The Black Bonnet Girls

Her childhood brush with the soft bristles laid overturned on the bathroom’s titled floor—coiled strands of oily black hair .

Behind the vertical bars, through the narrow gaps, I see a glimpse of who I could be — should be.  Eyes closed, the weight of my head res

Looking up now, I wondered what he saw that convinced him that way was the way — which cloud was responsible for leading him astray?

hen someone you love dies, they say you see them in everything: from the chipped coffee mug to the toothbrush with the worn bristles or even

“Why did I have to be a girl?” I grumbled, arms crossed tight against my chest, wincing as Mama combed out yet another nasty tangle in my ha

Every Sunday, my younger sister Nichelle would wedge herself between my legs, ready for our ritual—me styling her 4C hair into whatever new look she found online. She’d flinch as the wide-tooth comb worked through stubborn knots, her silky black bonnet waiting for the final touch. These moments were more than hair—they were our time to talk. She’d bring up people and memories I wasn’t ready to revisit, like Terrance.

None of them needed to express why they were here using distorted rhetoric, honey-coated lips, or any of the complex words they learned...