy is about to finish high school soon.

Beatrice : Well that boy sure is a blessing, he remind me of your granddaddy. Did you know your granddaddy was the first black man to graduate from Picton high school. In them days your own Grandmom said he was the smartest man in town. Could have even gone to college if it wasn't that his daddy was a no good drunk. I ever tell you that buddy ?

Buddy: Yes mama, you told me

Beatrice: Well good, Cause a boy ought to know about his kin, when you coming down here ?

Buddy : Work has me real busy mama, I’m tied up real tight

Beatrice: I see….Mrs.Carlton from church died last Friday , got a service for her this coming Sunday. She hadn't seen her son in years, you remember her don’t you…She babysat you a couple of times when you was real young. Sure be nice if you came down to pay your respects.

Buddy : Yeah mama, I’ll try.

Beatrice : Well alright boy, you make sure my Baby Roy call me one of these days

Buddy : Yes mama I will

Beatrice: Well then take care buddy, and you make sure you bring your tail down to see me

Buddy : Yes mama I know, I will. .

#SLWC #writing

Regi (25 Years Old)

Regi by Jerrie Kumalah

(In his closet)

NY Knicks Baseball hat

NY Giants baseball hat

White Tee

Expired Condoms

Fresh pair of Jordans

Advil

Suit

Accounting Workbook

One dried rose

Vibes magazine

The New Jim Crow

50 Shades of Grey

Sturdy Work chair

Table piled w/ papers

Graduate diploma in the corner

Che Guevara Poster

Frantz Fanon texts

____

6’4 former football player

Clean shaven

close cropped hair cut

Baby face on a big bear like frame

One of five, middle child.

Born on a Sunday in the midst of a storm.

Only boy in a family full of woman. Father died young so his uncles have been his main father figures. Gentle soul with a strong will to succeed and protect his family. Activist and believer in social justice.

Graduated Magna Cum Laude at 20 one of 15 black men in his graduating class and the only black football player to graduate with honors within three years. Got his MBA, Compares every woman to his mother or his first love, still mending from his first heart break

___

Dialogue: Regi on a date w/ Claudia

Claudia : This place is great I would have never thought you would be interested in a place like this.

Regi: Well Im an avid jazz enthusiast, I stumbled upon it when I was young, I won’t even tell you how.

Claudia: Now, I definitely want to know how, Do tell ?

Regi: (Small mischievous smile on his face) Well, I can tell you its definitely not your typical story. My uncle had some business to handle and took me to this underground gambling spot. I had to wait in a small room in the back , while I was waiting their was an old man in the other room playing the sax. Back then I had no idea what instrument that was but I remember being so amazed and captivated by the sounds he was making. I’ve been in love ever since. I only truly discovered it in my teens when I could really learn about it.

Claudia : That is definitely quite a story, I love it. Seems like you are full of surprises.

Regi: Can’t judge a book by its cover.

Claudia: Very true

Regi: Now that you know a little about me, tell me about yourself.

#SLWC #writing

Daniel (90 Years Old)

Daniel by Akindele Decker

Daniel would throw a fit if he knew you knocked his 1956 old town Chevy model that was sitting on top of his night table down to the ground. Its been around as long as I have that’s for sure. He made sure to polish the gold rims on the tires and accent silver that seemed to swim around the curve of the bumper.

I swear it’s the most treasured thing he has. Well, maybe not. That guy never goes to sleep at night without sitting in front of his precious Marilyn Monroe poster. As if he was back in his teens, hormones speeding faster than his Chevy.

It’s a wonder that he’s kept that bracelet all these years. Always lounging about, speaking so tough, about the bracelet he gave his wife right before the divorce.

Now all these things sit on his vintage table, as lonely as their surroundings.

___

Who would’ve known that young men in their 20s had tattoos in his day. Daniel can be so unassuming at times. Tall, lanky, a bit saggy on his left foot, and strong on his right. Must’ve been on account of that purple heart he got in the war. Those Nams (Nyams) he use to say. He never realized how much he looked Vietnamese himself. It was hard to tell whether the man was black, yellow, or white. He always talked about running along pickup trucks back in Savannah, Georgia. Old man. “Daniel loves Brazil” streaming across his left shoulder. I always nagged him about it, when he always found himself giving us youngins around the neighborhood his ‘wisdom talks’. He was straight up about everything else but Brazil. We knew it was definitely not about the country. Please, in his 90 years, he’d never been to anywhere else other than Vietnam. Whether it was the sweetheart he always mentioned, who ran out on him in his 30s, or the damsel whose heart he broke in his 40s. Brazil could have even been his mother, the white woman with a black father.

___

“Annie Mae!” he would say…”Annie Mae, you wicked woman!” “Why’d you go so soon!”

Speak of the devil, here comes that old goose.

“Bernard, you over here talkin’ ‘bout me and Brazil again huh?” “No matter what you say, I don’ told you befo’. That’s no easy story now boy. I don’ told you all I needed to tell you ‘bout Brazil.”

“Oh you old goose, we all know you never been there.” “Why you always comin’ ‘round here anyway?” “All the time, acting like wisdom came with the bullet that hit you in Vietnam.” “Always talkin’ bout some wild thing in your mind. You a dreaming ol’ man. When you gon’ tell me ‘bout Brazil Danny?

“Boy you got a long way to go. I don’ told you about them words you be speakin ‘bout.” “Back in my….”

“Oh man, anyway, old goose, what time do you want me to take you down there today?” “I told you I got things I gotta take care of, can’t be walking around town looking for some old skeeser with an ol’ goose. You should’ve told her how you felt fifty years ago.” “Now you got me runnin’ ‘round town with you, when I got better things to do, like go see my own Lady.”

“Listen boy!” “Love has a way of running side by side with you till you die and it’ll never let go.” “That’s the worst pain you ever wanna have when you become an old goose like me.”

“Yeah whatever, old goose.”

#SLWC #writing #character #story #Africa

Characters from our imagination

Two weeks ago , we all sat down and literally brought to life characters from our minds. We gave them names, stories and in the end lives that felt almost real. Meet 90 years old Beatrice, 90 years old Daniel and 25 years old Regi.

Parameters of the exercise can be found below.

Thinking about Characters, Today’s exercise is about creating a character out of thin air and giving it a history , a story , a personality and whatever else .

3 Short exercise of about 7 minutes

Exercise one • List of items in the closet or room of the individual..choose from below. 25 year old man or woman 90 year old man /woman 50 year old man/woman 5 year old boy/girl

Exercise two • Create a short bio for your character. Physical characteristics and other aspects of their character and person. Family, favorites etc.

Exercise three • Give your character a dialogue(Have them engaging with another character) ,Monologues also acceptable

#writing #SLWC

The Sierra Leone Writers Collective had a lively discussion with Alim Kamara, the Rapper, Storyteller, Poet and Inspirational speaker. You can find his work here http://www.alimkamara.com/ Download his app on Android or Iphone Alim Kamara Support him here http://www.alimignites.com/

#sierraleone #writers #alimkamara #SLWC

Join us this Wednesday, October 9th 2013, for a great discussion with London Based Poet , Rapper and Phenom Storyteller Alim Kamara . Link to the talk will be posted on Wednesday

#sierraleone #sierraleonean #alimkamara #storytelling #poetry #livetalk #SLWC

Vamboi’s big day

David Manley, September 25th

It was cold. Not the biting cold of harmattan, but the playful cold that preceded the rains. Just dry enough to set off the itch that concludes with an explosion of sneeze every now and then. Not quite cold enough to get you to burrow deep beneath your blanket, just cold enough to feel the tips of your hair that covers your exposed skin. Not that Vamboi had that much hair anyway. A few market weeks before his transformation from boyhood to adulthood, his was the smallest and youngest looking body among his peers. Tamba, whom everyone called his twin because they were both born on the same day, was taller than him by half a pestle. Already evident on his broad brooding face were the subtle stubble that would undoubtedly grow into a scraggly beard. His unending fidgeting with it was the cause of many a battle between the two. But enough about Tamba, today is not about him. Today is his day, Vamboi’s day. He was the chosen one. The Pumui had chosen him. On his visit to the ramshackle shed that served as their schoolhouse, the Pumui had chosen him out of all the other boys trying desperately to impress him. He had Baindu to thank for that. Baindu the…. Well, Today was not about Baindu either. Of course he would share all his experiences with her when he returned. After all, it’s not every day one gets to accompany the Pumui District Commissioner to the other village. As the growls of his stomach gradually announced the depth of his hunger while the multitude of thoughts was roaming through his head, it was all he could do to practice the skill of patience his dad had taught him. Slowly he breathed in through his nostrils, held it for a few seconds, and then just as slowly blew it out through his mouth. “one”, he counted in his head, and then he meticulously repeated all the steps, again and again.

#africa #african #african literature #colonial #colonialism

“His Shoes, His Story”

Akindele Decker, September 25th

My name is Zainab

I was walking down the path of Uganda, when I saw the white man’s shoes

It spoke to me

It told me of heavenly gardens and whiskey get togethers

I was stunned, moved, yet still dismayed

I wanted to learn more

About the white man’s shoes

How did it fit him, why did he wear it, what can I do to walk in the white man’s shoes

My name is Azanya

I was touched

Left by the hills of Kampala, over the shoulders of Angola

I was knocked by the bayou of Antigua, beyond the fingers of Guinea

This pain has left me

Yet the memories still chains me down

Down, down, by the waterside

Where Mama called my name

For the many days that I’d gone missing

Azanya

50 plus years and counting

My name is Alafia

I am the one with the spear

I am the one with the shield, the frown, the one who never smiles

I am the backbone, the brick

I am the foundation, the stick upon which many roots spring from

I was the one the Crier called from his trumpet

When he yelled and screamed

And sang and danced and moved

I was the one who grabbed his throat

And let him know

That they don’t make men like me anymore

I was the one who stole his shoes, his bag, his head, his soul

I was the one he feared

Feared so much, that he gave me his whiskey for my victory

He praised my skill, he posted my kills on all the walls of Europe

And Europe feared me, Alafia

They called my name the way the Egba calls their children after misbehaving

Alafia!!

I am the white man’s shoes

Along my way

I have crossed paths with Alafia, I have made love to Zainab, I asked for Azanya’s forgiveness

I am his story.

#africa #African Poetry #african literature #colonial #colonialism

Koni and the Sergeant

Janice Williams, September 25th

[These are the words/names that came to my head as soon as I saw the picture:

Koni

wading

firing

fishing]

A story of a slave guide of a Sergeant. The Sergeant is the head sergeant of the regiment in the region and seeking to quench the various rebellions that have been occurring among the slaves and other settlers in that area. Koni volunteers to be his guide as he goes to visit all the various villages. The villages are all positioned along a large, fishing lake. Koni serves as his guide, translator, and messenger boy. In this particular image, the Sergeant is attending a meeting with both freed slaves, slave owners, slaves, and other settlers in a particular village.

"We need our own land, free from YOU oppressors!" says one man. He was a freed slave, as is marked on his right arm, which he purposefully always leaves exposed for all to see. This time he was shirtless, drenched in a mixture of water from the lake, where he had been fishing all day, and sweat from the hard labor. The mark on the man's arm glistened and Koni couldn't stop staring at it. When will I have such big muscles? That way when I tighten my arms, my free mark will also shine like that. I will hold a gun then and lead Borainga village to freedom and take-

"Koni!" The Sergeant had said something to him.

"Sir?" Koni turned to look at the Sergeant.

"What is he saying?" Asked the Sergeant, his mustache moving in that odd manner that it does, his lips hardly parting.

#africa #african #african literature #african writers #colonial

Thoughts and Reflections

Jerrie Kumalah, September 25th

Sometimes I truly wonder what these primitive beings think of me. I know I offer them salvation but do they realize all that I offer them. This boy should feel honored that he gets to stand so closely. He should be taking in my aura and my being. Hopefully he learns what it means to be a man with dignity. I shall leave this photograph with his mother, the poor thing to remind them of all I have done for them. What a great contrast my gun versus his primitive bow and shield. This boy is a great example of how they are all children at heart and are simply unaware of the real world and how to handle it.

-Thoughts of a white man with his gun

Why do I have to stand here behind this selfrighteous man. So sure he is my salvation. They chose me to stand next to him because our fathers scare them. So quick they are to shoot. So quick they are to push us back . I’m a child but yet I am the only one he is willing to face. The only one he is willing to turn his back to without having to think twice.

I’m hungry , tired and I miss my family. I miss my mama singing her lullabies.

How Scary this new world is

-Thoughts of a black boy who stand back with his bow , arrow and shield

So much to tell within this picture. So much captured. Privilege ,distinction , sense of superiority. They came with such confidence that they were so ordained to pillage our lands, take our pride and reshape our cultures and sense of being. So sure they were.. that we believed them and are still recovering from their lies and blatant disrespect.

-Thoughts of an African girl viewing this picture

#colonial #africa #african #writing #african literature

An Encounter: The Colonial and the Black Boy

Jasmine Kumalah , September 25th

Colonial: Medium build white man, Middle Aged, Dressed in Colonial Attire, Assuming

Boy: Young African boy, Maybe 10, Dark chocolate skin, Quiet Seeming

Colonial : Boy, I like you, you are not like the others. See this gun, I will give it to you . (Beckons aggressively)

Show me your hands , oh yes those are good hands. Not like the others, lazy people your people are . But you boy you have good hands I can tell you are not lazy. Even in this heat

(Sighs heavily and points to the sun)

Hot your country is too hot, it makes your people dumb boy and weak too.

Show me your spear,

(Grabs spear and turns it around)

(Laughs)

And they thought they could fight us. Foolish

(Throws spear aside)

I was in India you know, Dirty people they are, they think themselves grand, but what were they in the face of the queen.

(Shakes his head)

It was hot there too.

Come closer boy

stand tall

your people slouch too much,

come closer boy

are you afraid

(Chuckles) You should be

Did I tell you I was in India boy.

I slayed a tiger with this gun right here.

Come closer boy

Show me your hands

#play #colonial #colonialism #black boy #africa #african literature #african writers

Inspired by the Touching Elephants Initiative(http://touchingelephants.tumblr.com/). On September 25th , SLWC members were challenged to respond to the following image taking during colonial times. With only 15 Minutes the writers responded to the image using any literary form they wanted. The writers told stories, had conversations, made up histories and in all proved their creative prowess.

#colonial #writing #african writing #african writers

Loved.

A poem by SLWC writer Jasmine Kumalah

Loved.

We talked about love the way we talked about home

A place we had left that we wished to go back to

And when we loved it was music

So gone were the noises that bled us

And when we cried it was breathing

In with love

Out with pain

And when we touched

we left traces ,

he with me ,

me with him

The other day I fell in love

And when he left

He was part memory

And

Part me

I have made a home

Out of loss

A tender memory held gingerly

I am left with traces

Of yesterdays and mended hurts

Wrapped in the smells of sea salt

And spoiled rice

I bend over

Heavy with the memories that fill me

I step gingerly

Bare feet on broken shells

Hold pieces of yesterday

the color of separation .

#sierraleone #sierraleonean #African Poetry #africa #african literature #poetry

"Awaiting the Epiphany of Your Heartbeat"

A poem by SLWC writer Akindele Decker

"Awaiting the Epiphany of Your Heartbeat"

Here I am, stuck in a soliloquy of fainted whispers and familiar words

I feel like these things have been spoken before

Uttered, screamed, moaned, yelled, shared

With shrugged shoulders and folded elbows

Your arms tucked inside unscathed

People like us feel pain inside the marrow

People like us see the hurt beyond tomorrow

Awaiting the epiphany of your heartbeat

To tell me where you are

Alive, breathing, seething emotions, speeding, moving, relaxed

There's a controversy raging between your heart and my mind

I'm hearing noises that sounds like yours

Its all I adore, there's no flaw in you at all

But I feel like these things have been spoken before

Yet, we're on stage dancing, you left, I'm right

Fought, struggled, cursed, groaned, destroyed

My armor use to be your blanket

While your pain caressed my joy

And out of that we discovered love

But here I am, stuck in a soliloquy of fainted whispers and familiar words

Talking to myself

thinking, sighing, trying to understand this cue

Where do I stand in this line

All I know is side by side

You and I

These inconceivable notions of tragedy where love resided

How did we get here

Somewhere down the line, we faced two different faces

Walked to too many places, separate

Strangers to a familiar tune

While I write, you left

Stuck in a soliloquy, talking to myself

Awaiting the epiphany of your heartbeat

Maybe one day it'll come running back to me

I've just been running all my life

Searching for the epiphany of a heartbeat

But each time I find myself in a soliloquy

discovering my own voice within

All the while we await the epiphany of heartbeats

Oblivious to the truth within our own

That finding the joy within our soul

Is all there is to all we're told

There's no magic when we can't believe

There's only pain, grief, drained, beat

But love overcomes defeat

But I feel like these things have been spoken before

Uttered, screamed, moaned, yelled, shared

With shrugged shoulders and folded elbows

Your arms tucked inside unscathed

People like us feel pain inside the marrow

People like us see the hurt beyond tomorrow

Awaiting the epiphany of your heartbeat

To tell me where you are

In the meantime,

Stuck in this soliloquy,

Talking to myself

I'll write, till you write

Until we're right, and there's no one left

waiting, waiting, waiting.....

#sierraleone #sierraleonean #africa #african #African Poetry #poetry #african literature

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Sierra Leone Writers Collective

#sierraleone #sierraleonean #africa #african #poetry #literature

Jerrie Kumalah, Poetry Challenge, September 11, 2013

The writers of the collective had an interesting challenge during the September 11 , 2013 meet-up. Each writer on the spot and in the span of 15 minutes had to write a poem featuring the seven words seen below.

Long, dream,back, breathing, where, glass, sifts.

David Manley, Poetry Challenge, September 11, 2013

Long, dream,back, breathing, where, glass, sifts.

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