a summary.


this post was inspired by solange’s 30th birthday instagram post.  at two years old, i stopped breathing and was rushed to the er. at four, my lungs learned how to function. i stuck a lego piece in my ear and got sent back to the er. at five, i wore a poofy pink dress for my party and took one…

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For The Imperfect Black Girls.


Recently I’ve been on this kick. This downward spiral, self-loathing, pick myself up again with Maya Angelou quotes and basil on my windowsill kick. This lack of water, skin breakout, healing myself and killing my wallet with skincare products kick. This telling everyone I know “yo this has been the hardest year of my life” kick. This PTSD and depression…

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Heal.


I bought rosemary and basil and put them on my windowsill. I keep promising my body more water. I believe in Prince and Lemonade. Healing feels less like a baptism and more like running my fingers along a jagged knife. This post is part of Write Your Ass Off April, a Twenties Unscripted 10-Day Writing Challenge #WYAOApril. I am responding…

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Ascend.


  A Very Brief Love Letter. Prince Rogers Nelson, As a child, I was supposed to hate you and everything you represented. The gender fluidity, the provoking sexuality, the antithesis of everything I was taught to be. My family clung to Michael and rejected you, so naturally, I was drawn. You had the glitter, the extravagance, everything I wanted to be…

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Love.


No one ever sat me down and told me what healthy, wholesome love looked like. My concept of love has always been based on knowing what it ain’t: my parents. Love isn’t disconnected cable and alarm clocks when you don’t get your way. Love isn’t sequestered dreams and revenge plots, pettiness and microaggressions. Love is not hurting me. When I…

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Complicate.


There have been a few moments in my life where I have prayed for a mind that functions in lines instead of circles. Lines show progress. Lines get you somewhere. Circles refuse to end, no matter how hard you with the ends would recognize themselves as ends and finally separate. Sometimes my circles meet each other and send me spiraling…

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Confess.


I confess that I have a penchant for denial and a knack for self-sabotage. I blame my mother. Let me explain. My mother has always classified herself as paranoid, to which I have co-signed the title. Outside of any psychological diagnosis (because we’re Sierra Leonean and don’t do that shit, right?) I always could feel the tension my mother had…

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Black Woman Gone Bougie & Other Grad School Fears


My grad school acceptance felt like a fairytale. I imagined myself as a little girl, a Black braided Rapunzel in reverse, looking upon that big white tower in front of me with wide eyes and ambition. I see myself tossing my braids to the highest window of the tower, pulling myself up, right foot over left, with fervor. I trek,…

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Baby Hairs & Black Girl Magic.


What always mystifies me about Beyonce is her ability to ruin the lives of the same Black women she puts on for in her music and videos. Immediately after the release of her latest song “Formation”, I played the song on repeat for the next hour, screaming expletives at my computer screen and reaching for what was left of my…

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In Celebration of The Black Mermaid.


As  a youngin, almost all of my favorite movies were Disney movies. I can vividly recall rewinding my Disney princess sing-a-long video, grabbing my robe and umbrella, then performing the entire choreography to the opening song in Mulan when her grandmother prepped her for bridal status. I even had a plastic cricket on a keychain that I carried on my…

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