https://plantinmag.com Plantin Mon, 06 Jul 2026 00:38:48 +0000 https://plantinmag.com en https://plantinmag.com/Ode-to-Muthoni Sat, 04 Jul 2026 01:40:19 +0000 Plantin https://plantinmag.com/Ode-to-Muthoni ︎ Next Story Previous Story Ode to Muthoni &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Written by Wangeci Gitau&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; Illustrated by Rianne Octave&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Est. Reading Time: 2 min&nbsp; (about Muthoni wa Kirima, late Kenyan freedom fighter and only female field marshall of the Mau Mau rebellion against the British Occupation in the 1950s) liver of long life, mother to country yet forgotten in the stale afterlife of independence you made every floor your home —the side of the mountain/ the entrance of the statehouse when there wasn’t land / left for the freedom fighters who creates / to be dispossessed / of their creation? i too have been young and hiding / inside myself / i too have let / my hair loc out of vengeance out of knowing what i am owed i too have posed for a camera / let the flash take my black and make it, oversaturated / outline / translucent / make it martyr make it symbol of sacrifice for masses who need my body for bullets to you i offer an altar / to you i offer candles and bowls of all sizes of abandoned coffee mugs / of books unread and peeping neighbors and visitors who find it odd that i would paint someone who looks like me / as you offer my mother’s cheekbones and the names of my shame and shyness muthoni you were cursed to be the first / lived long enough to be forgotten / to be a new kind of a villain, a childless woman who gave / birth to freedom and / not flesh / your curse is my blessing, muthoni/ a deep pride as i walk out of my home and see you looking far into the future where i am —free, like you dreamed i would be- Rwĩmbo rwa Muthoni (translation of the above poem in my native Gikũyũ of Central Kenya) mũciarĩre wa muoyo wa ihinda iraya, nyina kũrĩ bũrũri na no kũriganĩrwo nĩ ũndũ wa wĩyathi / ũtuĩte o gĩtina gĩaku gĩikaro gĩaku— mũkuru wa kĩrĩma Kĩhingo kĩa nyũmba ya thirikari / hĩndĩ ĩrĩa gũtaarĩ na thĩ nyũmũ / mathiaga kũrĩ njamba cia wĩyathi ũrĩa wombire / kũingatwo / ũrĩa ciombirũo? O na niĩ ndarĩ mũndũ mwĩthĩ na nĩ ndĩrahithire / thĩinĩ wakwa / O na niĩ nĩ ndetĩkĩtie njuĩrĩ yakwa ĩgĩtumwo nĩ ũndũ wa kwĩrĩhĩria / Nĩ ũndũ wa kwaga kũmenya kĩrĩa njagĩrĩirwo O na niĩ nĩ ngoretwo na kamera / reke ũtheri ũcio ũthereme oyéé ũirũ wakwa ũmethodeke, / ĩiyũirũo nĩ maĩ maingĩ / kĩĩruru / ũtheru/ ĩtuĩke mũthĩnjĩri Ngai ĩtuĩke kĩmenyithia kĩa igongona / nĩ ũndũ wa andũ arĩa mabataraga mwĩrĩ wakwa ũtuĩke wa mĩcinga nĩndakũrutĩire igongona / Nĩndakũrutĩire matawa na mbakũri cia mĩthemba yothe cia macani ma kahua marĩa matigĩtwo / mabuku marĩa matathomĩtwo na gũcũthĩrĩria andũ arĩa maikaraga hakuhĩ na ageni arĩa Nĩ wonaga ũrĩ ũndũ wa magegania atĩ ingĩhaka mũndũ ũhaanaine na niĩ / o ta ũrĩa ũheanaga mahĩndĩ ma ũthiũ wa nyina na marĩĩtwa ma / thoni na thoni ciakwa Muthoni wee nĩ ũrahĩirwo ũtuĩke wa mbere / nĩatũũrire ihinda iraya mũno nginya makĩriganĩrũo gũtuĩka mũndũ mũũru wa mũthemba ũngĩ / mũtumia ũtaarĩ na ciana ũrĩa waheanaga gũciarũo wĩyathi na, ti nyama / Kĩrumi gĩaku nĩ kĩrathimo gĩakwa, Muthoni / ndĩ na mwĩtĩo mũnene rĩrĩa ndoima mũciĩ na ũkoona ũgĩcũthĩrĩria mũno ihinda rĩũkĩte / harĩa ndĩ, wĩyathi o ta ũrĩa wĩriragĩria / ũrĩa ũngĩendire.&nbsp; -- Thank you to Steve Matundura for the&nbsp;Gikũyũ translation audio! &lt;3 Published July 6, 2026This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. <img width="750" height="750" width_o="750" height_o="750" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/c7f3173c9ae24d657e0a70df7a910b2a7c752e8b06af87a78c528da9610ad210/Wangeci-Gitau-author.png" data-mid="250066631" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/c7f3173c9ae24d657e0a70df7a910b2a7c752e8b06af87a78c528da9610ad210/Wangeci-Gitau-author.png" /> Author’s Biogikũyũ, african, kenyan, kenyan american, black, femme, formerly undocumented, queer, immigrant, artist, teacher, indigenous, writer, novelist, theorist, teacher, activist, archivist <img width="750" height="750" width_o="750" height_o="750" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/1644a0a23a08db64868a88a619a6571569cca7441945ba1138b71fcdc7cd99fa/Ennair-Mai-artist.png" data-mid="250066630" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/1644a0a23a08db64868a88a619a6571569cca7441945ba1138b71fcdc7cd99fa/Ennair-Mai-artist.png" /> Artist’s Bio I’m a London based digital illustrator and 2D animator, passionate about bold colours, expressive design, and bringing ideas to life. Whether it’s frame-by-frame, motion design or illustration. My favorite film is Kiki’s Delivery Service because it taught me to fall in love with the creative process and I hope my art reflects the joy in creativity. ︎ @ennair_mai ︎ https://plantinmag.com/Mohammed Mon, 06 Jul 2026 00:38:48 +0000 Plantin https://plantinmag.com/Mohammed ︎ Next Story Previous Story Mohammed &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Written by Ola Osaze&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; Illustrated by Amir Khadar&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Est. Reading Time: 5 min&nbsp; Here he comes. Tall as a tree. Ankle length jalabiya blue as the sky. Ashy feet squeezed into brown leather sandals. “Mohammed” “Oumar” “MOhammed!” “Oumar” Would you look at that? He just walked past me like he doesn’t know me. No Salaam. No double kisses, one on either cheek. No one hand draped on the arm of the other, our lips pursed around mon ami, did you hear? No shady commentary with an undertone of flirtatiousness. No flirtatiousness? Is that really Mohammed? Because that boy would never not flirt. We met in the din of Mutha’s, the blackness of the club cut by blue laser lights shooting from the ceiling. My boy was doing arabellas on the dance floor, his sinewy torso glistening with sweat. He was all brazen gaze when he caught me staring. His face rippled open into a knowing smirk. That’s my Mohammed. But this version that slides past me without an ounce of feeling? “Mohammed!” I called again but all I got was the back of him getting further and further away. So it is true then what Mustapha said the other day, that Mohammed had taken to un-know everyone. It is true then, that he has taken to denying history. But why, Mohammed, I wanted to cry out. You’re not the first African boy with a mother who cries to her sisters who cry to their sons who then send long missives from Mali to New York. All of us are boys who like other boys, who bury our boy-lovin ways far from the scrutinizing eyes of our mothers. Half of us are intertwined with wives back home. The other half are fighting the pull of the tide. It is a magnificent force. A perfectly synchronized dance, the chorus of mother, sister, brother, uncle, cousin all shrieking when are you taking a wife? Mohammed, you’re not the first one with a treasure trove of hustles and no papers. A treasure trove of hustles because you have no papers. A treasure trove of hustles in spite of having no papers. A treasure trove of hustles to one day acquire papers. Get your papers, my mom said to me on the phone a month ago, then get hers, she added referring to the girl from my village now tasked with becoming my wife. She’d been on the periphery of my childhood. In some of my classes at secondary school. Skirting the edges of my friend groups. I was expected to marry her. To usher her into this country that, after 10 years of living, I knew nothing about. I was supposed to provide her and I a home. Yet I barely hung onto my matchbox in Harlem. See, Mohammed, you are not the only one, I yell at his back, his jalabiya stretched across the wiggle of his bottom. He is gradually swallowed up by the crowd of entrepreneurs hawking wares of fake designer everything under the sun. Calling out to passersby in broken English, to their fellow Africans in Wolof, Yoruba, Amharic, Arabic. There’s more I want to say to this boy who now pretends to barely know anyone when he passes them on the street. All these hawkers around me are my witnesses that I’m trying to bring this boy back to his senses. Mohammed, do you remember, me and you and Lawrence and Mahmoud squeezing into Lawrence’s Harlem studio on Saturday afternoons. Huddled around his computer working on our newsletter. What was that thing you used to say? Let’s get in their faces. So we called it, Voices from Abroad: the queer African migrant quarterly. In their faces. That’s how our group, Uhuru was born. Wazobia, the lesbians added. And we thought, how cute, a name that the boys and the girls can agree on. Because lord knows, we could agree on nothing else. Boy surely you remember our parties. Remember how you’d spend days, weeks, getting ready. Bent over your sewing machine, its whir resounding throughout your apartment. That juju between your brain and the sewing machine. The stunning ensembles your hand crafted. Remember how you used to greet me at the door, loose thread clenched in teeth? Remember my cooking? Thiebou, fish, lamb dibi, salad I’d magik out of a tiny budget. We’d crawl out of those parties as the sun smeared orange across the sky. Mohammed, is it true you’re getting married? That’s no reason to shun your best friend in the middle of Herald Square. Boy, so what if she’s white. Good on you for grinding your way to citizenship. But don’t confuse hustle for real. Don’t forget the pride march and how we paraded our half naked asses in the June sun. Don’t forget how we pranced all the way from Times Sq to the LGBT Center on 13th, the “Gay African &amp; Unafraid” banner our sail. Lawrence loved all the attention from the boys. You and I were shaking our asses, shaking it like it’s motorized. That was the night I finally let you into my bed, wasn’t it? Boy you were so shy after all that flirting. This won’t change anything between us, right? I asked you, your toothy grin gleaming in the dark of my room. I’m not the partner type. But, yet, I loved you. Boy don’t you realize you are treading your way to the unhappiest of lives. A life of longing for the freedom to love freely. A life of yearning and unquenchable thirst. You and I have fucked our share of DL African niggas all over Harlem. The coming and going in and out of dark rooms, surreptitious looks, false bravado, ignoring each other at the weddings. What kind of life is that? I have to live my life in the open. Like prancing half naked in a parade while others cheer. -- Published July 6, 2026This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. <img width="750" height="750" width_o="750" height_o="750" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/7028149fbc6d1a4912768bdae191d0db42a0d2db183f10a00c9460fb836e29aa/Ola-Osaze-writer.png" data-mid="250117713" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/7028149fbc6d1a4912768bdae191d0db42a0d2db183f10a00c9460fb836e29aa/Ola-Osaze-writer.png" /> Author’s BioOla Osifo Osaze is a trans masculine queer of Edo and Yoruba descent, who was born in Rivers State, Nigeria and now resides in New York, USA. Ola is a 2015 Voices of Our Nation Arts (VONA) fellow, a 2017 Soros Justice Fellow, and has writings published in a number of anthologies including Black Futures (Penguin Random House, 2021), Queer Africa 2 (MaThoko’s Books, 2017), and Somewhere We are Human (Harper Collins, June 2022). Ola’s work has also been featured in Apogee, Asterix Magazine, Qzine, and Black Looks among others. Among other things, Ola is also a perpetual traveler, foodie, afrobeat enthusiast and dog parent. ︎ @yorubatransboi <img width="750" height="750" width_o="750" height_o="750" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/ac6ab53b8b38cda3a2e073cea583dbc45eb3ac4b30180252ec8b35b66eb5e52f/Amir-artist.png" data-mid="250117712" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/ac6ab53b8b38cda3a2e073cea583dbc45eb3ac4b30180252ec8b35b66eb5e52f/Amir-artist.png" /> Artist’s Bio Amir has been a co-editor of Plantin Magazine since 2020. They are a Sierra Leonean-American multidisciplinary artist, designer, and educator from Minneapolis, Minnesota. Their artwork centers on social change movements around decolonization by bridging the gap between fantasy and reality using motifs from West African religions, adornment practices, and fantasy media. Amir has nurtured their passion for social change initiatives by collaborating with justice organizations such as Thousand Currents, Initiative Sankofa Afrique D'ouest, and Forward Together. ︎ @amir.khadar ︎ https://plantinmag.com/Stag Sat, 04 Jul 2026 22:02:26 +0000 Plantin https://plantinmag.com/Stag ︎ Next Story Previous Story Stag &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Written by Jaida Philogene&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; Illustrated by Amuri Morris&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Est. Reading Time: 1 min&nbsp; My hands buzzed at my sides. In front of me was a stout, handsome, and formidable bovine. It wore a malicious smile. My father often stretched the corners of his lips with force and bared his teeth like a dog. The bull dug his hooves into the orange dirt of the yard. My father often pierced his body into the ground with his cleats while he stood by the breadfruit tree scraping off laglee. The bull’s horns protruded out of its head and toward the steel roof. My father’s locs would look childish when he put them into two tails. They pointed toward heaven as he beat my mother’s body to hell. This beast’s tail: long, matted, and rough. But what astounded me most was not the bull that stood there, no, not that. For the beast’s bright blue hair, blue as cornflower, stuck out against the terracotta-colored yard. And underneath its fur, I saw its skin. Its skin was as dark as mine. -- Published July 6, 2026This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. <img width="750" height="750" width_o="750" height_o="750" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/4dad0a683cb7b60c5ed00d8e96cac16dfaebe78cead51e690236736d2a7d60ea/Jaida-Philogene-author.png" data-mid="250099967" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/4dad0a683cb7b60c5ed00d8e96cac16dfaebe78cead51e690236736d2a7d60ea/Jaida-Philogene-author.png" /> Author’s BioJaida Philogene is a poet from NYC. Her poetry confronts matrilineage, her Trinidadian Dougla lineage, anticolonialism, sexuality, and gender. She is currently writing a chapbook. ︎ @jaidaphilo <img width="750" height="750" width_o="750" height_o="750" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/c4801e43f6cb8728abc41f6352998c05306bcb590cc475a2cf9eea5f31d82211/Amuri-Morris---artist.png" data-mid="250099966" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/c4801e43f6cb8728abc41f6352998c05306bcb590cc475a2cf9eea5f31d82211/Amuri-Morris---artist.png" /> Artist’s Bio View Amuri’s work at www.murisart.com ︎ https://plantinmag.com/Anyone-who-tells-me-I-have-to Sat, 04 Jul 2026 22:20:14 +0000 Plantin https://plantinmag.com/Anyone-who-tells-me-I-have-to ︎ Next Story Previous Story Anyone who tells me I have to do something must not have heard that saying about Blackness &amp; death &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Written by Dkéama Alexis&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; Illustrated by Alyssa George&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Est. Reading Time: 1 min&nbsp; Only thing I have to do is untrample my neck. is listen for the holler of the hit dog on any terrain. is skin my teeth, all thirty-two. is remain unchanged by the master's whim. is know i'm already Dead &amp; await the reaper still. is become the reaper &amp; the harvest. is watch the seasons go by, my fingernails waxing and waning with the dirt of unpromised days, skin getting browner in the sun. -- Published July 6, 2026This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. <img width="750" height="750" width_o="750" height_o="750" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/7d5c52d4ba11dca62899dc4cb4d92b4366fdebaf7d1efd2f72fe4244b48f14c4/Dkeama-Alexis-author.png" data-mid="250099980" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/7d5c52d4ba11dca62899dc4cb4d92b4366fdebaf7d1efd2f72fe4244b48f14c4/Dkeama-Alexis-author.png" /> Author’s BioDkéama Alexis is an Black trans— writer, dreamtender, death doula, and bricoleur living on unceded Mvskoke and Tsalaguwetiyi land (Atlanta, GA). they enjoy writing creative non-fiction and poetry about music, film, tarot, Black feminism(s), indigenous Black &amp; African spiritual technologies, and Afro-Caribbean diasporic memory. his work has been published in RUB Magazine, SISTORIES Lit Mag, Porch Water Press, augury, and other publications. as always, she is dreaming towards a world without police, prisons, or borders.&nbsp; ︎ @ecstasyandruin︎ Newsletter <img width="750" height="750" width_o="750" height_o="750" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/c6101cf5cf3ad32a4bd74f434b365b2431fa2414bfb0404acf1366b81b0dbeea/Alyssa-George-artist.png" data-mid="250099981" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/c6101cf5cf3ad32a4bd74f434b365b2431fa2414bfb0404acf1366b81b0dbeea/Alyssa-George-artist.png" /> Artist’s Bio Alyssa George is a Puerto Rican and Panamanian-American illustrator, designer, and avid crafter. She enjoys playing with vibrant color and texture to create striking visual narratives. She holds a BFA in Animation &amp; Digital Modeling from the University of South Florida and hopes to use it to uplift underrepresented stories. ︎ @ealyssumsinbloom ︎ https://plantinmag.com/Bellyache Sat, 04 Jul 2026 21:40:34 +0000 Plantin https://plantinmag.com/Bellyache ︎ Next Story Previous Story BELLYACHE &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Written by Marcie Malcolm&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; Illustrated by Kazvare Made It&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Est. Reading Time: 15 min&nbsp; “Wah sweet a mouth, hurt a belly.” Jamaican proverb It all began the night after Sam got home from his neighbor’s party- a big wedding reception for Willy’s oldest daughter, Cleo. Anybody who was anybody, from the little district in Jamaica was there for the extravaganza -lights strung up through the trees, tables and chairs cluttering the huge backyard property, and a DJ that kept the party rocking reggae until midnight. The best part for Sam was that the food and rum flowed freely, and he had starved himself all day so he would have enough room in his belly for the feast. Sam had just drifted off to sleep that night, when he was awakened by a pain that felt like a sharp knife in his chest and belly. Arguably, it could have had something to do with the large portions of pepper pot soup, curry goat, and jerk chicken that he had consumed that night, all laced with a generous amount of Scotch Bonnet pepper. His wife, Lucinda, was only too happy to remind him of his excessive overeating. She hauled herself out of bed to make him a steaming cup of peppermint tea. ”I told you not to eat so much. You too greedy! Not to mention all the Red Stripe beer and overproof white rum you was drinking. What did you expect?” But two hours later, he was still moaning and groaning. In fact, it seemed like the pain had only got worse. Sam was curled up in a ball, clutching his chest. It scared Lucinda so bad, that she decided to take him to the hospital. “No mon,” Sam cried weakly. “It not dat bad.” “It could be a heart attack, Sam. Put on you clothes and make sure you have on you good underwear.” Sam didn't look convinced. “No! It'll be over my dead body before I go to de hospital.” An hour later, he was at the hospital, checking in. When they got to the local hospital and told the nurse what he had eaten, she rolled her eyes, and calmly directed him behind a curtain to take off his clothes and put on a gown. Sam hollered from behind the curtain. “Something wrong wid this gown, Nurse. It have a rip diwn the back.” “No, that's how it’s supposed to be,” Nurse replied. “But I going to catch a bad cold in here, Nurse. Me whole backside is outside and I feel a draft. And the air conditioning in here is freezing.” “Stop complaining, Mr. Simmonds and sit on the bed. I need to draw your blood and start an IV.” Sam’s eyes were bulging out of his head when he saw the needle and all the different colored tubes laying on the table. “Just how much blood you planning to take? And wid that long needle? Lord, have mercy!” The nurse was growing impatient, and she pursed her lips. “Sir, you are not my only patient. I have others sicker than you, so I'd appreciate your cooperation.” “Please excuse him, Nurse!” Lucinda intervened. “This is the first time for him in a hospital. Sam, stop you foolishness and make de nurse do her job! You acting like a child!” They put him on a heart monitor and gave him some medication but the pain was so severe, they decided to keep him overnight and run further tests. “What they keeping me in here for?” Sam asked Lucinda as they put him in a room.”They said it wasn't a heart attack.” “Hush! Don't you see how much pain you in? You must stay and let dem find out what wrong wid you. Me wi come back and check on you tomorrow.” But Lucinda had a very concerned look on her face. The next morning, Sam got up hungry but on the tray next to him was tea, chicken broth, and jello. He tossed it aside and refused to eat. When the nurse came in to take his vitals, he complained loudly. “Wid all the money that these hospitals charge nowadays, you couldn't provide some proper, hot Jamaican breakfast?” The nurse looked confused. “Oh no! It's not for you. This is for the gentleman in the next bed. You cannot eat or drink as per doctor's orders until they figure out what's wrong with you. You get IV fluids for breakfast.” Sam was very glad when Aunt Dee showed up with her huge tote bag and unwrapped the foil from a plateful of ackee and saltfish, with some green banana. Sam got a huge, toothy grin but as he got ready to put the fork into the plate, Dr. Grant walked in. After taking the scene in, she knit her eyebrows and handed the plate back to Aunt Dee. “Listen, I was only trying to help, Doctor. I remember from when I was in hospital last year how bad the food was. A person could starve in here so I was only trying to help my nephew out.” Aunt Dee said, defending her actions. Dr. Grant glared at Aunt Dee, but after deciding that the lady's comment did not justify an answer, turned to Sam disapprovingly. “Mr. Simmonds, I thought the nurse made it clear to you that you were NPO. That means nothing to eat or drink, especially what was on that plate. I would say that your poor choices in your diet are what landed you here in the first place. We will be doing an endoscopy later to see what is causing your severe pain.” “But Doctor, you don't have to put yourself to all that trouble. I know you have some magic pills that I could just take at home. I promise I will eat better. It was just because I eat so much at the wedding…” The doctor folded her arms as she said, “You still need the test! You might have an ulcer.” Lloyd, Sam’s coworker, stopped by at 9:30am. “Bwoy, Sam, sorry to hear you sick, mon. We real busy at the Franklin job but I had to come see you. You know, I think you just drink too much last night- that cheap white rum at the wedding. What you need is a shot of overproof white rum to clean it out of your system. Drink up, mon, before de nurse come back!” Lloyd produced a flask from his back pocket and Sam, desperate to calm the ever increasing pain in his belly, grabbed it and took a huge gulp. He immediately felt an intense burning as it went down his throat and quickly gave it back to Lloyd just as the nurse came in. The nurse sniffed a few times and looked around suspiciously. As she checked his vitals, she said, “I swear I smell alcohol in this room and on your breath.” But Sam couldn't answer as he was too busy bounding out of bed, dragging the IV pole behind him and heading to the bathroom to vomit. Roy, Sam’s best friend, peeked his head in at noon. “Sam, you look terrible, mon! Lucinda call me this morning. How your stomach doing?” “The pain still bad, Roy. No relief!” “I wonder if somebody poison you… You know that they say Willy was still vex wid you and holding a grudge for killing him goat and then eating it.” “For your information, I didn't know dat was his goat and if you have a goat, it is your responsibility to tie it up good in your yard so it don't go wandering the streets. But Roy, you really think it's poison?” “Well, the man hasn't talked to you in two months and all of a sudden, you get a wedding invitation?” — Sam thought back to two months ago when he was driving back from trying to collect the money owed him from Mr. Brown. He had finished the painting and carpentry work three weeks ago- and still no money. He was speeding down the gravel road that led to his house in his faded blue 1997 Toyota RAV4. He was hot and hopping mad– hot because the the air conditioner no longer worked in the car and agitated because he had driven all that way, wasted his gas, only to be told next Tuesday. Lucinda was already mad at him when he left the house that morning as she said she had no money to go to the supermarket and nothing for dinner. She also gave him a lecture on how to be a proper businessman, and to collect at least half of the money before he started the job. He did not notice the goat crossing the road until the car was almost upon him. He slammed on his brakes, but between the fact that both the brakes and the bald tires needed replacing, he could not stop in time and down went the goat. Sam jumped out of the car to check the goat. It was a pitiful mess, not moving and blood everywhere. It had a ring of silk pink and white flowers around its broken neck. Sam looked around. No one else had seen what happened. He was sorry he had killed someone else's goat but the unwritten rule was, that if you let your goat wander from your yard and it got run over, it was that person's goat to eat. He even justified himself by saying this was a gift from God as Lucinda said they had nothing to eat for dinner. So he lifted it into the trunk of the car and took it home. Lucinda was enthralled and Sam got busy cleaning the goat so they could have curry goat for dinner that night. At dusk, Sam heard a knock at the door and opened it up to see Willy from down the street. “Sorry to bother you, Sam, but I was wondering if you saw a goat around here- black and white with a wreath of flowers hanging around her neck.” Sam swallowed hard and denied he had seen the goat. Willy explained that he had bought the goat to fatten it up for the upcoming wedding of his oldest daughter, Cleo. His twin seven year old girls, Pauline and Pearline had fallen in love with the goat and named it Daisy. They even made her a necklace of flowers. Now Daisy was missing and the girls were in tears, crying and inconsolable. “Maybe Miss Lucinda saw Daisy. Can you ask her for me? “ Willy asked. Sam slipped into the kitchen, but the delicious aroma of simmering curry goat escaped as Lucinda stirred the pot. He pretended to ask her, before quickly returning. “No, she didn't see the goat. Sorry, mon!” Willy eyed the kitchen. “What she cooking? You butcher a goat? It smell like curry goat!“ “No. Just some curry chicken. Good luck with the goat.” Willy went through the open door, looking back at Sam, suspiciously, walking around and slowly inspecting Sam’s car, before heading down the road. — Sam was jerked back to the present as Roy was saying his goodbyes. “Whatever happens, don't let them cut you!” “Cut me?” Sam looked scared. “Like surgery! I hear they remove parts and sell it to America for transplant,” Roy said Lucinda came in and slapped Roy on the back of his head. The man in the next bed stirred. He had been sleeping all day. “What's that you say? They taking my gallbladder tomorrow,” the man asked. “I wouldn't do it,” Roy said smugly. “They going to sell it to America.” “Don't listen to him, sir! “ Lucinda warned. “He don't know nothing! He just ignorant! Roy, I think is time for you to leave. Out!” Sam got quiet. He tried to get comfortable but the pain was annoying. He complained that he did not even feel hungry anymore, which was highly unusual for Sam. A young man in scrubs entered the room. “Sam Simmonds?” “Who want to know? “ Sam said warily. “Yes, it's him! “ Lucinda snapped. “I'm here to take you to the operating room for your procedure. Let me check your wristband and help get you on this stretcher, sir,” the young man smiled. A scared Sam appealed to Lucinda. “I don't want them to cut me and sell my parts to America!” But before Lucinda could say a word, he hopped off the bed, grabbed his IV pole and headed down the hallway- barefooted, and with his gown flapping in the wind, revealing his behind for all the world to see. Security tried to catch him, but in his heyday, he was quite the track star and his old teammates now compared him to Usain Bolt. Down the stairs he went, through the Emergency Room with people shouting and staring. Through the automatic doors of the Emergency Room he raced at full speed, only to be hit by an arriving ambulance. As he lay there groaning, thoughts rushed through his head. Am I dead? Was I poisoned? Which of my body parts will be sold to America? Lord, if you let me live, I will never touch Scotch Bonnet pepper or overproof white rum again. Lucky for Sam, except for a few abrasions and a broken foot, he was fine. Lucinda stood, glaring at him and shaking her head while his foot was being casted. Willy, his neighbor, came at 5pm. He entered the room, eyeing Sam’s cast. “I thought it was because of your belly that you came to the hospital.” Sam smiled sheepishly. “It was, but it seems like I had a little complication.” Willy raised his eyebrows and checked to see if he was alone. He walked over and sat by the bed. He proceeded to speak slowly in a harsh whisper. “They broke your foot when they did the endoscopy? That sound real strange to me. You should sue! Too bad! You had such a good time at the wedding. You must have had six plates of curry goat. Didn't you wonder how come I made sure to bring you all your food personally? And poor Daisy! She never lived to see the wedding. I knew it was you all along. I saw the blood on your front fender. I smell my girls’ goat cooking in your kitchen. So I made sure I sprinkle a little poison on whatever you eat last night. Next time, you'll think twice before you kill, thief and eat a goat that don't belong to you. Mark my words! “ All the blood drained from Sam's face and he started sweating profusely. As Willy turned to make a quick exit, he laid a large plastic container on his bedside table. Sam started screaming for Lucinda. She came rushing in. “Lucinda! I know what's wrong with me! Willy poisoned me!” Lucinda shook her head and hissed her teeth. “Sam, stop you foolishness! No one tried to poison you! You got to stop listening to those ignorant friends of yours. The only thing wrong with you is gluttony! I saw Willy leaving and he told me he left some curry goat in the container by your bedside, so you can have it when you get home and feel better. Wasn't that nice?” Sam rolled over moaning and clutching his belly. “No, no goat! He trying to finish me off and kill me. I'm telling you, Lucinda,I swear off curry goat forever!” -- Published July 6, 2026This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. <img width="750" height="750" width_o="750" height_o="750" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/04f80cc9f54beba3eae7efe80d8cb0c64ef70aaa193f58de6b94f7c3836a97d7/Marcie-Malcolm-author.png" data-mid="250099900" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/04f80cc9f54beba3eae7efe80d8cb0c64ef70aaa193f58de6b94f7c3836a97d7/Marcie-Malcolm-author.png" /> Author’s BioI am Jamaican born and moved to the US at 16 years old. I am a wife , mother, and a retired pediatrician who has always liked to write.&nbsp; ︎ @delrayped︎&nbsp;Marcie Malcolm <img width="750" height="750" width_o="750" height_o="750" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/8c58166ca848c5ed75afe56b235eebeb76e687c211e791859e448eda74068f33/Kazvare-artist.png" data-mid="250099899" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/8c58166ca848c5ed75afe56b235eebeb76e687c211e791859e448eda74068f33/Kazvare-artist.png" /> Artist’s Bio Kazvare is a writer and digital artist who is forging a name for herself with her often ‘sassy sketches and searing satire’ (GRAZIA). She has also been listed as an ‘inspirational woman’ by Forbes. Her work has been featured in VOGUE (UK and Japan) and she has also collaborated with major brands such as Adidas and Facebook. Kazvare’s work combines cultural references and influences in a way that is bold, colourful and with a huge dash of playfulness. ︎ @kazvaremadeit ︎ https://plantinmag.com/Call-n-Response Fri, 01 May 2026 04:34:21 +0000 Plantin https://plantinmag.com/Call-n-Response ︎ Next Story Previous Story Call N Response &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Written by Nailah Moon&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; Illustrated by NYALA BLUE&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Est. Reading Time: 15 min&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The first time I saw a spirit I watched it be pulled out by my mother. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Her skin, thick with sweat, caught the light that made her body glow as she worked under the moon's eyes. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I watched her pull the spirit out: hand over hand, piece by piece, first head, then chest, then feet, until it finally emerged from the woman who used to be Ayan. Her wrinkled body lay deflated on the cot as my mother pulled and pulled and pulled until something slipped out and Ayan was no more. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I watched Mama Iya become the death doula.&nbsp; Death Singer &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Through her, Mama Iya’s throat became an instrument coaxing Ayan’s soul out as her wife wept next to us. Her cries added to the solemn eulogy until she too, unknowingly, became part of the orchestra. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The process was long but I couldn’t turn away. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I had to focus. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Mama Iya’s song was strong and Lama, Ayan’s wife, was being taken over by the spirit of grief. I grabbed her hand, keeping her still, as her own soul desperately tried to part with her body and join Ayan in her new journey. It was not yet her time, Mama Iya had whispered to me when we had entered the room and found her wailing over her wife's body. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;No. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;This song was for Ayan and Ayan only. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; The spirit slowly materialized beside the corpse as Mama Iya’s pulls softened and slowed down. A small flick of darkness at first. Wispy and fluttering, it swirled around the room dancing with the shadows until, as Mama Iya sang the last rites, it began to fade. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; “To the land of possibilities and dreams you go and there you will meet her.” She instructed Ayan’s soul as it left. Head bowed and hands clasped tight over her head, Mama Iya stayed that way until the light was completely gone and the room was quiet again. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; The woman who had been Ayan’s wife knelt by her bedside and began cleaning the body as custom required. The air stank with herbal mixes of rosemary and hibiscus as she pressed the mix Mama Iya had given her days ago into the body. Once the body glistened with the oil and herbal mix, she wrapped it in giant banana leaves while Mama Iya hummed a song that matched the slow, methodical work of the woman’s flitting hands. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; The two worked, calling and responding as the moon and I watched. We watched them fight to protect Ayan’s vessel. A body vacant often brought stray souls hungry for a new home… &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; It was because Death was a constant part of my life that I did not waver when the land started its own bout of dying. My time with Mama Iya made me see Death as something that happened to others. Our goal was to stand firm in both rivers of death and life, a guide post, to ensure each soul's safe passage. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Sometimes the people we helped fought us. Some days the body clung to its spirit, holding it still, as we fought hard to free it. Like a bitter lover, the mind would sometimes try to restrict Death’s movements and I would watch Mama Iya wrestle with the body and mind until, a heated exchange of whispers later, a spirit was set free. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; That is how she earned the name Ameguswa. Touched women. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; The villagers could not decide if it meant touched by god or&nbsp; the devil. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; And then, there was me: Shadow. Echo.Iyami the fatherless. She who from nothing came, following Ameguswa with white ribbons in thick black plaits and wet wide Black eyes. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Before we had come to this home, Mama Iya had exchanged a few words with the old trees, her brows scrunched together as they told her of a spot of rot and the smell of betrayal on the wind's lips. I could only catch parts of the exchange, filling in the gaps as the tree and her huddled together in conversation, the tree slightly bending to meet her hunched figure. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; As always, she did not tell me a thing, opening her mouth only to sing a song about a foolish king who had spilled his people’s blood and soaked the land with it. She sang to me as we travelled slowly down the mountain about beasts that ate people and belched them out across tar sands and about giant eyes that flew through the skies. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Even now as the sun began peeking from the horizon and Ayan’s cries slowed to whimpers of grief, she refused to say anything more, grabbing my hand and leading me out of the fenced yard.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Years before, we would stay at each patient's home, soothing their grief and caring for them as it continued working through their bodies. I would spill the questions that had been swelling on my tongue and Mama Iya would answer, bemused by my curiosity, teaching me about the cycle of birth and death. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; But these days, we did not linger long. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; These days, our help was met with glints of anger in dark eyes and the reaching for curses instead of gratitude as foreign gods were invoked rushing to expel us from homes. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; I did not blame them for the fear and hatred. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; We were, after all, touched humans who dealt with Death. Like marketwomen we bargained, haggled and sometimes traded Death for more time. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; A power not afforded to them. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; A power that invited jealousy and, when our pleas and discussion with Death ended with empty hands to hopeful families, anger. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; So when I came home one day from a visit to the river to find Mama Iya missing and our home ransacked, I knew where to go. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; The other mountain. Sacred. Dangerous. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Our mountain was fair. Kind sometimes. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; When you got lost in its forests it would tease and poke at you but eventually lead you towards your destination. But its twin was far more cruel. The scar on my back was proof of its disinterest in anything human that smelled like life’s twin. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Of course they would take someone so powerful up where their god could see her more clearly. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; By the time I reached the bottom of the cursed mountain, breath haggard and heartbeat quick, I made it just in time to see her. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Body: bound. Her face: solemn. Her figure flew falling down the mountainside. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; While watching her, I never knew that Death would come so close to us and take her away. My years roaming the earth were often spent with our fingers intertwined. Seeing her fly like this made my stomach drop. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; I saw my mothers lifeless body be thrown by the people she spent a decade serving. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; The ribbons in my hair snapped, spooked at the sight. I let them fall too shocked to do anything but watch, stuck in my own bout of fear.. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; The grass near my feet reached out, flowers leaned in and bushes near us sighed in their own grief. We lamented as we watched our god be killed knowing what would come next. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; We. Lost. Our. God. The people plotted, conspired and ultimately orchestrated their own folly. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Even in our grief, we, the witnesses of Mama Iya’s last time on the Earth knew what would come next. Naturally, in its own time, the land would go with her. For what was a land without its caretaker? &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; As her body landed I did what any sane person would do after seeing a witch hunt: I ran. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; My feet hit the dirt as I coaxed them to go faster and faster (go faster!)&nbsp; away from the madness. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Mama Iya was strong and feared. That they could so casually murder her meant that I was next. Me. Fat still on my cheeks, wearing youth so precariously on my skin and a juvenile fire burning bright in me. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Me, who sprung from the ground, already formed and who served the witch. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Of course, I would be next. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; The people did not yet understand what happened when they messed with the cycle of this world. Balance did not happen peacefully when the untouchable were touched. Forgive them mother, They know not what they have done. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Their god, curse Him, was still young. Even I could see his twisted teachings were spurred forward by the need to be all-encompassing, all-loved, all-knowing, and all-consuming, even if that hunger destroyed us all. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; The land had begun mourning and rotting as soon as it got a whiff of the plans they had concocted while we served them every night. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Mama Iya was a mad woman, true, but one thing was certain: Death and her were very, very close. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; And I did not want to be around when it found out its charge was dead. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; I ran up our mountain having no time to greet the trees that grumbled at my rudeness but allowed me passage through. The grass helped me along, pushing me up and up and up until I reached the mud house. Stumbling into the dark space my breath caught up to me. After a moment of respite remembering I still had a body that needed rest,&nbsp; my back fell against the cool brown walls. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; And then I saw her. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Mama Iya sat near the embers of the morning fire staring at the smoke that rose and fluttered around her. She had on the same white robes they had dressed her in. Her head shaved with dried bloody scabs peppered between wisps of curly white hair. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; I cried out: my hands reaching, my heart aching. Knowing this would be the last time I would see her. In this image: whole and fearsome. I wished I could replace what I had witnessed at the bottom of the mountain and pretend that this apparition could contain her fierce living form. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; But Death was taking her home. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; She turned to me and smiled beckoning me over with a thrust of her chin. I could see Death take more and more of her as seconds passed by us. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Grief haunted my footsteps. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; It washed over me as I took slow, steady steps towards her ghost. The trees' loud fervent whispers were drowned out by the heaving in my throat. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; When I reached her she stood up and I swear I could smell the scent of burnt firewood on her body. A warm finger gently grazed my face, a smile haunting her lips. When she walked through me, the memory of her flying through the air welled up. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; My whole life, she had always seemed so great and terrible. But now, she felt as tender as a seedling poking through the earth. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; So fragile. I had forgotten that she too was only human. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; I turned around to find myself alone again, the cracking of the fire the only thing left to warm me. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; I could not control the gasp that fought itself out of my body. It pulled itself out of my throat echoing through the small space as I doubled over now suddenly covered in cold sweat. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; The room tilted itself, knocking me off balance. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; My breath now stolen, I let the room settle back in place, my back rooted to the walls. The coolness of it helped keep my morning feast from spilling out while the shakes hijacked every inch of my body. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Finally, after an agonizing moment, the pain left just as quickly as it found me. The quiet rang through the room then it too dissipated bringing me back to the here and now. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; I could finally hear the secrets of the trees as they chatted around our home. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; My hands began moving, my feet following quickly after them as they searched and began filling a satchel they had found near the fire. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; I let my hands work, as they took everything they could wrap fingers around and tuck carefully into the bag. The never ending array of pockets Mama Iya had stitched into the bag swallowed each item whole. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; The sounds of thundering feet grew closer. My hands paused, hearing the faint sound of Death crawling through the ley lines of the forest. A growing ball of decay was being belched onto the land. The stench was strong, carrying the growing anger of the villagers who hunted for me in the chaos. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; The cries of the foolish people did not scare me. I was used to their ire from the years of our nightly consults. Death was not kind to them over the years and we, by extension, were just as cruel. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; But those whispers among the trees… &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; I came back into my body and closed the bag shut, swinging it over my shoulder. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Grabbing my walking stick, I began practising the movements of creaking old bones and a body weighed down by decades. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; I shut my eyes conjuring Mama Iya’s figure while I pulled at my face with my left hand, willing more wrinkles and sagging skin into my face with each tug and pull. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Iyami was young. 15 summers old with nothing that could incite wariness or fear. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; But Iya. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Iya was old. Carrying generations along her marred face and long silver locs. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Her walk carried souls. Sinking her deeper and deeper into the earth with each step. I let her image possess me pulling her memories from every nook and cranny of our home. From the stool she had sat in all those years to the walls that she had shaped by hand hundreds of years ago. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; With our memories encouragement, Mama Iya and I became one. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; The trees shrieked at me from outside: the crowd was almost here. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Death too was getting close. It was time to leave the trees shouted at me through the small opening in the hut. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Wrapping the cloth around my shoulders I carefully&nbsp; made my way into the back garden, saying my goodbyes to the plants and animals I had only just begun forming a kinship with. They dropped trinkets and seeds into my hair, their branches braiding them into the locs I had conjured. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; I would need them, they whispered in their goodbyes. There was no time to thank them for their foresight; I would greet their children and tell them of their wise and just parents once I was safe. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; The land's grief joined mine and together we wept as I made my way deeper into the green foliage. The grass caressed my feet with apologies, trees reached out with bare branches saying their final goodbyes. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; This land was lost. But, Death had whispered to me, there was a new one being born far, far away. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; So, off my feet went. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Slowly. Steadily. Towards the sound of ground rumbling and the shuffling of flora and fauna as a forest was being born. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Across the waters, the blood of my kin was feeding its roots. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; The pungent smell of steel and oil guided each of my steps forward as I said my final goodbyes to the land that had grown me. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; The call for a new god echoed through the forest and across waters. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; And I, Mama Iya, answered. &nbsp; -- Published May 1, 2026This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. <img width="739" height="771" width_o="739" height_o="771" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/bc2b573cb2522e9f70f5aa4f8095bbb929f79443ee76da3cb4a62d5c54f83cef/Nailah.png" data-mid="247755357" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/739/i/bc2b573cb2522e9f70f5aa4f8095bbb929f79443ee76da3cb4a62d5c54f83cef/Nailah.png" /> Author’s BioNailah Moon is a ritual based artist, writer and community worker living in Mi'kma'ki. A budding painter, Sudanese gourd artist and a tech artist, they merge the world of sustainable technology with African Indigenous motifs and communal values. Nailah is the 2025 winner of the Charles E. Saunders Speculative Fiction Award through the Writers Federation of Nova Scotia and a Roots.Wounds.Words 2024 Writing Fellow. Their art and writing appears in Wildscape Magazine, The Missing Slate Magazine, Plantain Magazine and more. From the Didigna Hills South Sudan ︎ @nailahmoonkjipuktuk︎nailahmoonkjipuktuk.substack.com <img width="639" height="639" width_o="639" height_o="639" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/62c2300a2cbe3327e50b2d9e7dd1cf42974bbb696f7e5ab3fb44a5f3a8f900e7/File_001---Janaya-Nyala.png" data-mid="247755322" border="0" data-scale="86" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/639/i/62c2300a2cbe3327e50b2d9e7dd1cf42974bbb696f7e5ab3fb44a5f3a8f900e7/File_001---Janaya-Nyala.png" /> Artist’s Bio NYALA BLUE is an emerging artist and occasional poet from the lower NY area with Panamanian heritage. Her goal is to highlight Black love, mental health and sanctify the freedom for Black people, especially Black men, to be delicate, vulnerable and speak their truth. Janaya finds her inspiration through black photography, poetry, music, and her own experiences.︎ @nyala.blue ︎ https://plantinmag.com/somewhere-under-the-yucca-trees Sat, 25 Apr 2026 17:13:32 +0000 Plantin https://plantinmag.com/somewhere-under-the-yucca-trees ︎ Next Story Previous Story somewhere under the yucca trees &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Written by Meron Fikru &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; Illustrated by Emily Clarkson&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Est. Reading Time: 12 min&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; She loved the desert. The stillness of the air, the gentle quiet that eluded her in the city. Her newfound ability to be unreachable for a few days, courtesy of the scarcity of cell phone towers. The warm air clung to her skin like an old friend, greeting her. Even all these years later, Lydia found herself enamored with the mahogany hues of the rock formations that framed this place. As she drove into town, she took in the familiar sight of the yucca trees. Bristling in the slow breeze, their spiked verdant branches waved her a hello as they twisted in the air. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; She wondered how long those trees had been there; how much life they had seen, how many lives had seen them. She thought about the first people who could have seen them, the ancestors of this place; how much different their lives would have been and what they would say about how things have changed. She let her eyes wander the desert expanse around her as she maneuvered through the cascading almond brown hills. Instinctively, she knew that she was searching for something; she just wasn’t quite sure what yet. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; She felt her shoulders start to relax as she made her way through town. Curving her car with the bends of the roads, she knew that she was finally getting closer. She took her tongue off the roof of her mouth, finally letting herself relax and a breath buried deep beneath her skin released itself from her chest. She exhaled. She strummed her fingers along the steering wheel, letting her body expel all of her anxiety through her fingertips. &nbsp; &nbsp; Since her first summer in Joshua Tree, she had made it a point to return once a year. For solitude and renewal, certainly. But there remained something pulling her back to this place, like a magnet buried deep in her belly. Imperceptibly, this was the only place she could still hear her grandmother’s voice. With that, this had become the only place she could truly feel at home. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; But what was home, anyways? Whenever people in the city would ask her where she was from, she had never quite known exactly what to say. Throughout her life, home had been so many different places. Such was the nature of every immigrant daughter, as far as she knew. Home had always felt more like an abstraction or a sentiment, than an actual physical place. In recent years, home felt like little more than a fleeting memory. Barely within her grasp, tickling her memory at different flashing moments throughout her trips. In college, she foolishly believed that home was a person. And what does home look like when every place you would call home is on fire? &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Her mother and grandmother would speak so fervently about going “back home”. A place she knew about in theory, piecing together what she could from photographs in her childhood home and catching glimpses of it on Al Jazeera broadcasts. A place she could almost hear, if she thought long enough about the gentle sounds of coffee beans shifting across the beret met’had. A place she could almost smell, if only she could hold on to the memory of the fragrant notes of onions sizzling in the kitchen, and misir wot bubbling in the steel pot. A continent that most strangers spoke about in hushed, somber tones. She remembered at one point, even her mother and grandmother would speak about it in apologetic tones. Pointing to home as an apology for the thick accents that shaped their voices. She shook her head, the thought of it still stirred something electric within her. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Soothing herself, she let her mind return to the first night at the cabin. Something in her spirit had shifted that first night she looked up at the stars. She still remembered how she felt stepping on to the front porch, when she craned her neck up towards the sky. She had never seen the stars like this before. If she closed her eyes, she could still remember how they glimmered across the midnight black atmosphere. Beautiful bright orbs millions of miles away, winking at her. They knew me, she let the words rattle around in her head. Whatever she was looking for, she knew she would find it in the night sky. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Jolted out of the warmth of nostalgia by a stop sign, Lydia careened to an abrupt halt and scanned her surroundings. She was almost there; she had grown to know these muted roads like the back of her hand. She chugged along until finally pulling into her cabin’s driveway. She turned the engine off and made her way inside. Turning to look down towards her watch, she breathed another sigh of relief at the realization of her arrival time. Grateful to have made it just in time for sunset, she placed her things down and hurried to get ready. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; By the time she went back out on to the front porch, she looked straight towards the horizon. The sun had started to make its way home, settling into the furthest point of the skyline. She let herself be consumed by the radiant pinks, purples, and orange hues scattering across the sky. Kneeling down, she steadied herself and grabbed her knees to her chest as she marveled at the world around her. She was sure she had seen thousands of sunsets throughout her life. Still, they continued to render her speechless. There was something so comforting about watching the sun depart, knowing it would return in the morning. She felt the same when she thought about the moon. Her grandmother used to say that Lydia was the sun, destined to leave her at some point, to break her heart. And that she would be her moon, always waiting to catch her whenever the darkness would overtake her. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Breathless, she walked into the front yard and rolled out her blanket. She threw her journal down, kicked off her slippers and laid down. She had learned over the years that this was the best way to see the sky, to lay completely flat on the ground and to let it completely wash over you. She yearned for that submersion; surrendering herself to her environment was the only way she could quiet all of the noise. Knowing it was the same sun and moon that her ancestors had watched sink in and out of their vision and guided their days, brought her an overwhelming sense of peace. Knowing that these were the same stars her mother had looked at, and her grandmother before her, filled her chest with a warmth she could only locate here. She grabbed her journal and held it to her chest, squeezing her eyes shut. There, she listened quietly and waited as the tightness in her stomach began to settle. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Slowly, she let her eyes open up and took in the night blanketing above her. She let her eyes traverse across the onyx expanse once more, as each star slowly reappeared, one by one. At some point, she lost track of time. Watching the stars flash on and off, she lifted her fingers to the sky and started to trace the constellations she could remember. The Milky Way came easily to her, jutting across the sky. Her grandmother would say that was God’s paintbrush swiping across the universe. She wondered how far these stars could stretch across the night sky. Turning her head from one side to the other, nightfall seemed endless. Could they reach all the way to the continent she was supposed to speak about in hushed tones? Could they reach the place her grandmother and mother once called “back home”? &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Home was here, somewhere in the stars – she was certain of it. Untouched by humanity, uninterrupted by any grief. In the stillness of the night, she felt the frigid distance in her heart start to warm, bridging the gap between heartbreak and belonging. These were the same stars she had seen that first night. Somehow, she knew intrinsically these had been the same stars her mother and grandmother had seen on their first nights under the stars. She noticed a star wink at her twice, in the way that her grandmother would. Slowly, she felt a whisper tenderly caress her ear: “hello, my sun.” &nbsp; -- Published May 1, 2026 This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. <img width="739" height="771" width_o="739" height_o="771" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/2f29d2cb14e1c0cbef22a8dc5c89b1af4f6d3802d9e28ff68cdc9b943cb6cfed/Meron.png" data-mid="247587958" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/739/i/2f29d2cb14e1c0cbef22a8dc5c89b1af4f6d3802d9e28ff68cdc9b943cb6cfed/Meron.png" /> Author’s Bio Meron Fikru is an Ethiopian-American writer based in Seattle, WA. In her non-fiction work, she writes essays on politics, tech, culture, and criminal justice for her blog. In her fiction work, she writes stories of formidable women battling dystopian and/or haunting environments. Her work prompts us to interrogate our assumptions and challenge the systems that surround us. Her writing is grounded in history and is deeply feminist, anticolonial, anticapitalist, and anti-racist. Her favorite writers are James Baldwin, Octavia Butler, Ta-Nehisi Coates, and Omar El-Akkad. ︎ @merontheewriter 🦋&nbsp;meronunfiltered.com ︎ https://plantinmag.com/Where-the-Body-Learns-the-Map Sat, 25 Apr 2026 17:13:22 +0000 Plantin https://plantinmag.com/Where-the-Body-Learns-the-Map ︎ Next Story Previous Story Where the Body Learns the Map &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Written by Rashida James-Saadiya&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; Illustrated by Destiny HH. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Est. Reading Time: 1 min&nbsp; I used to think leaving was the only way forward— that movement meant distance, that survival required departure. But the body remembers differently. It learns the weight of heat on the back of the neck, the language of dust lifting at the edge of the road, the way the sky opens— wide, but not empty. There are crossings that do not announce themselves. A shift in breath. A loosening in the chest. The moment you stop measuring your life against elsewhere. I have stood at doors before— hands full of questions, pockets lined with leaving. I have believed the future lived somewhere else, just beyond reach, just past the horizon. But here— here the ground answers back. Not loudly. Not all at once. Just enough to interrupt the old story. To remind me that staying is not the absence of movement, but a different kind of crossing— one that happens inward, one that asks not where you are going, but what you are willing to become when nothing carries you away. &nbsp; -- Published May 1, 2026 This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. <img width="739" height="771" width_o="739" height_o="771" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/4455ba052f82a5fcd49c2c47e364f00a41c35c90db22346c5e3afd371e399913/Rashida.png" data-mid="247587861" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/739/i/4455ba052f82a5fcd49c2c47e364f00a41c35c90db22346c5e3afd371e399913/Rashida.png" /> Author’s Bio Rashida James-Saadiya is a writer and cultural educator exploring memory, imagination, and building communities beyond survival. Her poetry appears in 1619 Speaks, Black Powerful: Black Voices Reimagine Revolution, and Kaleidoscope: Contemporary Muslim Voices. Her essays have been published in Sapelo Square, Prism, Truthout, and We Are Civic Media. ︎ @solsalaam ︎@RSaadiy <img width="739" height="771" width_o="739" height_o="771" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/34a4c83cb1523e08e7caa9ffae34f8d22d55ac80c2f78fe7ff6801e55137c9e6/Destiny.png" data-mid="247587670" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/739/i/34a4c83cb1523e08e7caa9ffae34f8d22d55ac80c2f78fe7ff6801e55137c9e6/Destiny.png" /> Artist’s Bio Destiny is a visual artist and spoken word poet. She likes to combine nostalgia with the realities of the world at large. She considers herself an "arti-vist" and aims to center her work more towards that of collective liberation. ︎ @deswithblu&nbsp; ︎ https://plantinmag.com/Bandwidths Fri, 01 May 2026 02:30:59 +0000 Plantin https://plantinmag.com/Bandwidths ︎ Next Story Previous Story Bandwidths &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Written by Nwuguru, Chidiebere Sullivan&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; Illustrated by Jazz&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Est. Reading Time: 1 min&nbsp; My parents knew nothing about video calls &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; until the week I left the distance between us &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; far-grown beyond the blues &nbsp; only seeing or hearing could measure up the slope &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; there exists a wide gap &nbsp; &nbsp; only air &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; could fill from afar &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; it was at such distance that &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; my dad &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; walked to the junction &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; where the signals could let him see &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; my mouth &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; moving not enough to hear me &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; outside our compound &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; my mom &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; stretched her phone &nbsp; &nbsp; to the night’s blue &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; asking the 5G god &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; to please grant her audience with her son &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; in return &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; she could hear me &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; the struggle was in seeing me &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; it was the same for me &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; with both &nbsp; &nbsp; always a distance only seeing &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; or hearing &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; could touch &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; never enough &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; to hold but I’m &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; my mother's father&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; my father’s in-law &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; like every close relation I’m in their hearts &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; with our family’s name running &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; through my veins over here&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; I go to bed&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; every night &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; with the lights on &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; in the dream a humulin bottle &nbsp; is &nbsp; beyond my father’s reach&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; he calls to ask that I help him&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; afford one &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; but the door &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; is a soundproof &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; wall we are barely&nbsp; &nbsp; on the same side&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; most times&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; my parents are on the other side where there are no clean words&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; only questions: Chidi &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; are you there? &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; are you...? &nbsp; -- Published May 1, 2026This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. <img width="739" height="771" width_o="739" height_o="771" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/1043d0462e83ac346818d79f0a044f2518a636a6972801a0ba7b1db46b5d3eef/Sullivan.png" data-mid="247754667" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/739/i/1043d0462e83ac346818d79f0a044f2518a636a6972801a0ba7b1db46b5d3eef/Sullivan.png" /> Author’s BioNwuguru, Chidiebere Sullivan (he/him/his) is an MFA candidate at the university of Nevada, Las Vegas, a speculative writer of Izzi, Abakaliki ancestry; a multiple finalist for both the Rhysling and Ignyte Awards, a nominee for the Forward Prize, Pushcart Prize, and Best of The Net Award; a data science/analyst techie, and a licensed Medical Laboratory Scientist. He was the winner of the 2025 Tamarack Prize, 2024 Rhonda Gail Williford Award for Poetry, and the 2021 Write About Now “Cookout” Literary Prize. He has works published or forthcoming at The Fourth River, Consequence Forum, Arc Poetry, among others. He tweets @wordpottersull1. ︎ @nwugurusullivan︎&nbsp;@wordpottersull1︎ Chidiebere Sullivan Nwuguru <img width="739" height="771" width_o="739" height_o="771" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/f0d216caff5b1d2baa3d6c91389fdc8ff4c4ac3e7940fd6552da0e9a5234f9d9/Jazz.png" data-mid="247754666" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/739/i/f0d216caff5b1d2baa3d6c91389fdc8ff4c4ac3e7940fd6552da0e9a5234f9d9/Jazz.png" /> Artist’s Bio I’m the person you picture when you imagine an artist – seated quietly in the corner, watching with my observant artist’s eye while I sketch my latest creation. I've been an artist since I could walk; I've been a graphic designer since I obtained a copy of Photoshop CS3, and I've have the passion and creativity in me since the day I was born. I look forward to using my creative skills to help or bring joy to others on a daily basis. ︎ @jasmine.nicole.x︎&nbsp; jazzgraphics.myportfolio.com ︎ https://plantinmag.com/Letters-from-In-Between Fri, 01 May 2026 14:56:21 +0000 Plantin https://plantinmag.com/Letters-from-In-Between ︎ Next Story Previous Story Letters from In-Between &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Written by Jaci Tahir Palm&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; Illustrated by Camille Gomera-Tavarez&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Est. Reading Time: 15 min&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Dear friend, &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; When I first saw it for myself in person, I was equally humbled as I was in awe; for I lived my life previously in rejection of grandeur, that same quality and approach that brought our lush-green home to a subdued defeat of grey---a fate in which we owe directly to such grandeur. Yet still, as I laid my eyes upon the rough wall of the Fifi’s Cave, the strength of its name found its weight in me. Not in my heart, not my brain nor my soul, but somewhere else in between, where its presence proved impossible to ignore. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Stretching nearly ten times my height, and even taller as I got closer---clear engravings that at one point, long before my friends, mothers, aunts, and cousins; and long before their mothers, aunts and grandaunts, ordinary people of our kin consulted this grandeur as the sole guide of every and all things. And now here I was years later, alone. And then the weight pushed down further into that in-between-place, and I finally understood. I finally understood what it meant to be alone yet somehow, kept firmly in company by everyone whose path I had followed, whose ground I shared, whose stories I’ve sung. All this, because of a 5-pointed circle, an inscription of a message, followed by indecipherable scribings below it. All of this, grand revelation inaccessible, yet hidden it remained, barricaded in that in-between place. Thus, I returned to the only source of guidance I could think of that didn’t come in the form of gravestones or old clothing stashed in vacuum sealed boxes; these were last-resort options for our then-ending world, as if the final particles of scent preserved in those boxes would give us, would give me, one final realization, or at the very least, some closure. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; I remember when I made my first Zemi. I believe you remember yours as well. It was the earliest memory I had, as it was for many of us. A celebration more so, it signaled not just the beginning of our memories, but also the unicum symbol of the first of our many selves to be. I dug around everywhere for it. I must have looked through each and every familiar house I’ve ever been in, all of which were dusty and messy, yet fully inhabited by the belongings that you all left behind before your flight. I was hurt, sure---I didn’t actually think you would all fly away for good, leaving all of this. But I had no use for that grief then, I kept digging and finally I found it, my very first Zemi. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; It had no name, for it was always called a Zemi to everyone who had one. I carved it out of clay, using the two colors I had to distinguish its circular face from its pointy 3-spike hair. For eyes, I used the shavings of crayons, colored pencils and any other finely ground remains I could find---and there it was. My own little, me. When my mother was still around she would tell me that the Zemi was the vehicle to the next world---that it didn’t matter what happened on Earth, our Zemi would be our tunnel, our stairway; or any of the numerous allusions she made. But I never thought my mother’s Zemi, as well as that of nearly every other elder, would be with invisible wings, as though they were never here, leaving no traces of movement, but stagnation in the form of belongings. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; That next world, drawn in several icons on Fifi’s Cave wall, repeated to me by my mother and repeated to her by hers, could not have been more different than the reality outside the stagnant houses. Below the 5-pointed circle, the only piece of text whose decryption survived, read as follows: &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; The Zemi of all shall be the only thing you take with you, as will be the vehicle to this next world, where you will reunite with the origin, and all descended from it.Live the life of the White-horned horse, and you shall be ready &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Live the life of the majestic red-beaked Wara-Wara, and you shall be prepared Be the spores of the translucent Coral Mushroom Live among the graceful bees&nbsp; and rest your eyes Behind sky-light scales Of egg-shell veils &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; And below, meters and meters of undeciphered instruction, of which I spent my last years of Earth attempting to crack, until finally I decided I ought to write this letter, for you, to help you, dear friend and reader, if you should meet the same fate as I. I added more and more to my Zemi, following whatever I could find from the sacred instructions, but nothing seemed to change, no flight was taken with my absent wings; no passage opened for my gallops, and no glimpse of this next world gave audience to me. I remembered feeling defeated after every attempt---each time more defeated than the last; and surprisingly, after years of attempts, a part of me---in that in-between place, lit up with hopeful excitement just before repeating the deciphered sayings. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; My last unsuccessful attempt at flight back then, brought a resemblance of 15 years prior, just before the rest of you all took your journeys, and I decided to abandon grandeur for good, and with, leaving behind its relics. My mother told me, the day before her flight, that the Zemi is sacred and I should protect it with all I have---and in return, it will protect me. “If you are scared, just remember it’s there with you.” She would say. But back then, back when I carried it with me everywhere---to the school playground hidden in my backpack, to the bathroom, to the kitchen during dinner, to the birthday parties, weddings, funerals, holidays, and all everywhere else that felt foreign, the fear never left. It didn’t leave when I crossed the deafening streets of the central town on the way home; it didn’t leave, even in the peaceful serenity of silent dusk at the Fifi Avenue Park; in which the monocult of fresh-cut grass surrounded our people’s second-most sacred relic: the statue of Fifi and his Zemi. But no, the fear remained, and as much as I protested against my mother, all that came to a halt once I saw the regality and reverence of the town Mayor disappear, when laughter accompanied his decision to remove Fifi’s sculptor. Only in that memory then, I understood; that the reason I was still scared was not because our Zemis weren’t strong enough, but because this land of ours was no longer ours; and we were condemned to be scared, for as long as its defilers remained laughing. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Upon this realization, I placed my nearly-unrecognizable Zemi on the floor, and took a walk outside, deciding I had given up trying to escape this world that wasn’t my own. I took a walk, just before dawn and I swore never to attempt to fly again. But what was left now of the grey metropole? I walked and pondered, crossing far past the inner ridge of the Greenwald Public Park, once-named The Janisyatoko Forest, named after the Janisya’s, who for long had been kin to our own. I came upon an open field, where the wind was determined to keep me held in place and observe its might. When a low rumbling sound travelled in my direction from a distance, I caught sight of a single, white horse gliding through the field effortlessly; it was both cathartically vigorous and stoically submissive to the blows---surrendering not just to its unrelenting force, but to the resilience of the field itself. I felt a deep respect for the field, even though its ground had once housed the many creatures and crops that held their place in nostalgia. I digressed; the same ground it still was, whatever happens, the same ground it will remain. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; I crossed through the field and reached the outer edge where a small hill led up to the Winwood View, once named, Zikinza’s Hair, after our folk hero’s prolifically sandy hair, of which was said to bring him shapeshifting abilities---and a quality in which ascribed all harmony between creatures, and whose name we honor, when we respect a life sacrificed for food, or a life taken as sacrifice for that of another’s. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; A sudden peace came upon me, and as I stood there at the top of the hill, and imagined myself as our folk-hero’s most prominent manifestation: the majestic Wara Wara. The wind that high was somehow less forceful, less intimidating. Instead, it whistled a tune---and a tune it surely was; as though a symphony was performed, though not with me as its audience, but rather as its medium, much like how to concaves of a woodwind are not instruments on their own, but the only mechanism that allows its sound to take life. That feeling within me, in that in-between place, lit up once more. How was it that I had hope? What was the message? Certainly not to try another attempt at flight---that was long past. This was something else, a sensation that remained firm and unrelenting, staying with me well after I walked down from the hill; but not before I took a deep breath, embracing all that Zikinza’s Hair had to offer, and I felt it; somehow, I had felt it without even being able to place it in words---but alas, there it was, and there it remained. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; On my way down the hill, I saw in the distance a glimmer---the salty coast of Akrisuku, a name known to all of us as one of our wonders. Said to bring direction to the lost travellers around the forest, Akrisuku would hear the call of a traveller before they made any sound, and whether the moonlight had been dim or vibrant, it reflected against the salt---which aimed its glimmering rays back to the lost path of traveller. Lost--I certainly was not, but I heard a call, which I thought was perhaps the same whistle from the hill, until I realized this sound was sharpened by the low vibration of a bee colony, who trailed behind me with a patient distance---moving when I moved, stopping when I stopped. So they joined me to the glimmer, and even joined me on the rough coastal floor whose off-white calcified stones struck my face with a dense beam. As my eyes adjusted, I noticed the bees grew quieter and quieter, making room for both the whistling of Zikinza’s Hair, as well as the rhythmic gallops of the lone white horse. They spoke, and the language I could understand but could not repeat or recreate---for it had come from that in-between place, lodged within the mothers of my fathers, and the theirs before them, each were there, right there with me, and I finally wept, and realized how long it had been since granting myself that---for fear that the cause of their trickles would be too heavy to remain neatly contained in individual drops, but would turn into a rough sea; heavy I thought it would be, to remember my home and the absence of what made it my home---such a speculation was an ocean of tears awaiting my voyage, of which I believed it would be too late to return once I surrendered to it. But instead, my tears stirred themselves with gentle and welcoming strides; tears not of grief, but of celebration, for I had finally heard what you and the rest of our ancestors have been speaking all this time. Finally, I had understood the awe of Fifi’s Cave, and the instructions they sought to give. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; I dove into the salty sea of Akrisuku, floating effortlessly, held gently in place by the hands of my kin and their kin before them. With my streaming-tears aimed directly up towards the grey sky, I began trembling in anticipation, excitement---feeling as though the blood in my body had disappeared, leaving behind the distinction of ocean, air, and I---and I had now been one part of the glimpse I saw up there in the sky; a grey that had slowly dissipated into a warm hue of that next world. But I was not ready yet, so I sank down into the sea, dropping all contact with the whistles, gallops and hums of my companions, and introduced myself to a new set of friendly ears. One, whose spores shone bright red along its dark-green, rough exterior. I needed not to touch it, for before I even thought to reach my hand out, it held out its own and told me what I could only understand as “I missed you.” And I knew instantly that I had missed them too. I sank lower and lower, until the Coral Mushroom’s red spores escaped the light rays from above, and turned away into itself, leaving only a translucent trace---one that was both present and absent, as if to say, I will protect you---and I will be here when you need me, and gone when you need me not. Words that echoed into me; into that in-between place where once long ago, a dear friend of mine I called my Zemi, offered that very same comfort. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; I was ready now, for that next world--Amongst the egg-shell veil of the ocean, I had returned, or perhaps I had finally arrived, at the prophesied land of our folk, and as bits and pieces of the surroundings turned to conflations and contortions of the old world, I began to see the future, and brought with it the warmth of my home, of our home. I write this letter to you, unknown reader, to remind you of our story, of our people. I am writing to you, in words perhaps undecipherable to you now, but they will not remain so, for one day you will embrace me as I embrace you, and on that day, you will be prepared. And on that day, we shall reunite. On that day, you will arrive as I did long ago: safe and sound. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &lt;&gt; &nbsp; -- Published May 1, 2026 This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. <img width="739" height="771" width_o="739" height_o="771" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/fb6878b16fb82e4440d6530706ef48a6a9fd4cc4532ff4582284c702848d7bde/Jaci.png" data-mid="247771062" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/739/i/fb6878b16fb82e4440d6530706ef48a6a9fd4cc4532ff4582284c702848d7bde/Jaci.png" /> Author’s Bio Jaci Tahir Palm is a writer from Curaçao focused on speculative fiction, magical realism, and afrofuturism. ︎ @jacixp ︎awawrites.substack.com ︎