The Way The Cookie Crumbles
Hello BlackLookers. I hope that the year is off to an auspicious, if busy, beginning. We wish Sokari well as she begins another chapter of her work in Haiti. Lately I have found myself ruminating on what it means to tell a story of Africa that acknowledges the humanity of the African even when we address the ills of corruption, war and the like that are part of the African experience. I thought I would share a paragraph from an untitled short story I am working on. Here it is below. All the best in the new year, Donald.
When “Vice President Sticks” had been alive, Segai lived like a regular Son Of a Diplomat: grandly. He flew to England too often, returning to Botswana with blurry pictures of him and his red-faced British friends “bladdered.” Just as often, Segai would go on holiday in the US and put up biting Facebook statuses about Black American’s loud and bitter blackness; their lack of his colonial refinement. Back home, Segai could be seen driving around Gaborone in shiny conspicuous cars, slowly enough for foolish girls on the roadside to squeakily swoon in pure materialism. After secondary school his father, “VP Sticks” even sent him all the way to the US to study something as impractical as art. Since his father’s death last year though, Segai’s home is literally thousands of miles from that fancy and imposing Gaborone lifestyle. His home is a fan-less single room in brutal Brooklyn. He is just another black face in the Big Apple: loud and bitter.