The ‘f’ in my own ‘family’ stood for flogging. We were bred with it. It was a dietary requirement. And no, don’t be fooled by the title, there was nothing sugary about the experience. Not to us. It was only sweet for our parents, especially Mama… [10mins]
What elevates Teaching My Mother How To Give Birth, what gives the poems their disturbing brilliance, is Warsan Shire’s ability to give simple, beautiful eloquence to the veiled world where sensuality lives in the dominant narrative of Islam.
A review by Darkowaa of AfricanBookAddict.com.
Describing his face on the day he died would be a terribly hard thing to do. Not his face while he lay dead – that is easy to describe; swollen and starting to rot, all evidence of a shameful death that we will speak of later… [12mins]
It’s the seventh day of the week today. Like every other Sunday, this one is somnolent, almost as if the week has grown weak, having reached into its pharmacopoeia to pop one of the soporific pills that is supposed to aid its rest – just as God intended… [14mins]
You are quietly drowning in an ocean of memories, death patiently lying in wait. Nothing kills more than the deliberate and wicked mental playbacks of one’s blind existence; a life void of light. And this is exactly what you need, or at least what you want… [4mins]
For days, Adesuwa has been daydreaming of warm, red sand. She throws memories of it into everything she does. When she eats food conjured up in her apartment, she swallows painfully. When she makes use of the company of her loud African-American friends, or goes to the Nigerian restaurant close by to eat iyan with egusi, she still does not get the sweet taste of home… [5mins]
Swirls of dead ashes wafted out from the opposite shop, followed by the pull of something heavy, then the gentle sweep of the floor with a broom. More ashes, swirling and swirling, mingling with the dust from the sweeping and turning everywhere into a whitish gauze. Abu preferred to watch Mama Ghana this way, on most mornings… [10mins]