Door of Return

The point of mythology or myth is to point to the horizon and to point to ourselves: this is who we are; this is where we came from; and this is where we’re going.

“Eh Kwik!” “Eh Kwak!”  In her book, “Tales From the Caribbean,” author Trish Cooke recounts the call and expected response that raconteurs would give in her parents’ native Dominica before launching into traditional folk stories. With roots in African tradition oral tradition, this type of storytelling has allowed the passage of monsters and mischief-making characters across the Atlantic. Cooke notes …

In Bridgetown, the world has changed in many ways; a tiny rat with goat horns, bat wings and an eye is breaking into people’s homes and feeding on their terror. A large bird is sighted in the sky, causing the authorities to shut down all travel, and a herd of albino cows flock to the ocean. The Caribbean Ocean rages, …

“Bue pono no.” Open the door. Sunset, and our Chief Priestess stands on a grassy mountaintop amid water yams thick with the thatch of an unharvested season and calls on Nyame. She is trying to cast out a wicked future and invoke one where invaders do not capture our Helpers. Weeks ago, in the nebulous confines of tomorrow, she saw …

In my dreams, there is a little girl standing in front of a door. Waiting.  And I am waiting too. For her, or for this dream to be over, and to be free from these tremors that haunt me at night. Whichever one comes first. I try to see what is on the other side, of her face, of My …

There was an odd wind that evening that blew across the field. Something about it that carried an air of intrigue as it rustled the tall grass. As the big top tent rose, curiosities were wheeled in one by one under the cover of the night. Some boxes were large, and others were small. The night protected those wandering eyes …

Whole bites are taken out of Uncle Lu’s tomatoes. Bites shaped by vaguely human teeth, as if someone had taken a single chomp and decided to walk away. The black earth in Uncle’s garden is uplifted like it’s been danced in.  A breath exhales right by my ear, and I flinch.  “Akeelah, I don’t suppose your uncle wants to use …

Who is Akeelah?  Who could write that much about themselves anyway? Only people with big heads to carry their oversized ego around, that’s who.  I was terrible at writing of any sort, that’s why I volunteered to help grandma clean out the storage room today. To avoid the essay that mama would force me to work on if she caught …

I stepped into Brown Sugar at a quarter past twelve. Dry-ice smoke coiled around my feet. The lights were low and colours skated across the dance floor, hues of blue, red and gold. Ganga, fried fish, sizzling meat and scented sweat shot into my nose. Bodies swayed to the vibrations of Chronixx from the speakers. An ache swirled in my …

There are some things the body remembers. How to ride a bike,  the way home, and the feeling of shame.  The tricky thing about the body is; it may heal from the scar left by a rabid dog, but it may never heal from the terror of its bite. I still hear barking in my dreams. The snicker of the …