Author/Uploaded by Nana Ekua Brew-Hammond
Contents Cover Title Page Contents Introduction Nanyuman by Ayesha Harruna Attah so long and Fuji-san by Mogolodi Bond The Body Is More than a Landfill and Less than All That I Am by Sarah Uheida To the woman who accused me of breastfeeding the madam’s child and By Any Other Name by Phillippa Yaa de Villiers...
Contents Cover Title Page Contents Introduction Nanyuman by Ayesha Harruna Attah so long and Fuji-san by Mogolodi Bond The Body Is More than a Landfill and Less than All That I Am by Sarah Uheida To the woman who accused me of breastfeeding the madam’s child and By Any Other Name by Phillippa Yaa de Villiers Ezouga and Post Mortem by Bahia Mahmud H. Awah Daughter of a Bedouin Chief by Miral al-Tahawy God’s Plan by Boakyewaa Glover Her Sweetie, Her Sugarcane by Natasha Omokhodion-Kalulu Banda Krifé by Chiké Frankie Edozien Queens and Sleeping Beauty (of Borehamwood) and Waterstones and Ode to a Discarded Face Mask and Denouement by Dami Ajayi Finding Descartes by Reem Gaafar Fulbright by Rémy Ngamije Dirty Money by Kim Coleman Foote The Killmonger Doctrine of Color and Humanity by Joe Robert Cole Churai by Fatima Camara [Coolitude: ce balisier-mirador] by Khal Torabully This Tangible Thing by Yejide Kilanko In a Yellow Dress with Red Flowers by Lillian Akampurira Aujo A Honey-Headed Child by Nana Nyarko Boateng Napoleão by Conceição Lima Atat by Arao Ameny Sontem and Në na’a mpúrí haalo and En la puerta primavera by Recaredo Silebo Boturu Lagos Wives Club by Vanessa Walters I Am Lost! by Richard Ali A Mutu K Poor Men Have Too Much Ego by Edwige-Renée Dro Sundays in Nairobi by Jacquelynn Kerubo Mbuya Baines by Makanaka Mavengere The Swagger Stick Man of June Fifteen by Chuma Nwokolo The Heart Introduction Years ago, I was at a party in New York. I was single, and I presume the man I stood on an invisible island with was unattached, too. Separate from the clusters of aspiring photographers and models, and friends like me who had tagged along to this photographer’s studio, the two of us huddled together, gripping cups of clever bravado, our heads tilted toward one another at an angle of intrigue and lust. He was witty and worldly, and as we spoke, we discovered we were both from other places: he had moved to the United States from Morocco, and I was the daughter of Ghanaian immigrants who had sent me to live and school in Ghana when I was twelve years old. “Oh, how cool,” he said, “I’ve never been to Africa.” I blinked at my cup and then at him, sure I hadn’t heard right. “But, aren’t you Moroccan?” “Yes,” he said, the blank stare in his eyes not following my point. “But, Morocco is in Africa.” He appeared genuinely unconvinced. There was a whiteboard in the middle of the studio. I left our island to draw a map of Africa on it, and traced out two jagged rectangles. “Morocco,” I said, pointing to the rectangle in the top left corner. “Ghana,” I said of the other one. “Africa,” I concluded. After a slight pause, he nodded