Good Reads

Good Reads; The Power of One by Bryce Courtenay

Nothing can beat the determination to be your truest self; and that is the Power of One.

2. The Power of One by Bryce Courtenay

This book is set in apartheid South Africa. This book shines a light on racism, on mine workers’ plight and on seeking out the very best of you in a racial pandemic ( like the one we are in right now) from the eyes of a young boy.

You will learn about plants indigenous to Africa, tribal superstition, prejudices, about putting your thoughts before your feelings and investing in yourself. All the while, braving and living through revolutionary times as these.

It is written with a love-filled hand, and Bryce Courtenay delivers his lesson with eloquence and objectivity.

I love timeless novels and this is a classic novel of South Africa.

Good Reads

Good Reads; Beloved by Toni Morrison

Susan Sontag once wrote, a writer is someone who pays attention to the world. I agree.

Writers tell us about history. They narrate it from so many points of view, we beg them to tell us more. Writers are co-creators, re-creators and sheer gods.

If you want to educate yourself on a few social issues, here are a few of my favorites from phenomenal (and I will be using this word a lot) writers.

Today I will focus on race, racial discrimination and blackness.

  1. Beloved by Toni Morrison
“Not a house in the country ain’t packed to its rafters with some dead Negro’s grief.” Beloved, by Toni Morrison

When I read “Beloved” by Toni Morrison, there was a resounding question; What are you willing to do for freedom?

Inspired by the life of a runaway slave, Beloved explores the pain of a mother losing her children to slavery and the lengths they were and are willing to go to protect them from the pain and suffering caused by it.

Toni Morrison, God rest her soul, writes with such soul, insight and grace. Her work is both timeless and historic.

This is a good time to pick this book up if you want a life altering look into slavery and systemic racism in America.

Every word in this book plunges deep into my spirit. Here is an excerpt:

“What’d be the point?” asked Baby Suggs. “Not a house in the country ain’t packed to its rafters with some dead Negro’s grief. We lucky this ghost is a baby. My husband’s spirit was to come back in here? or yours? Don’t talk to me. You lucky. You got three left. Three pulling at your skirts and just one raising hell from the other side. Be thankful, why don’t you? I had eight. Every one of them gone away from me. Four taken, four chased, and all, I expect, worrying somebody’s house into evil.” Baby Suggs rubbed her eyebrows. “My firstborn. All I can remember of her is how she loved the burned bottom of bread. Can you beat that? Eight children and that’s all I remember.”

I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.



I have a bad habit of saying things, putting them out there then taking them back. Not because I don’t mean them anymore, I always mean what I say; but because the reception was lukewarm. Have you ever eaten warm coleslaw? Or waved at someone you know with such enthusiasm then they don’t wave back?
Well that is my life, every single day. 
My anxiety is so profound that even the most beautiful poems I have written for people, about how amazing I find them, about how much I pray for them, about their button noses and ebony skin or how I love their unabated aura, stays between me, my poetry folder and God. 
But that’s not okay. 
This is why I started blogging, to remove these layers of censorship and timidness that musk my true power. 
I have not even started yet, or gotten to my layers. I am breaking my own walls and it feels so good. 
Owning my voice and speaking my truth is part of the liberty I am celebrating this Madaraka day. 
For we cannot truly be free if we hold ourselves back or if we let the voices in our head run things. 
Owning my voice is part of my African journey and I love it. 
I am unraveling in my bluffs and poetry, come join me. 
Happy Madaraka Day

Parts of me

Parts of me are stuck in time’s farrows

I have dug in the gutter for pieces of me

Still, I am not whole

Echoes of my forefathers’ songs call me

Muffled howls of ghosts of my tainted past mock me

Wandering souls wrap edible lace around my mouth and beg me to resist


They are snakes reincarnated,

Slithering in bed with me

Robbing me in my sleep


Laughter is their voice of victory

Chasing me to ditches, hands clenching my womb

Leaving trails of edible lace


Dear Black Man

If I had a way back machine I would write a thousand words for every one they tried to pin your spirit down with.

I would throw a thousand fists avenging every one, spray a hundred thousand bullets

I would call you King, take you back to the beginning, to the songs of our forefathers echoing, “You are royalty”
you are the earth, Black Man
you are the source,
you are the truth they want to musk with hatred

they hate it when you straighten your back and rise
how futile their wars against you are
how unbreakable your soul is

when “one world” comes calling, you are the answer, Black Man
you are light, heart and all power
you do not just deserve life, you ARE life!


4 years was the age I knew taunting,

it came in small packages making comedy at 10a.m. in the playground

two decades later it comes in a small package,

stuffed at the back of my head echoing 4 year olds making comedy in 1997.

We are a legion

Heavy in my heart , and over my head

Pesky, overstayed guests

Still, I desperately call to them


We dance all night
my feet hurt and my heart races, beads of sweat adorn my head

Still, I follow their lead


Tears reject me

I laugh, scream, and they join in

In such tragic harmony, we are a legion

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