1
demons plays
At first, there was nothing.
Darkness.
Gentle hum of anticipation.
We await the beginning.
It starts with a chord.
A three-key sound wave that crashes into empty space,
disrupting, spinning, whizzing particles away.
One collides with another, who collides with one other,
who collides with two others, who collide with each other.
An aftershock that reverberates through air, through walls, through doors,
before finding you.
“Oooft. That bass,” I hear you say.
Like a drowning hand shooting through the wave,
you signal me, cutting through spinning, whizzing particles,
surfing, searching,
until like a dandelion seed,
playfully, knowingly,
your faceless voice drifts down
and finds me.
Washes over me.
“Who is that?” I say to myself.
I look, search silently, still in darkness,
follow your frequency as it navigates growing bass, treble, and beats with such confidence.
Leading me as I push through shoulders, past bodies,
over footwork, swerving swaying hips.
Until—
Goodness me.
I feel your energy.
I turn to see you, silhouetted in blue light.
You are avatar.
Controlling the elements around you.
Twisting air, radiating heat, shifting earth.
Creating space to breathe.
To move.
You pull me in, my hand reaches out.
Ready to create connection when—
“Where have you been?!”
My friend, dilated pupils and frantic energy ambush my eyesight.
I lose you.
“Nowhere, nothing, searching, erm, I thought—”
My companion’s hand slaps itself over mine.
We lock eyes, his face overlaid with blue-black, white light.
His eyes engorged, opaque.
“TAKE THIS!”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know.”
We laugh.
His hand ripples across mine,
like a tide retreating to reveal hidden treasure:
a small white circular pill placed in the center of my palm.
I dive.
That’s one.
demons fades
prada plays
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
Am fucked
What the fuck
“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU GIVE ME”
“I can’t give unless you take, so just wait. Let it flow.
It’s okay to drown once in a while, mate.”
I don’t—this wave—
I think this was a mistake!
Aike—I've to get some water or something.
Something to offset this high high high.
Bathroom
Mirror me looks back.
She isn’t pleased.
Slap.
Water pat.
Mascara slightly smudged.
Lipstick all over the place.
Ugh.
I fix up.
I’m on a wave.
“It’s okay to drown once in a while, mate.”
Mhmm. Okay. Okay.
I feel like I’m fly—
Flying through this sea of people.
Time is not on my side.
I’ve got to find that voice.
Your voice.
My mind keeps switching off.
All I’m seeing is pictures.
Bodies of somebodies and squaddies shaking out to this bass.
I find myself accepting a shot from a stranger.
The inside looks like slime—
Light liquid green.
That burns a hole through my very being
(or at least it feels that way).
And then outside.
Stumbling past more somebodies and squaddies
to find a rail—
to lean—
breathe—
Which is going well until a cone-shaped roll-up
floats into my periphery.
I look into it.
It’s green, lean, rolled down to a tea.
It burns.
At first.
And then.
It cools.
Soothes.
Transports me into another dimension.
I’m in the centre of it all.
The somebodies have found their Instagram fiends.
Squaddies and the baddies are making non-verbal moves across the room.
We all move as one beat.
Interconnected mass.
We break our fast and pour into this space.
We WORSHIP.
All flowing as one.
Same frequency.
We offer ourselves up to the beat
as sacrifice.
As it entangles itself into our chest cavities.
I feel.
Fucked.
So fucked.
But free.
I am of the earth, and it is of me.
And them.
And they.
And he.
And she.
And her.
It’s her.
The person.
The voice.
I think?
I struggle through.
Break the chain.
Looking again to connect to another source.
To be plugged into her energy.
That voice.
My hand stretches across.
Weaves through the mass.
Almost there.
And then—
Hi, I’m—
She turns around.
“Flow?”
“How do you know my…
I trail off.
“Fuck.”
That’s two.
prada fades
laker boo plays
Smoking area. A secluded spot.
The bass knocks, vibrating the door in-between us.
Asking to be let in.
And yet we stay rooted,
stuck.
You, back against wall, waiting.
Me, hand on railing, almost fainting.
Flow.
Eb.. I didn’t. I wasn’t. I didn’t.
Save it.
No, Flow, don’t do that. Don’t be like that.
She scoffs.
I wasn’t trying to disrupt your peace or anything like that, I just—fuck.
I got caught up, thought you were someone else and I couldn’t control myself.
I know this answer sucks.
But.
I was drawn to you, it wasn’t even a thought, I just, I just wanted you,
this place to wash me clean aga—no, I just wanted to say
Say what?
That you’re sorry for crushing my tender bones into dust?
Making up an excuse so you didn’t have to see my ugly mutt?
Leaving me unfinished, naked, on my fucking floor.
I can’t even believe you’d—
No, no, that isn’t, that’s not—
Then what?
In that moment. I just couldn’t be there.
You need to see sense.
I was in your orbit.
You were my moon man.
And I was puddle water.
I never stood a chance—you pulled me in, and I didn’t think straight.
I was just high all the time—you made me. You saved me. You changed me.
That isn’t an apology, Flow.
I know.
But it’s the best I got.
I haven’t been with someone.
Like.
With a—
a
a woman before.
Not really.
And it was opening up boxes that even Pandora wouldn’t be ready to confront.
I had to pull away.
Forreal.
This isn’t a front.
We look, lock eyes.
She moves, about to leave me behind.
I move, now in front of her.
I’m in her space.
So close I can see her brow knotted on her confused face.
She doesn’t move.
We are close. Nose to nose.
I inhale and she pours into me,
her scent is sweet and strong.
Like hibiscus tea with tones of sweat
and must.
I look at her, she looks at me, she doesn’t breathe, or speak.
We stand,
land-locked former lovers rooted in an island of dust.
The memory of us swims through, around, and into us.
I think she’s going to call my bluff.
But—
We gravitate further.
Head to head, nose to nose.
We exchange air.
The world feels slow.
Her finger grazes mine;
I look as it, her finger, travels up,
trailing the hairs on my arm, as if to calm them as they stick up.
It finds the hem of the right arm of my crop top.
It investigates the curve of my shoulder as it travels up, further,
tightrope walks across my collarbone.
Before replicating itself into a hand.
A hand that slides up my neck,
over my jaw.
Before setting itself on a cold cheek that immediately begins to thaw.
All I can feel, see, smell is heat.
From her touch.
It’s too much.
And then,
one manicured thumb departs the rest
to explore my bottom lip.
Finding solace in the middle of it.
Her steel ring imprints her memory into me.
I drink her in.
We are close.
Head to head, lash to lash, nose to nose, and almost, almost lip to lip.
She shifts, pulls me in.
Her free hand now indenting itself into the C-shaped crevice of my hip.
“In case you didn’t know,
here’s a tip.
I will never be your secret and that’s all there is to it.”
And just like that,
She’s gone.
Frostbitten air replaces itself where heat once was.
Hoping she will reappear.
I stare.
Shell-shocked.
Ashamed.
And lost.
That’s three.
laker boo fades
Tarana Burke.
When I originally listened to her talk—
saw the hashtags, tweets, newspaper articles, and headlines on the TV screens.
All I could think was:
not me.
Good for all those women sharing their experiences openly
and relieving themselves of what they’ve been carrying.
… but not me.
At the time, I still felt too guilty.
Too aware that it was probably a little bit my fault.
That I should have fought, been less naive, less young, less green, less trusting.
I had all the excuses rehearsed and packed down
into an easily recitable self-help book.
Shame on me for lusting when I was barely even 18.
Who told me I should’ve been trusting?
I didn’t deserve to say me too.
If I couldn’t even tell my parents.
Too aware of the shame.
The blame.
The questions.
Why were you at that party in the first place?
Why were you smoking?
Why were you drinking?
You’re surprised? You crawled into his bed, fell asleep, and you’re surprised?
Child.
Didn’t we teach you better than this?
Yeah.
The funny thing is.
I still don’t see myself in that movement.
I’m not hurt enough.
Not raped enough.
Not black enough.
Not poor enough.
I mean, I am, but I’m not poverty-line poor, you get me?
So who am I to complain—
I’m educated, I’m struggling but still attempting to actualise my dream,
I have the choice, the opportunity to do that.
I should be grateful.
Happy.
Empowerment through empathy.
That was the old tagline of Me Too before it blew up and became centralised around whiteness.
Leaving traumatised little black girls behind to fight their troubles,
as they’ve always done,
with no one by their side.
This sounds really sad, doesn’t it?
It’s hard.
I know.
It’s just, after sessions of therapy,
thinking and reflecting—
This one night.
Where he took my virginity before I understood that it was mine.
It.
It just.
It just changed.
Everything.
And I’m still healing.
Learning.
Trying to be better at loving me.
Accepting myself as part of a community.
Black.
Female.
Bi.
Traumatised.
A little broken.
Always trying to remind myself that I survived.
I did.
And it’s okay for me to be sad sometimes.
Because I’m still healing,
and nobody can put a timeline on that.
But, I don’t know.
One day.
One day.
To all the survivors out there, Me Too.
I am Ewaoluwajeyoninuayemi Esther Dina – translation:
Beauty that the Lord carved out of the cocoa bean as it sprouted,
unseen, from the motherland.
I am late-night rom-com induced tears & laughter in awkward situations.
I am an unbreakable wall against the goliath that is my mother.
I am right thing at the wrong time.
I am “where are you?” “on the way!”
As I fan brush
highlighter dust with untacky lash glue.
Next in line to…
I am hardened by life yet still too forgiving.
I am not slim thick, just thick.
Thick lips & hips.
Toffee-coloured, at times bare-faced,
baby face,
infused with maggi cube and sugar cane stains.
I am learning who I am,
searching for what it is to be me.
I am Ewa.
Unashamed green white green amidst Elizabeth II’s team.
That’s the thing, isn’t it?
Because I don’t hate you.
It was fate, inescapable.
I try to but I don’t, can’t, won’t.
I enthroned you between my breastbone,
wrapped chains around my main pump to give it muscle tone.
Too late.
You were already close enough.
Trojan horse a’(knock, knock, knock) at my door.
I thought I could trust you.
Our minds melded together and created a symphony of sound.
Not love, just wavelengths.
I radio and you an x-ray.
(ted) eyes that undress,
make me regress.
CANCEROUS.
Higher frequen
(see)
I absorbed you into my bloodstream.
Daniel in the lion’s den.
Ten toes down but God ain’t there.
But fuck I didn’t know.
Wait.
Fuck.
I did know but I chose to ignore.
One man band.
Forest, Little Red, and the Wolf.
Obsession.
I wanted you.
Tree, serpent, apple, Eve.
Couldn’t stop it if I tried—
but did I try?
True Blood bit,
mm,
break skin,
rip,
transfixed,
you sucked me dry,
we mingled,
goosebumps and tingles.
It was too late.
I trusted you.
But you are David.
Rock hard.
Medium-sized and mighty.
Target in your eyes.
Inevitable destruction to my Goliath heart.
Tip in.
Didn’t want the tip in.
Drinkin’
Dancin’
Whinin’
Grindin’
Smokin’
Intoxicatin’
I was shakin’
Woke up to kissin’
Tip in? No dick in.
Tip in? No dick in.
Tip in? No dick in.
Tip in? NO DICK IN.
No dick in.
NO dick in.
NO DICK IN.
NO DICK IN.
NO
DICK
IN
But you didn’t list-in’.
That’s.
The.
Thing.
A shock back to life.
Back to mundane reality.
Shutters jut then ascend.
Nature's sense searches for clarity.
Laptop, bag, tissue paper, receipt.
Still sleep then suddenly HD.
Split second of serenity,
for a moment I forget to be and just exist and see.
No memory, regret.
I be who I be and that’s cool with me.
Oral commissures falsely begin to chase buccal – they flirt frequently.
Oh fuck me.
Jink, pop, suck.
It’s back.
No thunder, no rain.
But why do I feel like Irma’s hurriedly coming to reign in the UK.
Parched.
Crunch, scrap, unscrew, swallow.
Nah.
Still sapless.
Phone, duh duh, swipe down, no notifications.
Swipe up, right, social, snapchat.
Wait, he didn’t text me back.
duh duh, twitter, d e, tap, likes.
THE SLUMFLOWER.
Alright face, nice body, she has a nipple piercing or at least it looks like she does.
Posted last night.
So he’s been on his phone.
Heart throbs.
Muted thunder.
i don’t care.
duh duh, snapchat, story.
Inhale, exhale.
It’s so quiet in this house.
Traffic underscores this ritual but the volume is stuck on zero.
Snaps, no one wants to talk to me.
Swipe, swipe, stories of “dub dub” and dune bashing paid for by the rich white boy #getyouabarry.
Tommy Hilfiger slides inhabited by feet 10 years away from ever fitting.
Love heart filter ooo she looks nice today.
Lightning strikes through but still no storm.
I am restless.
Already it’s begun.
i am
mayweather v mcgregor
America v North Korea
Nigeria v Ghana
Battling with me.
To not cave in.
To this feeling of sinking.
I see you. We see you.
Clenched jaw. Eyes that scream yet trained to appear.
Soulless. Bereft of zeal.
You’re surprisingly still.
Statue. Body chipped to position by a lifetime of moulders.
Fathers, teachers, managers, and now—
He does.
Graceful. Poised. Swollen. Grey.
Your eyes search the window, listening for clues, answers,
Red shoes to return you:
‘there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home?’
Is this true? You mourned you before you became you, so how can this be true?
TAKE ME BACK TO THE MOMENT.
You plead, scream, scrape the blurred field, vacant house, blue sky image that taunts you.
Smudges before you.
You plead for space, grace, relief.
Time to rediscover your feet.
Return to the day—
To the fatal decision you—
Made?
Was it inevitable?
Was it fate?
Did I awaken the monster that grips me in my sleep?
Bleeds me dry.
Crushes me into a pile of dust and grit.
“LOOK AT ME.”
Red-hot slime slices past, sears the wound that sits, unhealed.
Paints face with fear.
Unseals your picture of perfect peace to reveal the reality that sits.
“Look.
At.
Me.”
Dragon breath.
Wraps around me.
Death.
Imprint of hand.
Moulds me into a position fit for forced entry.
A lie of serenity.
This is not new.
This is your truth.
Your everyday rule.
You inflate yourself.
Draw strength.
Eyes clench.
Tear drop(s).
Body flops.
Expectation.
You know this beat.
5, 4, 3, 2—
“Are you okay?”
Shock. Release. Open.
A single tear involuntarily trails down, over cheek, over lip, under neck, forced asleep
By table underneath.
You see me?
I see me?
I- Eh- Ye-
“I’m fine.”
“YEAH SHE’S F—"
“You don’t have to take this.”
Come with me. I will bathe you in silk.
Wash your wounds in the liquid light of all those that have survived before us.
I will cocoon you with peace.
Rebuild, reseal your scars.
You are loved. Valued. Special. Deserving. Beautiful. Capable. Perfect.
You are not this.
He is not the best of you.
You can leave.
I will save you.
I promise you. I promise you.
We promise you. They promise you.
“I can take you somewhere if you want? You can come with me?”
Silence.
We communicate in the other realm.
For a moment, I see the sorrow permeate through you like a smog of smoke. Thick.
I watch you remember.
You invite me in.
Laughter breaks through our ritual.
I see you recoil. Regress.
Hide from me.
Extinguished. Smoke clears. Free flees.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I promise you.
I’m fine.”
Lips pouted.
Eyes up.
Blank eyes.
Awkward silence.
What do you say?
Grief. Grief. Grief.
How are y—?
“Thank you Jesus.”
Two different atmospheres.
He sits on the other side, watching, waiting.
Children.
Laughter.
Singing.
Flashbacks of a future never to come.
“Are you sure I can't get you guys anything to drink?”
“It's quite quiet, isn't it?”
Pregnant air, empty conversation.
Heartbeat zero.
Done.
End of life.
“Oye Jesu
O dun me gon”
“God if this is your will,
Let it be done.”
Total submission.
“I knew.”
“Let the angels take him into the everlasting hands of my God.”
“It is well.”
Bare-faced.
Folded hands.
“See the hand of God...”
“We thought the worst was over.”
Here lies she.
Black ‘Queen’ – once free,
big-lipped, not quite Kardashian hips.
Hair born reaching for the sun yet,
she consistently mourned.
Here she lies, once free.
Tired arms & bowed head draped over a porcelain white bowl.
An erratic scourer.
Disfigured by connective tissue and blood vessel,
proving its work on every nook,
like a proud author of an unreleased book,
playfully dangling on former nail, now repurposed hook.
Here she lies, once free.
Deep mahogany skin is now scratched,
like a stain titled obstacle,
into clumps of epidermis & root-pulled hair follicle
that flavour her watery grave with fat.
In dull mud brown, she is sat.
Like a museum piece.
She is titled an ode to what really sits beneath.
She is titled the journey to the true self.
Red droplets manoeuvre through her.
Hard to decipher between their trails and what is vein.
They form a pool of support beneath her,
proving that finally, we can really see her.
Here she lies, once free.
I stand, petrified.
Two steps forward and a tired, muffled sob
sends me
back
against
door.
Why?
I crawl towards the image before me.
She does not move. She does not see me.
Air around thickens and wraps itself around the base of my throat.
My journey ends.
Here she lies, once free.
My hand reaches to touch her scathed cheek.
The remnants of her imprint themselves unto my fingertips,
find hiding place in my nails.
Like an addict falling back into another high, she leans into me.
I see me.
I lift her face.
I see me. She is me.
Here she lies, once free.
I have finally scrubbed myself clean.
All the bad brown washed away. I am left, pure, white.
Colonised to the core, they can never say anymore.
The weight of this existence became too much.
All I asked for was time, space to just be me.
Unapologetically brown-skinned,
female,
and truly free.
Yet here she lies, once free.
The image you see now always laid within.
Are you surprised?
Your eyes seared targets on my skin,
transported me into dark room, sleepless nights, anxiety rife,
so my waterlogged heart leaks,
blurs my sight.
You brandished my black skin as unacceptable.
You begged me to be pure,
sent your guards to find me in my sleep.
When the black in me could not be washed away,
they shot bullets which spread shockwaves that were felt internationally.
You pushed me into rooms under the ruse of a diversity and inclusion guide,
only for you to explain why
I was the black hole that sucked the light from white.
You stuck pages and pages of pleas down me,
asking me to teach you the way to allow people like me to just be,
but every single point was just disputed.
Hidden away.
Aneephya be damned, you’d all say.
You rounded me up,
unable to believe the black didn’t make me bad.
Searched me.
Used your state-funded privilege to knee on my neck
whilst simultaneously shouting at me to—
JUST FUCKING BREATHE.
You waited for this day.
It was always my fate.
You made my bed with sheets woven with a 400-year thread count of genocide.
Pumped my pillows with feathers drowned with the ships found in the middle passage.
Laid me down.
Gave me water that when I drank made me heave and spit out
broken skulls.
Gauged eyes.
Handless fingers.
To be found in bile-coated clumps in my hands.
You cried for this. You cried for me.
So here she lies, once free.
Skin raw.
Bloody but pure.
White.
Finally, free of this fight.
slim thick wit’ yo cute ass, ayy
I might buy you a new bag, damn
so fine I bought her a new jay, yeah
top down, got that head game, she bad!
So this is the new process of selection.
This is new-fangled affection.
All you’ve got to be is slim thick with a cute assssking much?
Not as such.
If you’re different, just don’t eat much.
Launch into a salad of insecurity garnished with self-hate flakes.
Purge the pleasure that pizza provides,
then wipe your lips and sip from the model model that society supplies.
Wanna be slim thick?
Just slim your thinking!
Waist train away the training that Aibileen gave you.
I AIN’T KIND
I AIN’T SMART
I AIN’T IMPORTANT
“Damn girl, look at you! Slim thick and cute ass!”
Validation?!
he skimmed his hands across my cute ass, ayy
said he might buy me a new bag, yay
so fine, he had to grab that, right?
top down, send me a snapchat
Erm, ahh, okay.
Pose.
Snap.
Send.