Quiet like nighttime in Ondo
vibrant like the night market in Ìbàdàn
men would prostrate before her
bringing gifts to appease her

Ifa priestesses predicted children would dance in her womb
but they forgot to tell her
her son will turn mad after eighteen full

but they forgot to tell her
her daughter will fly away again and again
past midnight

two full moons after her daughter’s last birth
she waited patiently
applying towel dipped and squeezed in cold water
on her baby’s warm feverish body

then the bird came
calling for her daughter
Ajayi threw the white powder as instructed,
muttering words, calling on all her ancestors as instructed by the Priestess

the bird fell,
cutlass held tight
blood splattered on her face
she washed self with the water from the calabash
buried the bird underneath the ash from last night’s firewood
the next morning,
the town crier announced the river moved to the next village.


Ijeoma Umebinyuo

(via theijeoma)

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The sense of being between cultures has been very, very strong for me. I would say that’s the single strongest strand running through my life: the fact that I’m always in and out of things, and never really of anything for very long.

Edward W. Said, Power, Politics and Culture. (via mudras)
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Talib Kweli vs. Don Lemon

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I can’t reblog the video of Kajieme Powell dying.

I think the people around him thought “oh the police will get here and talk to him and he’ll relax and this will all be over and we we can laugh about it”

That’s what should have happened. That young man was desperate. He needed..something….

but in order for the cops to recognize that desperation and the fact that he needed help and the right words, they would have had to see him as a human being first….

and that’s what everyone realized who watched Kajieme die.

"We’re really not human to them."

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  • #kajieme powell #white supremacist police
  • 8 hours ago
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I am giving Saint John’s wort a try to help manage my depression.
Today was the first day. We’ll see how it goes.

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  • #it's been a bit much lately #I needed help
  • 18 hours ago

What I want to say, querido, is
hunger is not romantic to the hungry.
What I want to say is
fear is not thrilling if you’re the one afraid.
What I want to say is
poverty’s not quaint when it’s your house you can’t escape from.
Decay’s not beautiful to the decayed.

from “Still Life with Potatoes, Pearls, Raw Meat, Rhinestones, Lard, and Horse Hooves” by Sandra Cisneros, Loose Woman (via limb-of-satan)
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