✨(10) Female Leaders in the African Diaspora I Wish I Had Learned About in School✨ mini zine trio. Featuring a timeline of their lives, lived contemporaneously. From free to enslaved, stemming from West Africa, 1685 to 1921, from Jamaica to Haiti, modern day Ghana, the US & parts of Europe the summary of the incomparable/unmatched lives of Queen Nanny of the Windward Maroons, Dedee Bazile, Gran Toya, Marie Claire Bonheur, Jacobin soldier Sainte Belair - the Tigress, Marie Jeanne Lamartinere, Mary Seacole, Harriet Tubman aka Moses/General Tubman, Queen Mother Yaa Asantewaa of the Asante Confederation & Buffalo Soldier Cathay Williams. Highlighting their leadership, resistance, & continuance of African rooted tradition in various forms. I close the zine with representation of Queen Nanny on the Jamaican 500 bill, Sanite Belair on the Haitian 10 gourde, & the talk of Harriet Tubman being placed on the US 20 bill. (Homage reference to Dessalines & Yaa Asantewaa to which my birthday is the anniversary of their deaths - Oct 17).
🦋The cover of zine part 3 ft. the lyrics to Beyonce's song Freedom.
they've always said that the reason why slavery revolts didn't work in america is because america had one thing these other slave revolts didn't have working against them: poor white people.
Summary: Reece Walsh's girlfriend, in the crowd at Accor Stadium.
Masterlist
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The roar of 80,000 voices was thunderous, but all I could hear was my own heartbeat hammering in my ears.
It was only a few minutes in—barely enough time for my nerves to settle—when I saw it. Reece stepped up into the line, trying to spark something down that left edge, and then—
Whack.
A sickening crunch. Heads clashing. Bodies slamming into turf.
I stood before the crowd around me even reacted.
“Oh my god.” “Oi, he’s knocked out.” “Send him, ref!”
The words came from every direction, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Reece. He wasn’t moving. Not properly. The trainers were already running.
My throat went dry.
From our seats, I could just make out his curls sprawled against the grass, the weight of a stadium suddenly pressing down like cement. I didn’t care that I was in a Maroons jersey in the middle of a New South Wales-heavy section. I didn’t care that everyone was yelling about Joseph Sua’ali’i being sent off. I couldn’t look away from Reece.
And then I saw it—his hand twitch.
He was conscious. But dazed. The medic was speaking to him, holding fingers up, checking his pupils. He tried to push himself up, but his legs didn’t quite follow.
“HIA,” someone muttered behind me. “He’s done.”
I sat back down, but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I wanted to be down there, wanted to push through the sideline barrier and get to him, to check he was really okay and not just putting on that brave face he always does.
But all I could do was watch.
Joseph was sent off—first State of Origin send-off in years—but it didn’t matter. The scoreboard didn’t matter. The chants from Blues fans didn’t matter. My boy was off the field, and I didn’t know if he’d be alright.
My phone buzzed.
Chris: “He’s gone for HIA. Looks like they’re ruling him out. I’m gonna try and find out more.” Me: “Tell him I’m here.”
I swallowed hard and forced myself to sit still.
State of Origin is meant to be brutal. Fierce. Gladiatorial.
But tonight, watching him walk off, eyes glassy and mouth slack, it just felt cruel.
——
The fluorescent lights in the tunnel were harsh, clinical, nothing like the roar and chaos of the stadium just an hour earlier. Now it was quiet—too quiet. Just the shuffling of staff, the occasional burst of laughter from a distant corridor, and the thud of boots hitting locker room tiles.
She didn’t wait for permission. One of the QLD support staff nodded at her and stepped aside, and she was in.
The locker room was a mess—muddy boots, ice packs, strapping tape everywhere. Some of the boys sat slumped on benches, still in jerseys, still sweating. Others were in recovery gear, already halfway through a beer. But all she could see was him.
Reece.
Sitting in the corner, wrapped in a maroon hoodie, hood half-up like it could hide the glassy glaze still in his eyes. There was a bandage above his eyebrow, and an ugly red scrape blooming on his cheekbone. He was still. Too still.
Her breath caught as she walked toward him, arms already shaking.
He looked up and smiled softly. “Hey.”
She dropped to her knees in front of him. “Are you okay?” Her voice cracked mid-sentence. She didn’t mean for it to—had been holding it together all night—but it cracked anyway.
“I’m okay,” he whispered.
But his voice was hoarse, quiet. A little distant. Like his body was here but his mind was still out on the turf, blinking up at the sky, trying to remember where he was.
“You’re not,” she whispered back, fingers brushing gently against his jaw. “You were out cold, Reece. I thought—” Her throat closed again. “I thought you weren’t gonna get up.”
“I’m here,” he murmured, reaching for her hands. His grip was warm, steady. “Look at me. I’m here, alright?”
She nodded, but tears were already spilling down her cheeks, hot and messy. She wiped at them quickly, embarrassed, but he just leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers.
“I’m okay,” he repeated. “Swear on everything. Trainers said I passed the protocols, just got ruled out for precaution. I’ll be sweet.”
She wanted to believe him. Wanted to pretend the hit hadn’t replayed in her mind a hundred times already, that she hadn’t Googled "long-term concussion symptoms" in the bathroom stall at halftime.
“I hated watching that,” she whispered. “I hated not being able to run out there and—god, Reece, I was just stuck in the stands watching you go limp and I couldn’t—”
“I know,” he said gently. “I know, baby.”
His hand came up, brushing the tear track from her cheek with his thumb. He looked tired, but solid. Grounded. Still him.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” he added.
“You didn’t scare me,” she lied. Then gave a shaky laugh. “Okay, maybe just a little.”
That earned her a proper smile. Soft and crooked and entirely him.
“I’d take the hit a thousand times if it meant I got to come off the field and have you waiting for me.”
She choked on another tear-laced laugh, burying her face into the crook of his neck as he pulled her in, arms tight around her waist.
“I love you,” she mumbled against his hoodie.
“I love you too,” he said immediately, without a second’s hesitation. “Always.”
Around them, the room buzzed on with post-game noise—boys laughing, staff packing up, ice bags popping open—but in their corner, it was quiet.
Just two people clinging to each other, under the harsh lights, after the longest night.
Figure animalière sur une production culturelle du groupe Aluku, en Guyane. Le serpent est animal privilégié dans la cosmogonie des peuples Marons et Amérindiens de Guyane. Le serpent se retrouve régulièrement dans les productions artisanales et artistiques. Chez les Aluku, il est à la fois le symbole du féminin et du masculin. Plus largement dans les traditions afro-diasporique, comme dans le sèvi Ginen (vodoun ayitien), il peut être associé a des esprits ou des divinités. On retrouve aussi le symbole du serpent sur des productions matérielles du peuple Akan (Ghana).
