short stories
I’ve got an ancestor on my back. She wades through whatever spirit filled world she inhabits to rest herself beside me while I sleep. She recalls every inane habit of mine, down to the wrinkle that forms between my brows when I frown. What makes you different? Her knobby fingers wriggle between mine, and she positions her mouth next to my ear. A language? A country? A history? A prayer? I wanted to be you.
Running
All of us are scoundrels. The soldier, the general, the president, the first lady, the farmer, the architect, the husband, the wife, the pastor, the nun, the witch doctor, the westerner, the native, the butcher, the bushman, the city dweller, the brother, the daughter, the son, the father, the mother, the aunt, the uncle, the old, the young, the saint, the sinner, the virgin, the whore, down to the girl-child digging in the dirt to plant a seed.
To the Children Growing Up in the Aftermath of Their Parents War
If someone asks, "Are you with me?" then you say yes, or a-ha; something to show that you are with them, because this is how they know they haven’t been left to manage the present by themselves.
I Dreamt of Blood
The Birth
Nobody knew Mama was ready to let herself lie there that day. She had woken up with that feeling. It was a feeling that sits in the pit of your stomach with no thought of it ever leaving.
The Girl
I realized that the primary authority figure in my life was not praying for anything that would free me from my pain, because she fundamentally thought that I was a pain. If this was her primary concern over my life—this prayer—spoken thousands of times to the Almighty, then no wonder life was so difficult.
The Outing