Happy Black History Month and to my Nigerian Brethren…. Happy Independence Day. This month is so special to me and to the Wymondham College English Blog. For the first blog post of this extraordinary month I’ll post a short story I made in the summer. It deals with self-doubt and the feeling of not being enough… a feeling many black people are no stranger to. This work wants to fight the fleeting moments of Imposter Syndrome and replace it with an abundance of joy, love and confidence. How do you love yourself with no reinforcement? No one arrives at self-actualization in isolation. No matter how you feel today, just know you are enough right now.

Check out our page to see what else we have in store this month

R.O.Y.L (Rest of Your Life). – A short story about fear.

 I slouched on the newly blood red velvet staircase beside my determined mum as she thoroughly inspected my 12th job application. Her firm stance and purifying ambition imprinted her eyes with a clear vision superior to any magnified glass or microscope. There was an innate judgement baked in her occasional sighs and her oddly whimsical discordant hums tossed me into the sequel of confusing spirals that trademarked much of my childhood. Being gifted is a blessing and a curse. Praise when you succeed. Visceral vitriol when you let the crown slip in your opponent’s direction. ‘What happened to the other 5 marks? ‘ Abeg, stop crying!’ ‘When I was your age…’ became familiar phrases to me until they all eventually faded to the back of my mind. Stinging for a little bit but not preventing me from recalibrating, switching on and cracking open another textbook, highlighting and annotating, reading and re-reading, completing exam question after exam question until my speech became one massive formula.

After the disaster, reckonings, disappointments, sickness, re-evaluations and mass cancellations of last year, this summer, in my mum’s eyes, needed to be flawless for it to track as a valid passage of time. While my friends were jet-setting on the other side of the world, freed from the masked shackles of isolation, blessed by the sun and divine community, posting and snapping every single boat they gyrated on or beach they posed suspiciously satisfied on- I did everything in my power to prove to my parents they were right and the hype built around the impressive scholar their bragging had convoluted was warranted. I  was worth the investment. I locked myself away in my room on Zoom calls with professors and admissions officers, delivered countless presentations and entered every competition that I was remotely qualified for. While I won none of them, I left with more than diverted dreams. I left with a revelation: my finite creative energy had been stealthily disguising itself as a renewable resource my entire life.

 Lies have their limits too, I guess. I watched YouTube videos to colour my day with a shade other than grey. Laughter always brings levity to lengthy lulls. Still, even that doesn’t last long. I had no more sonnets. No more ballads. The only pair of couplets I had left my mind like The Great Migration. I couldn’t stretch to another meter and emptied my card reading around what I’d already read around. Whatever I did, my competition was doing more, being more, having more and looking closer to an ideal that intelligence would never help me meet. With all I had been trying to do on this unwinding Summer of Reconstruction, a job seemed to evade my grasp like faith. I’d tried online applications, visiting shops on the High Street and squeezing recommendations from my small and exponentially decreasing friendship pool. Nothing! They were too busy or they made empty promises that inevitably failed to manifest into opportunities weeks later. Mornings transformed into their own itching routine. I’d slouch in bed, wipe the sticky crumbs from a late-night snack, scrolling dully through highlight reels of my ‘friend’s’ impeccable public lives, leave a bitter like and wallow in an almost suffocating pit of jealously before stumbling down for breakfast. Don’t misconstrue or anything! I was happy for them. Really and truly! Over the flipping moon! Why did they have to be happy without me?

High strung footsteps pace. Instantly, I know who it is. ‘Have you found a job?’ my mum, slicking her uncooperative hair into a bun would ask in her daily accusatory tone, strutting out quickly because we both knew the deeply demotivating answer hadn’t changed. Just like she desired a sleek bun and always ended up with crashing waves, she desired an employed son and always received… me. A ball of potential to afraid to be thrown into actuality. Don’t tell my mum or dad but I did miss a few application deadlines on purpose. I stopped marching and grinding on some days to wander, meander and master The Art of being Alone. ‘If I don’t give it my all, the loss is less severe.’ Sound logic, right?

I did chores around the house, zoomed across the town a couple of times and filled the time with other things. Just like that, the day was gone and I felt sadder than I’ve ever been. Summer was coming to a close and the childhood marginalisation stole from me was soon going to be ripped from my clasp and all I could was MOVE. I still felt wrong for not trying my best. Somewhere between birth and present day I ‘d inherited my community’s massive hopes and dreams and distorted them into my own. What was theirs and what I could confidently say had been rightfully mine had become nastily intertwined. What they wanted I wanted for me too. It hurt.  Under the orange light and my mum’s watchful eye, I jump from the red and fill in the details of my thirteenth job application. My hand hovered in the ambiguous borderline between sadness and apathy when I had to tick my ‘Sex’. I knew what they’d always put but this time I knew this hope could never be converted into be my own. ‘Male.’ my mum dictated with flippant casualty like this was the definitive, permanent, unmoved mover of truths she could always rely on. ‘We’ll see’ I chuckled cheekily, my face filling with the first authentic smile in a while and my stature suddenly sturdy. She rolled her eyes only knowing the two options we were always presented with.

I tried to be ambivalent but some force coiled inside of me knew/knows there was/is/always been more hidden in the fine-print. A devastating desire . ‘Could be paradise (Never know ’til you try) ‘Running out of time (Baby, get up and drive) ‘Won’t you live tonight?’, I told myself in a braggadocious sing-rap cadence.

 You wanna fly, but you don’t

 You holdin’ on your wings Look to the sky, why don’t you?

 Live for the finer things

– ROYL by Chlöe X Halle

Stormy weather only lasts so long. It’s okay to be sad but I’m tired of lying in it. This too shall pass!

Hey, people. I wasn’t really sure what to publish for today’s more creative post, so here’s the Prologue to the story that I’ve been writing for a few years. Enjoy (+ if you don’t enjoy it, please comment with any tips 🙂 )

I have failed, thought a man, late thirties, thick, black and grey eyebrows. He was on horseback, struggling like an animal crawling for its food, following the commands of his master’s slow hand. 
    The horse galloped with each of its long, painful stalks. All the thing could remember was red – sliding from walls and from the building itself – flickering from a Northern house – silhouetted by the vast blackness as one dying star across a galaxy of gloom, lightlessness as the thought of it ceased to exist.
    Petturi, that was the man’s name, carried a young girl in his warm hands: deep, black hair – she was crying. Her face seeped with tears.
    She had a fresh burn. It scorched her face with mould-like pain. Mould growing over a deceased thing, like worms crawling over her – red and hot, burning and fuming. Her tears ran down the scorched clay and delved deep into her burn, delved into cracks that painted over her young face, the very face of innocent suffering.
    She, Thyle, had had her childish dreams of smiles crash into nightmares of isolation – in front of her eyes, her verdigris dye green eyes that struck the midnight like daggers. Thyle remembered their happy, smiling faces; and then all she could think of was the blood rushing. A flash of horror. She remembered the screams. She remembered everything – even the smile on the monsters’ faces. Monsters. She saw none of her human features in them. They were monsters. Monsters.
    The man tried not to look at her. Tried to block out her tears. He just held the child close, wrapped in red cloth, looked up to the sharp moonlight, and dared to chase the rising sun.

Thanks for reading!

Alexander Stephenson

Entered this into a competition a few months ago. Because this has been a very stressful week, I haven’t been able to post on the normal Monday-Friday schedule so I hope you enjoy the content I’ve been posting today. Enjoy your day x.

Water

 represents life

Purity

The opportunity to be re-born

A vast, all- encompassing body

Swept me away

Power washed over my weak body

Islands

Calm, desolate, ours

Smells salty, tastes gritty,

Grimy against the cracking of my blackened teeth

Coughing from the air

The air marries the smoke

The smoke becomes the air

I remember the sandcastles we built

I returned to our beach

It got washed away

This is a poem I wrote inspired by pride month. I hope you enjoy it and continue to be who you are and embrace others for who they are.

Pride is Love

Pride is US

A true Love that never has to hide

A Love incapable of telling lies

It’s the Fight

It’s the Struggle

The rough and tumble rumbles

towards a more egalitarian society

The liberation of all marginalized identities

Pride is security

that I can hold hands with my love

without worrying about who sees the real me

The truth is: loving out loud is a threat

A simple kiss, a bigoted bullet of

DEATH

‘Protect the kids’ they say

‘Agenda’ they’re not ok

‘Pushing, forcing and shoving’

nothing more than empty projection

Accept

Some of your kids are a part of the LGBT

+ they hear what you say but we know what you mean

Pride isn’t capitalistic corporations

It is cooperation

The most harmonious collaboration towards a society

free of discrimination

I live through a cage
Of numbed skin.
The past has made me so.
My emotions, blocked.
Tragedy, blocked.
I am a shoulder. 
I am a hug.
I am a smile.
You have made me so.

Your seventh age has come. 
Bleak and melancholy
Quietly, you went.
Softly.
I imagine
I can only imagine
On your own sofa.
A sofa that was once ours.
Ours.
Now yours.

Once yours. 
Surrounded by no-one.
Loved by no-one
But those who you betrayed. 
Cold.
That is how I imagine the scene – 

Cold. 
Alone.

Your beard long and greying,
Your stomach thin –  
Your mind 

far away.

Left behind.
I barely remember you.
The way things were. 
How things used to be.
All I feel is your cold,
the world of ice that
You left behind.
A snowball of hard rock

Smashing ice-
Knives in our backs

Your godmother crying
Falling to pieces as
Your coffin slid            away
The family cannot hold
Free-falling falcons
They didn’t tell her at first
She was left to fall in the dark
Just as you were
A child, at heart
Impressionable
Fallen
Naïve
But you were our father.

You were my father.
Remember that.

I remember. 

– cursed name
Alien name – 

Though it seemed
That you did not.
That they did not.
Hiding smiles of
Alcohol as
Your cold
Corpse
Slid

away

I feel no loss.
I feel no pain 
For all of you
Still lives within
Us. 
Talking to you
(In dreams.
In visions.
Conversations 
That nights never let
Die)
For best, 
For worst.
We were yours, once.
And you were mine. 

Alexander Stephenson

Brandy Norwood is one of my favourite singers and human beings of all time. Her song ‘Boy Is Mine’ (1998), a duet with rumoured rival and fellow R&B teen sensation, Monica served as one of the chief inspirations for my short story. The song, through heavenly harmonies, catchy choruses and shady, sly and cool song lyrics chronicles two girls feuding over a guy. While the two female protagonists aren’t feuding in this short story, the song remains thematically similar to the piece of writing. The book ‘The Sun Is Also A Star’ by Nicola Yoon was also an inspiration for this story. I appreciated how the central love story in that book served as a catalyst for themes such as racism, immigration, black hair, the complexity of holding multiple identities, philosophy, familial pressures and isolation to be explored. It being told by multiple perspectives definitely inspired my storytelling. I hope you enjoy this.

Aaliyah- A scene from a movie

Bustling. Warmth. Coarse skin rubbing against me. Rambunctious and powered on his hands softly slipping in mine. Cobbly. We strolled hand in hand, gazing into each other’s eyes. Floating on ecstasy. Soaking in the scorching sun, blessed to be freed from the shackles of isolation. Nothing could top this. He cradles my face in his beautiful hands. We visit shops, buying too much.  Then we set up a picnic, aim berries into each other’s mouths, miss and laugh because we’re deliriously happy. I can imagine us being dual protagonists in a Romcom. Jaunty music playing during our adorably awkward moments, soulful pop music with a splash of jazzy riffing sound-tracking our most heartfelt ones. I can’t tell where his delicious cacao skin begins and where mine ends. We lay facing each other, giving me the opportunity to admire and investigate his purest, rawest and marvellously unrefined face of pimples that align like a constellation on a beautiful night. His confidence is what makes him alluring and irresistible to the swarm of fans, sycophants and amateur groupies that stalk him across the hallways, like his every post and comment thirsty emojis. I have nothing to worry about, he reassures with his signature confident tone, yet that’s all I can do when I cross-examine the ambiguous signs of his dissonant eyes and watch them peering over to his phone. He performs an effortless chuckle I could never evoke. Under his deep brown eyes, he has an icy cold undertone or is it a rich mahogany that is striking and effervescent? With him, I always feel like he is purposefully obscuring the boundaries of the personal and performance. He’s like a magician. It may just be the perfect illusion or an allusion to my insecurities, but he feels so real against my beating and aching heart. “Hey.” He smiles casually with a rich and buttery smooth tone. The picnic I prepared of ham and cheese sandwiches, vegetarian wings and nuggets and crisps and berries disappears in no time. “Hey.” I beam gleefully, my feet wagging. When he smiles at me, I light up.

Rodney- A scene from my nightmare

I can see the way she lights up when I look at her. I love that feeling, I devour that feeling, I crave that feeling and I’m insatiable for that feeling. I’ve had my fair share of relationships, flings, sloppy and drunken hook-ups and I’ve even been the object of obsession for three stalkers; no one has looked at me with the admiration she does. I’m afraid if I tell her this feeling will vanish. I was tumbling and turning last night from all the haunting my guilt was inflicting on me. My nightmares were experimenting with scenarios. Suspenseful music plays as Aaliyah snoops through my messages, she sobs uncontrollably, I rebound with a rotation of indistinguishable bodies, I feel empty, self-medicate until I’m an empty pit of drugs and depression and finally, my destiny is carved in stone for all to mourn. Alternatively, and worse, she forgives and never forgets. She loves me passionately, holding me out of fear I might stray again.

Wonder What She Thinks of Me- A Chloe X Halle tribute

They’re posting constantly, inundating my feed with their lavish life, romantic getaways and powerful popularity. And where I am I? in the shadows, curled up in an uncomfortably hard bed next to the only source of warmth in my life, shrouded in darkness, knowing before Aaliyah there was me and during their sham there’s still me. Not much of an empowered feminist aye? A man’s three year off-and-on side-chick? I can advocate for marginalized women by marching and yelling and starting petitions, but I can’t stand up for the one woman everyone says I should love the most. My hands crawl down, and I touch myself lovingly, remembering nights when Rodney made this room less dark. Our heavy breathing and insecure panting competed for dominance as his force thrusted me against my wall, creating a violent bang that should have been heard nationwide. He rubbed at my chest, squeezing every part of my body lightly and intensely. I wriggle myself out of my shoes, he massages my clothes and the pretence off me. He climbs on top of me, his musk penetrating my nose and the rest of me. I loved the way his nose flares when he’s excited. “Zora Neale Hurston, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, bell hooks, Angela Davis.” He said. “Yeah.” I sighed, trailing kisses along his neck, marking my spot, positioning his dominance closer to me. “You’re committed.” He praised. “Yep, I am”.   

My phone chimes. My phone buzzes. My phone rings repeatedly like a knell to my fragile ear. “Why the hell do I have notifications on for them?!”

Aaliyah- Tell me what’s up

The sun is generating sweat beads around his face. Brooding clouds begin to form. He inhales slowly, gives me a quick glance and then breathes shakily like oxygen is toxic. His nose twitches. I hate when it does that. I love it when his nose flares. What’s he hiding? a lingering voice wonders. I knew this was too good to be true. Your life isn’t a movie, it loudens. Tires screech and plates crash in the café in front of us. Loving couples separate after rows and the sun relinquishes to the triumphant might of the moon dawning on us.

Rodney- A lie

She’s staring at me curiously, burning holes through my body. I have genuine feelings for her and appreciate her for giving me the opportunity to disprove my playboy reputation. I guess I’m just a self-fulfilling prophecy, commitment-phobe jerk. The innocence on her divine dark skin and keen features seem like a punishment for my indiscretion, philandering, sneaking around and betrayal. I lied. Or did I just not practice disclosure?  A lie by omission is a lie. Haunting acoustic music introduces itself as I hesitantly release my mouth from the bondage of remaining sealed.

My name is Kelly

 After finishing, I roll over, horrified. I listen to empowering women talk about a range of issues on podcasts and TEDx Talks, I consume all the right literature, participate in all the right clubs and champion worthy causes. I grew up with strong and courageous women like my mom, who has her own law firm, affirm me in my greatness, wholistic beauty and intellect. All this nurturing doesn’t make me repellent or impervious to the sweet nothings of a sly sleaze.  I remember one night that made me consider drawing a line somewhere in the sand. He was flowing in and out of me like a transient tide, lilting hushing tones into my ear, wrapping my entire soul around his orbit. “Rodneeey!” I moaned and gasped out of severe pleasure until I crescendoed.  “hmm, Aaliyah” he groaned raspy, unstoppable, tireless. I should have stopped him, protested, caused a commotion. I sulked timorously after, feigning strength. “My name is Kelly.” “I-I know.” He whispered, leaping into his clothes, placing one finger on my lips. He jumped out of the window. Without a second thought. My name is Kelly. That’s who I am. To him, I’m just a body in his identity parade. Hold this. Squeeze it. Suck it. Make the noise I like. Turn left, turn right, you’re free to go. Sex isn’t an expression of love or intimacy to him. Just a transaction. You get me off; I’ll be inside you for three shameless nanoseconds. Keep your mouth shut and I’ll come back for more.

Aaliyah- All’s well

“I’m…” he suddenly heaves out an aggressive yawn “tired” he leans forward and lifts his arms up and taps his phone. We go. I’m galivanting joyfully as I clasp onto his hands and he takes me back to my house. He’s doing deft acrobatics along my love-line, pausing for shallow kisses across my cheek, twisting and resisting my grip. “My hand hurts.” He chuckles casually, now swaggering in front of me, looking behind me. All I see is a cute girl with thick jet- black hair cascading down to her ankles, wandering around town. I always see her, she grins at me weirdly, but she seems friendly, and I love her Instagram. She posts the most aesthetic pictures and quotes feminists of yesteryear and tomorrow all the time. Maybe I should talk to her. Something’s going on with Rodney, the voice warns. I’m not going to be slave to the stories and attach him to his past-self. He’s changed and all’s well.

Kelly- play your position

My footsteps pace and I know he sees me from the shock that flashes on his face and the colour it drains. Keeping secrets can’t be easy. Maintaining one existence from the devastation of little omnishambles that can potentially destroy everything is difficult enough, imagine the workload of two. Why the hell am I sympathising with his faux plight?! Aaliyah is the one I should care for. She’s not remarkable. Her grades are blasé. Her hair tends to be frizzy and veer off to matted territory and she seldom wears a flattering outfit. Crap, I’m falling for the game. Attack him, not her. My footsteps recede as I go back home; it’s not worth it.

Jessie, Leona and Victoria- What Other People Say

The girls assemble in the hallways, raving and smiling in Aaliyah’s face, commiserating and ranting behind her back. They warned her first. “Look, Aaliyah we trust you.” Jessie started off sweetly. “Umm… no we don’t!” Leona completed abrasively, her brash delivery practically suffocating the group of pals. “It’s too good to be true. He won’t care for you the way you deserve.” Leona blurted with bluntness that could split the most ambiguous situation wide open. Aaliyah dismissed those concerns with a sassy eyeroll, storming off to her next class early as Victoria sprinted to her urgently.  “You guys don’t know him like I do.” Aaliyah’s eyes burrowed furiously as she advocated fearlessly. “When people thought I was angry on my first day here because I was frowning all the time from depression, what did you say?”  “I-I… umm” “What. Did. You. Say?” “I said you shouldn’t judge her before you get to know her.” Aaliyah nodded to herself slowly with a striking expression on her face, an unholy blend between the egoistical incubator of smugness and the almost played out emotion of sadness. “That’s obviously different.” “How?”

“Because those jerks weren’t basing their assumptions on any behaviour you’d shown; they based it on unfair stereotypes of an entire group of people. Rodney’s reputation comes from him and him alone.”

“He’s different now.” She contested impulsively, the way those words bounced out of her felt strange because she didn’t own them. They were the talking points he’d embedded in her. “Is that what he told you? We like to think we’re special and we all are. Not to him. To him, you’re another vessel, a bucket to shoot his load into and move on once he needs something else new and shiny. Past behaviour is always indication of future behaviour. Be careful, Aaliyah.”

Rodney- I can’t help the feeling

I blocked out the sounds of wheezing coughs, obnoxious attention-seekers flapping their gums about symbolism, juxtapositions and allusions in English Lit, squealing tires, fights and almost fights. I couldn’t think. I just ambled through school, racked with guilt. “Hey babe.” Aaliyah bounced cheerfully behind me. Her scent of joy infectious. I think of Kelly’s jet-black hair wrapping around my orbit. I think of running my fingers through Aaliyah’s bushy and wild spirals. I love them both. I have the capacity to love both of them.

Aaliyah- Something’s missing

He returns my kisses blithely, eyes travelling across the room, eventually landing on an ambiguous emotion. His nose twitches to an untameable rhythm. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing! Nothing!” he rushes me to the end of the unwinding hallway, using my body to knock down several gaggles of students. “I’ll see you later.” I shout. He doesn’t hear me. I feel like I am screaming into a void. Why have I been wrenched from my dream and launched into this nightmare? What’s missing?

Rodney- behind me

“Nothing! Nothing!” I assert, sweat beads forming around my face. All my mechanisms to sound and look normal fail. But I must push Aaliyah away before she gets hurt because she is marching behind me.

Kelly- Settle for you

I march to him, determined to break this inextricable link. “I can’t take this anymore.” I whisper under my breath in a disconnected tone. “I can’t take this anymore. We must end this. It’s not fair.” I practice in a louder tone. He comes up to me. So irresistible. Arms glistening, bulging and masterfully muscular. “We need,” he sighs heavily. I look at him with sadness shredding the love intrinsic to my tearful eyes. “to talk.” “We do. I can’t do this anymore. It’s not fair. I was supposed to be your girl, not her.” I wailed desperately. “shh” he soothes, his musk an ephemeral salve to my worries. We embrace all the way to his room. Enraptured by the sensation of his sensitive touch, our bodies colliding, connecting, our souls tying together, he feels like he is all mine. Mine.  He’s not though. I realise when he jumps out of my window, mortified, hastening a kiss on my face, responding to a string of messages from Aaliyah.

Jessie, Leona and Victoria- This Mother-

The girls formed their own little clique separate from Aaliyah. They love Aaliyah but Aaliyah insists on loving Rodney. They are strolling back from Leona’s house, revelling in a complacent sense of accomplishment after a revision/slack off session, chuckling, swishing their hips and locking their arms like they were a magnetic force to be reckoned with. Leona’s mouth scraped the pavement viciously, her breaths terse and tense.  A shadowy figure practically levitates out of a window. But Leona must have a detective alter ego because she knows exactly who it is. “This mother- ““Leona, language.” Jessie cautioned with an overdone motherly tone, playfully flicking her wrist. “Girls, that’s Rodney!!” Leona whisper-screeches in a tone scratched by righteous anger. He’s sprinting away. “What should we do?!” Jessie wonders out loud. After seconds of silence that felt like torture, Victoria, with a disappointed but resolved tone arrived at the verdict “We need to tell her.”

Love me- Kelly

I lie naked and alone, just the way I was introduced to the earth. I have to give a speech tomorrow on female empowerment and solidarity. I have to lie through my teeth with a crooked smile. Each gap representing deep deception, every stutter reminding me of how worthless my fight is because I can barely fight for myself, every breath highlighting and widening the incongruence between my staunch feminist ideal self and my hopelessly devoted real self. The cover of shame wraps around me like a scanty blanket. Sweet nothings can’t be worth this much turmoil? I am at a crossroad, but the decision is simple. I wonder when Rodney’s grip will wane, weaken. When will this parasite feast on another innocent host? I have to do the right thing.

12:30AM: Hey Aaliyah…

By Efe Imoyin-Omene