Chicken Little and The Carrion Crow (the Introduction)
Thursday, September 21, 2017
Chicken Little: Haunted Blood (An Urban Story) Vol. 1; Part 2
copyright K. Omodele 2016
The minute Glass' gun popped out, I realized - we got set up, plain and simple. How they, and them alone, get guns up in The Turntable?
Then, soon as Mongrel grabbed the tool from out coward-rass Glass' hand, Bull got low and dashed for the bar. That man dove head-first like some Olympic diver, clear over the counter. And the same time Bull moved right, me, Doc, English and them girls took off to the left. Which exposed Shortman with that half-built spliff in his hand.
He looked up but it was too late. With his back against the wall, all he could do was duck as Mongrel and Boo aimed at him.
Then the shots thundered. BADAP! BADAP! BADAP! BRAP! BRAP!
Over and over, booming over the music, 'til even the music stopped dead.
Then, all you could hear was shots. BLAM! BLAM! BRAM!
People scrambled for the door. No screaming, just silent, frantic like ants. I turned sideways, squeezing myself behind a skinny post that couldn't be no more than six-inch wide. Buddy-bye and Mammal ducked behind two tables. Doc and English and the rest of them? I didn't even see where they'd run and gone.
Shortman was taking shots. He tried to run, but the shots penetrated, twisted and turned his body, like he doing the Rocking Dolly. Then he dropped, his navy-blue Sergio Techini sweat suit turning black with blood.
Then, all of a sudden, the shots stopped. Them dutty niggas backed up a couple steps, looked around like they snap out a daze. Boo turned and dumped two shots into the bar before all of them ran to the door, guns held high. Before they exited, Mongrel swerved his tool around, threatening.
Then they were gone.
Two, maybe three minutes; that's how quick the whole bangarang played out - from the time Bull pointed them out to the moment they hauled rass out the door. Later, Shortman said that the first time he noticed something wrong was the instant Bull started yapping with Glass. Everything after that was a blur to him.
Looking back, it seemed longer; but that's because I remember every little thing. I don't panic, even in the middle of chaos. It don't matter if it feels like you stewing in a pressure cooker, you can't allow your emotions to swallow you up.
With them fools gone, the remnants re-surfaced from various crevices and corners. A set of girls ran out babbling, down from the DJ booth. My ears were buzzing and my eyes and nose were runny from all the lingering gun smoke.
I instructed myself: settle down! Find the crew! Don't rush outside into another ambush like some lamb to a slaughter! I looked around the dancehall carefully.
English, Doc, Mammal and Buddy-bye gathered round and I saw adrenalin pumping through their temples and flaring open their nostrils. Bull stomped over from behind the bar and we began searching for Shortman, but couldn't find him on the floor.
The Women's bathroom door was wide open so, slowly, we peered in.
The dingy-white and black tiles had a path of smeared blood leading to a stall. Three girls squeezed together by a sink, flinching when they saw us. One of them hollered out.
"He crawled in deh. He in there!" Pointed at the stall.
Shortman was curled up, hugging the toilet like salvation. His head propped awkward on the side of the bowl, his torso tensed. He was dry-heaving and his sweatshirt was soggy wet. His footballer's legs lay sprawled like some pick-up stix. When Bull pried his arms from the toilet and pulled him out the stall, Shortman had tears streaming down his face but he wasn't crying; his eyes just shifted looking around the bathroom.
I knew exactly what he was thinking - we got set up.
Bull grinded his teeth hard like he was chewing wire.
Shortman gurgled. "Water. Thirsty." He struggled to breathe. "Gimmie some water." His teeth pink with blood and slobber.
Suddenly, sirens wailed and someone yelled.
Everybody with us turned to exit, except Shortman, of course. Half of we had warrants, the other half, illegal; so, none of us wanted to take a check. As we filed out the bathroom, fire fighters streamed through Turntable's front door, followed by a gang of police and EMS.
I pulled my Kangol brim low over my brows and walked out, calm and natural, right past them. I kept thinking, don't freeze up. Don't look away but at the same time, don't stare at nobody! That ole crow see fear, it will take set and prey on you; might make this a longer, colder, sitting-behind-bars night.
At the door I turned and saw them people lift Shortman out the restroom and lay him on the floor in front Bob Marley, smiling with his guitar. I wondered what Bob might've been singing - Woman hold her head and cry??
The EMS converged on Shortman like a pack of wild dogs and cut his pants off him.
I stepped into the night and the air slapped me in the face. A news camera's light blinded me. I looked down, brim down; said nothing, just kissed my teeth and sidestepped the bag of excitement. I darted down the alley to where I'd parked round behind the nightclub. Bull had done cranked up his whip and had pulled beside my beamer, waiting. D.C. was bout to run red. Board box under ground by time we done.
The Harshness had stolen our night.
COMING SOON: Haunted Blood - Volume 2 (Chicken Little Sagas Continue)
Read the preceding episodes:
Chicken Little and The Carrion Crow (the Introduction)
*(this is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons or situations are coincidental and unintended)
Wednesday, September 20, 2017
Garvey’s Ghost, written by Jamaican author Geoffrey Philp, was launched on Wednesday, August 16, 2017 at the Jamaica Pegasus Hotel, accompanying the birthday celebration of Jamaica's first national hero, the Right and Honorable Marcus Mosiah Garvey.
So, Geoffrey, Marcus Garvey as a literary muse is such an intriguing and revolutionary concept. What did you hope to achieve by intertwining Garvey's principles in your story theme and plot?
I grew up listening to the lyrics of Bob Marley, Peter Tosh, Culture, Steel Pulse, Fred Locks, and Burning Spear, who used the life and work of Marcus Garvey as an inspiration for their
songs. I would also like to think that I am following in the tradition of writers such as Claude McKay, Zora Neale Hurston, and Ralph Ellison, whose poems, novels, and short stories were influenced by Garvey's message.
What do you think it is about Garvey that continues to captivate us 130 years after his birth?
Garvey's work continues to captivate us because of his message of redemption. Even a cursory reading of The Philosophy and Opinions of Marcus Garvey will reveal the genius of
Garvey and his message of hope.
How was the writing process different for this book?
Revisions and revisions and revisions. It took me twenty years and one million rewrites before Garvey's Ghost was finally published. I've never had to go through such a long wait for any of my books to be published.
What has been the most rewarding aspect of writing and publishing Garvey's Ghost?
During the launch in Jamaica, it was good to see the reactions of friends that I've known since primary school, and new readers of my work. Marcus Garvey opened those doors for me and
I give thanks.
What has been the general response to your book?
The response has been tremendous--better than I had expected because I thought that only Garveyites I would be interested in the novel.
I was wrong.
Because the plot revolves around
a mother’s search for her missing daughter and is told primarily form her point of view, I think I have gained a few more female readers of my work. The audience at the launch confirmed that for me.
Any parting words?
I have been getting hints from the publisher that they are trying to get Garvey’s Ghost into the schools in Jamaica. I hope they will be successful because Garvey's message of hope and
his strategies for our “emancipation from mental slavery,” are needed now more than ever.
Born in Jamaica, Geoffrey Philp is the author of the novel, Garvey’s Ghost and the children’s book, Marcus and the Amazons. His work has been published in the Oxford Book of Caribbean Short Stories and the Oxford Book of Caribbean Verse. A graduate of the University of Miami, Geoffrey teaches English and creative writing at Miami Dade College.
Garvey’s Ghost is the first book under Carlong’s newest imprint, Expressions, that responds to the need for quality reading material written by Caribbean authors for teens and young adults.
Additionally, this year is the 130th anniversary of the birth of Marcus Garvey and, to mark this milestone, Liberty Hall: The Legacy of Marcus Garvey and the Jamaica Music Museum (JaMM), departments of the Institute of Jamaica, collaborated to host a series of events under the theme, “Garvey as Literary Muse”.
The Expressions series was conceptualized with the aim of capturing the interest and imagination of youths (ages 14-20 years) across the
Caribbean. It is Carlong’s response to the need for more wholesome reading material that is written by Caribbean authors and focuses on Caribbean life, morals, values and attitudes, as well as other themes.
Carlong Publishers publishes, markets and distributes textbooks that support Caribbean curricula at the early childhood, primary, secondary and post-secondary levels.
📍 Sangster's Book Store (Jamaica)
📍 Kingston Bookshop (Jamaica)
📍 Online - http://ow.ly/uGoB30f9OKS
📍 Kingston Bookshop (Jamaica)
📍 Online - http://ow.ly/uGoB30f9OKS
Thursday, September 7, 2017
Culture and Tradition are Key to Agricultural Development
Copyright 2017 Kentake Malopenza
"You measure a people's potential for liberation based on how different their culture is from their oppressors."
The root cause of trauma and sickness comes from ones commitment to defending a culture that is not their OWN. Living a foreign and alien culture while you despise and condemn your own is simply MENTACIDE (mental insanity). We have been running away from the truth for so long that many of us now think the lies we have been telling ourselves are actually true. But any philosophy that teaches a nation of people to reject their own ancestors and heritage in favor of those who oppress them is a mindset that will surely destroy them and their future generations. We can look at our global Afurakan nations today, all over the world, from the Continent to the Caribbean as well as South and Central America, and we will see that we share a similar lifestyle, culture and value system. We are also facing the same challenges, conflicts and issues regardless of where we may be in the world, or what language we speak in the country of our residence. This tells us that melanated people are truly one divine family and it is our ignorance of that fact that leaves us as easy targets for others to be able to manipulate and control, both us and our resources.
The greatest wealth we have is our indigenous land and it is interesting as well that the term agriculture, which speaks directly to the cultivation and care for ones' land, has the term culture within it. Agriculture is properly defined as:
The practice of tending and caring for the land is slowly becoming an abandoned way of life because we are on the road to fully embracing westernization and capitalism; we are chasing an unrealistic dream that we ourselves know is not real. Our ancestors passed down many ancient spiritual and social values and principles to us that provide rules and regulations of how we must tend and care for our land, but if we don't have any awareness of what those values are then how can we enforce them?
Many of these codes of morality and social values of communal responsibility are considered law and order within the traditions of our ancestors. But many of us look down upon our indigenous traditions with disgust and shame, as if those ways of life are useless and un-necessary to us now because we feel we have 'arrived' and we have 'moved up' the ladder of success in the mainstream european world.
|Sounding The Abeng|
Then these same yurugu come back to the west and write books on our culture and traditions with the help and assistance of the elders they learned from and we buy those books not knowing that we are financing our own oppression.
As much as we condemn Europeans for their systematic cultural appropriation, we have to look at our own reflection in the mirror and come to terms with the ways in which we assist and encourage our own oppression, by standing idly as others steal our culture and laugh in our face as they are doing it. All the while we are downgrading ourselves calling our heritage and tradition "archaic", "primitive", "evil", "wicked", "outdated" and "backwards".
Meanwhile they are running all over the Continent, especially Nigeria and Benin as well as the Caribbean and South America learning and studying everything that we were taught to reject and they are paying millions of dollars for it too.
But yet many of YOU will say that our traditions are archaic and have no value in a modern world. Please also remember that our collective honorable ancestors utilized the power within our "outdated" and "backwards" traditions in order to free us from the bondage of slavery and colonization. Please also don't forget that next time you decide to condemn your ancestors for fighting for you to be free from mental and physical bondage. We must all keep in mind: that which we don't claim as our OWN can easily be stolen from us and given a new name and identity. Then, our children will have been robbed of their heritage, which is happening right now in many parts of the world.
Will we only value our traditions when they are open and welcoming to all other races? Or after they have been stolen and recreated to suit another image and identity?? And if so what does that say about what we really think of ourselves? There is no greater enemy to us than the sickness of self hatred. We must always remember that. Ase ooo.
"the science or practice of farming, including cultivation of the soil for the growing of crops and the rearing of animals to provide food, wool, and other products."
Prosperity and wealth have always been tied to land ownership, agriculture and the passing down of ancestral tradition and family heritage for generations. This is the true meaning of success: people must know how to maintain economic and state power. No one with common sense would willingly abandon the traditions of their own ancestors, knowing that these are tied to their future success and prosperity. So why do Afurakan people do that? Do we lack common sense?
But interestingly enough, the european doesn't think so at all. They desperately want to claim and take full ownership of the parts of our culture, tradition and heritage that they know we are ashamed of because they taught us to reject it and now we follow their orders centuries later with no need for it to be reinforced.
advocate, mother, writer and entrepreneur who enjoys doing in depth study and research on ancient Afurakan cosmology, precolonial Caribbean culture, Maroon history. Afro-Caribbean spiritual traditions and ancestral philosophies from around the global melanated world. She has travelled extensively from West Afuraka to the Caribbean, in order to reconnect with her heritage and extended family. She is also the founder and director of Akoma Ntoaso Tours which is a grassroots tours incentive that educates people about the Jamaica's indigenous culture and ancestral heritage.
You can contact Akoma Tours at www.akomatours.yolasite.com
You can contact Akoma Tours at www.akomatours.yolasite.com
Sunday, July 23, 2017
Saturday, July 22, 2017
Friday, March 17, 2017
Greetings writers and bloggers!
The Abeng and My Conscious Pen is seeking short stories, news reports, articles, profiles and essays from the Black (African) Diaspora. Pieces/work must shed light on the black experience, its struggles and triumphs. Content must be informative, enlightening, inspirational and engaging; writers must express and reveal the human condition. Please keep in mind that an Abeng is a symbol of freedom and Conscious Pen refers to the writer's inward awareness (spiritual, conscientious, psychological) of the outward/worldly object or experience about which he/she is writing.
We are looking for global voices from writers and/or bloggers who wish to utilize our platform so their voices can be heard. Please send submissions to firstname.lastname@example.org
Bless up; don't stress up!
*The Abeng and My Conscious Pen does not currently purchase content; if chosen, your work can serve as a published article for your personal portfolio and each writer WILL retain ALL copyrights. Full credit will be given for your writing.
You can also query email@example.com about being a regular contributor. Regular contributing writers will be given a profile on our page.
Tuesday, February 28, 2017
Interview by Kaya Omodele @TheAbeng
Read Part One of This Bah-Pna profile here
"This tournament was first and foremost a celebration of Blacks at its best on the French soil - a country that owes its freedom to the blood of black soldiers from Africa, America and the Caribbean." ~ Bah-Pna Dahane
Bah-Pna, Ralph 'Big Poppa' Greene and rookie Anthony William Parker
@TheAbeng: Greetings, Bah-Pna. Your reason for keeping the Quai54, Paris tournament a creation and production by Blacks was very Garveyite in principle. What was the biggest challenge you faced in respect to maintaining this goal?
BPD: Hi Kaya. No one knew it was based on Garveyite principle. That was a secret I kept within myself. With French people, you have to be subtle like them. Now after all these years they look back and realize that they had the impression of controlling something. Like Mandela said. "Lead them from the back - and let others believe they are in front."
BPD: I listen to everything. Music is music, but the music most associated with basketball is hip-hop. I am not a very big fan of hip-hop per se. It's a music that has lost its core due to mercantilism. It became less educational and [mostly] entertainment. Today's hip-hop has killed black culture.
@TheAbeng: You have a point. By the way, did you know that the second verse of Redemption Song are words from a Marcus Garvey speech: "Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery...?"
BPD: I guess most of us grew up with Bob Marley's song and learned a lot from Marcus Garvey and Malcolm X's life as well. Malcolm X, who, as you know was a Garveyite, his father was also a Garveyite and most of Malcolm X's teachings were from Marcus Garvey.
@TheAbeng: Yeah, Man. So, which authors have you been reading lately?
BPD: The last three in December were Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Chinuah Achebe and Toni Morrison
@TheAbeng: How can we get young brothers and sisters in the black Diaspora to place more value in books (reading) than bling and sneakers?
BPD: It should start at home and we must learn what delayed gratification is all about. Bling-bling and sneakers is a way to be accepted because most of us are lost. Most of us blacks from the Diaspora are losing our roots and essence of being African and proud; therefore we fall into consumerism. We are willing to pa $200 for sneakers that cost $5 to make in China but wont put $20 in a book that will awaken us. Now we wake up and we see that those same Chinese, who make the $5 Jordan that Blacks are lining up to buy, are on the continent controlling our economy...
@TheAbeng: Jah Bless, Bredren. I thank you sincerely for this reasoning and your time.
BPD: Thank you Kaya
If you didn't read the first the first part of this interview catch the Bah-Pna Feature Profile here
If you didn't read the first the first part of this interview catch the Bah-Pna Feature Profile here
Monday, February 27, 2017
by Kaya Omodele
Don't get it twisted and damn what you heard: Bah-Pna Dahane is the originator, the fire-blazing creator of Quai54, Paris, France's super-eminent street basketball tournament. Period. Born in Chad, Bah-Pna grew up in Lyon, France balling on various courts - swinging tennis racquets and shooting hoops. His love for sports would eventually lead him to earn a Masters degree in International Business and Marketing (he minored in Black Studies and Political Science) from Portland State University in Oregon in 1999. Education prepared Bah-Pna for the corporate sports marketing world and he's travelled extensively; but no matter where in the world his ventures take him, this brother is constantly sounding the Abeng, voicing out against racism wherever he finds it. Armed with the knowledge and spirit of Marcus Garvey, the brother reaches out regularly to uplift the consciousness of brothers and sisters around the Black (African) Diaspora. Such was the case when he envisioned Quai54, Paris.
"France's Racism is different than the United States'; France's racism is more subtle...like a gas you can't smell but will kill you slowly from the inside."~ Bah-Pna
Being naturally athletic, at eleven years old Bah-Pna was selected as one of Lyon's best, budding tennis players and was awarded membership at an exclusive tennis club. That same year, he discovered the works of Nelson Mandela and also met French Open Champion Yannick Noah; both made big impressions on the Youth."Being the only black kid at the tennis club, I will never forget the special attention Yannick Noah gave me. That day in 1986, when he left us he waved good-bye to everyone, except me. He shook my hand, entered his car and winked at me before leaving."
This experience sowed the seed of giving back to his community that would later blossom beautifully in Bah-Pna's life.
Not long after, Bah-Pna developed a burning passion for basketball, which opened him to politically-conscious hip-hop and in turn, exposed him to film-maker Spike Lee's work, for which he has deep, long-lasting respect. Bah-Pna insists that after seeing Do The Right Thing, one can't help but be politically conscious.
As a young man in France, he promptly scrutinized any corporate staff he found short on black employees and executives. The brother blatantly refused to work for or support those companies where he found little or no blacks in the work force.
"I felt the same way as Bugging Out in Do The Right Thing. Where are black people besides the security guards?...
"You feel outraged when you are regularly referred [to] as 'black, but not like other blacks.' In France that statement means you are a sell-out, actually!"
Like many black, inner-city youth, Bah-Pna spent long hours practicing on basketball courts with dreams of making it to the NBA. It was during one of these sessions in 1995, the very day he realized his dream of playing in the League was falling short, that he linked up with Philippe Morin. The Nike executive was promoting the Nike Raid Outdoor Tournament, which duplicated the theme of Spike Lee's Urban Jungle sneaker commercial. Since Bah-Pna had an already growing admiration for Spike, he was naturally drawn to the project.
|Bah-Pna balling with Tim Hardaway|
"I teamed up with Nike France only because the Nike Raid Outdoor Tournament was inspired by Spike Lee's Urban Jungle court featuring Tim Hardaway...
"...most importantly for many of us who grew up with the knowledge of Marcus Garvey, we were proud that the pan-African [flag] colors were showing up on the Raid Outdoor sneakers. Growing up with conscious rap music, we blacks from the African Diaspora living in France had a voice and we were able to back it up with the history lessons coming from rap artists like Public Enemy...In most schools in France, we weren't taught about our real history, so those conscious rap artists influenced us to go to the libraries in order to build and strengthen our pride as human beings and people of black origin."
Working in sports marketing with Nike France led to future projects such as the Nike Euro Camp where Bah-Pna worked under the legendary Hall of Fame basketball coach George Raveling in 1997. By the time the Nike Battleground Tournament was up and running in 2002, Bah-Pna had graduated from Portland State and was Nike France's Basketball Marketing Manager, handling all aspects of business and marketing concerning basketball; he'd already worked with Coca-Cola France as a sports marketing consultant/liaison during the FIFA World Cup '98 in France; he'd created, coordinated and promoted a charity event called SLAM ATTITUDE from which proceeds were contributed to funding Dikembe Mutombo's hospital in the Democratic Republic of Congo. All these gigs gave Bah-Pna the necessary experience and contacts, and whetted his appetite, to birth his very own tournament.
The Quai54, Paris: The Mission
"Do not follow in the footsteps of the wise; seek what they sought."~ Osho
For this natural-born activist and socially-conscious brother, creating the basketball tournament that would one day be France's biggest street ball showcase was a social vision as complex as piecing together a 1000-piece, jigsaw puzzle.
"What many may have seen as a simple basketball tournament was for me a real political statement...My goal was to engineer an event created by blacks and operated by blacks, so we could have a real, black men-made event without begging others to do it for us."
It took many months of brainstorming; he knew he wanted this tournament to be black-owned but had no theme yet in mind. Then one day in 2002, while driving through Levallois with Philippe Morin (the now former Nike executive) to meet with the Paris basketball team, they passed a basketball court that became the catalyst for Bah-Pna's epiphany.
"My first time in NY was in 1995 when I won an award to go film my amateur documentary [about] the impact of street basketball in the U.S.A. When we drove past this location in Levallois, it reminded me of New York City..."
The street basketball-theme light flicked on. Bright.
"I drove back to the same playground the next day and started taking pictures. I sat down and I laid out all my inspiration. I started drawing certain logos and promised myself this tournament would be a success the day Jordan Brand sponsors it."
Bah-Pna's major concern was that the tournament had to be black-people oriented; that it must be a beacon for self-reliance of young, black men in France, to "show the white establishment of sports authority that we were more than just sneaker consumers with a bling-bling mentality."
Teach the Youth, Bahps...Talk to them!
With his objectives loaded in his mind, Bah-Pna took careful aim of his goal. He sought out the elders in his business and personal network and soaked in the wisdom they imparted upon him.
Ralph "Big Poppa" Green delivered an email during a meeting at Nike Headquarters in the Netherlands. "Watch out for Africa," the big man said, then shared stories about NBA great Hakeem Olajuwon struggling to complete projects in Nigeria.
Howard White and Kevin "The Katalyst" Carrol both reminded young Bah-Pna to give back to the community. Always!
When Bah-Pna travelled once again to NYC, Rucker Park Tournament's Gregory Marius kicked knowledge, telling him, "Stay true to yourself and they will follow!"
"Lead them from the back; let others believe they are in front."~ Nelson Mandela
From its inception, every detail of Quai54, Paris was a result of Bah-Pna's diligence and strategic planning. He designed down to the name itself. Each component was carefully considered, then laid and stitched with deliberate purpose and meaning. For example, the name "Quai54" itself: Africa consisted of 54 independent countries; Quai means pier or port. "As many know, during the Second World War, the capital of France was in Africa for some time. Black soldiers came from all ports to defend France from the tyranny of Nazism."
Bah-Pna kept tight focus on his mission and goal when he sought initial sponsorship. In his own words, he wanted to make sure the first sponsorship money would come from black-owned companies, and the remainder by anyone who believed in the cause of Black excellence. He was certain that if he gathered enough sponsorship money, he'd still be able to run the tournament if he fell short of landing a major brand's support.
Once Bah-Pna had gathered everything he needed, he searched for someone to run the tournament - he needed a face, a front man. Eventually, he reached out to Philippe Saint and Jackie Blangonnet, who were both running the "Basketball en liberty" program.
"Philippe Saint was working for the French Basketball Federation. He was dealing with street basketball and was running this open gym in Paris' 13th district where everyone can go and play every day. I contacted him and told him clearly that I was looking for a young African man who loves basketball and hip-hop so he can be [my] front man."
Philippe Saint got back to Bah-Pna with the name of a player who was connected with hip-hop culture, adding that he could swing by the Porte de Choisy at the Hall Carpentier anytime after 6pm for a linkup introduction.
That's how Bah-Pna met Hammadoun Sidibe, the man who became the front man of Quai54, Paris.
"At the time I was working on the Nike Battleground [tournament] with Tony Parker and for the Nike account, so I couldn't run two events at the same time. When Mr. Saint introduced me to a fellow African [Sidibe], I explained to him that he would be the front man and all he had to do was connect the dots, the hip-hop environment and the basketball one and just carry the tournament as if it was his. All the marketing mix and connections with the officials and the brand was me, because my job at Nike opened many doors...
"It was important to me that black people take their destiny in hand even if it is a tournament."
"Hypocrites and parasites/will come up and take a bite/and if your night should turn to day/a lot of people would run away..."~Bob Marley; Who The Cap Fits
History is a carousel; there is nothing new under the sun. As was the case with Marcus Garvey's UNIA, some people only care about what they can get from a situation and so one must be careful about those he invites to his table. Like Garvey, Bah-Pna made the grave mistake of bringing the wrong, so-called African brother into his organization and giving this Judas-thief access. (Editor's Note: This man was not Hammadoun Sidibe; Bah-Pna has not revealed the name of this person to The Abeng.)
When asked why he no longer is part of a tournament he bled, sweated and shed tears over, why he didn't claim it, Bah-Pna responded.
"I had to take responsibility because the person I chose as the Chief Financial Officer ran away with the money. I had no choice than to take responsibility for the loss...
"I should have told the bank that we needed two signatures on the checks for all expenses. I didn't take care of that, so when cash from the sponsors came in, he took most of it and went back to the Motherland with his honey. Life happens, we live and learn...
"I couldn't fight my own black brothers...I decided not to argue and gave the ones I considered co-founders all of it. It was important to have this kind of reaction because we were all interdependent. I was the breadwinner at first, but without their input and connections, we wouldn't have been able to maintain the tournament all these years."
And so, without grudge or vindictive feelings, Bah-Pna relinquished his rights to Quai54.
Bah-Pna reiterates that his purpose in creating Quai54 was to show young black men in France, who believed in "the illusion of inclusion", that they could stand on their own two feet, deliver and be "accepted at our real value". He is adamant about the need for black people to hold ourselves in high esteem and value ourselves as more than consumers; that we see ourselves as creators, entrepreneurs, rulers of our own destinies.
"I wanted this tournament to create hope, so the black kids in France would find inspiration to become general managers, film makers or think in terms of becoming owners...
"Many blacks in France still have a sneaker mentality. You are more praised for the sneaker you have than the books. You are likely to find their room full of sneakers but no library with books."
Amen! Teach the Youth, Bahps; Sound di Abeng!
Read the second part to this interview
Read the second part to this interview
Tuesday, December 13, 2016
copyright K. Omodele 2016
* (This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual people or situations is purely coincidental.)
It was Doc birthnight we had come to celebrate but every last one of us was tight and frost because, for the second week in a row, the club owner- Mackie, that battyhole, had some new security enforcing people from bringing gun inside The Turntable. So that night me marched into the little match-box dance hall club hard and fast like the Dirty Dozen and posted up in front we wall.
Now when I say "our wall", I mean everybody and they mother know that every, single club night, that space up under the DJ booth balcony, from the edge of that larger-than-life Bob Marley mural over to the women's restroom -all that space is our own. It bought and paid for with sheer testosterone and gun sulfur. Whensoever we popped in, people just slide over to the side and relinquish we space. Regulars knew that; next week, a baby going born in England and he going know that. No long story; no long talk; no big fucking deal.
So, we had we backs to the wall, women's restroom 'pon we right-hand side, dance floor straight ahead. Was me, my cousin Bull, the two brothers Shortman and Doc, Brixton, Dapper, English, Bim, Mammal, Buddy-Bye, Star Boy and Trigger. Buddy-Bye bored through the crowd headed for the bar.
Bull turned 'round grinning and shouted in my ear over the music. "Wha' the fuck do Mackie? A few little shooting and now the damn Secret Service manning the door."
I didn't share the laugh. "I feel naked, no fuck." I looked around the club.
Bull did the same. "Yo, Chicken. Culture and Joe not coming?"
I shrugged. "Ever since Lyla get killed, Joe been acting certain way, like if he is the only man in the whole world raising a youth without a babymother."
"It's only couple weeks now. I feel for him; that man have some real big man responsibilities now."
I thought about it. But what about Culture and Ray-Ray and the rest of them? They don't never miss no party.
I turned to Doc. "Blessed earthday, Bredren."
Buddy-Bye resurfaced with a waitress and two wash basins full a Moet bottles on ice, plus two cases of Heineken and hot Guinness. Soon as he set them on the floor, hands plunged in and rummaged through the basin and boxes of beer. I came up with two Moet, for me and Shortman, who started crushing weed in his hand, preparing to build a spliff.
The whole crew was hyped. The spot down in Southeast was bubbling over thirty grand a day, more than triple the amount we made the first day we set up shop, which was a month before. Not bad for a set of teens - we was definitely flexing, smelling weself.
So, now we're guzzling bottles. The music was pounding, the place ram-packed with tension and swagger. The air, hot and hypnotic from ganja smoke and spilled-liquor fumes and too many black people cramped in too small a space. Girls were winding up they waistlines, riding the booming baseline with perfect timing. Knowing full-well a man's eyes would only linger on any one of them for a couple seconds, the winding competition between them girls was fierce; you hear?
But as man, we couldn't afford to turn fool over pum-pum; so real road niggas' eyes kept shiftin from predator to girl prey, like young lions scouting the savannah for enemies and food. That possie over there watching that one over there. Man under a constant state of alert.
Shortman reached across me and handed Doc the new-built, big-head spliff, then started building a next one. English roped in some girls, waving them in from off the dance floor. The music slowed to a crawl...then stopped.
Crowd movement settled.
Grammatica The Selector's voice rang out through the speakers.
"Hold tight, all massive and crew. Here comes a chune by the one-and-only Junior Reid, a brand new thing mashing up Jamdung* and Foreign. Turntable LISTEN!"
Junior Reid sing-jayed the intro:
"Moder vamp-ires of the ci-ty/ haunted blood, blo-od/ You coulda come from Rema, you coulda come from Jungle/ coulda come from Firehouse or you come from Tower Hill/ One blood, one blood, one blood..."
When the baseline dropped in, the whole dancehall nearly tear down. It was bare bedlam. Lighters flicked on, aerosol-can torches spewing flames out like some ole, spit-fire dragons. Sirens sounded, a bomb warning wailed. Now, even the lions were prancing, bouncing with gun fingers in the air, busting blanks.
I was thinking, Mackie fucking lucky he stopped we from bringing guns in here tonight, f'real. Or we woulda turn his ceiling into swiss chesses, the amount of gunshots that woulda burst for One Blood.
With the drum and bass and the Moet talking to me, plus the smell of sticky girls and sexy ganja, I was sailing higher than a frigging kite. And right about that time, Bull turned around and said to me:
"Wrangla them over there by the Galaga." He was gesturing behind him.
Soon as he said it, that ole, dutty, stinking crow cawed. Sobered me straight, right and fast. I had to rise up on my Bally boot toes to catch a glimpse over Bull shoulder but I spotted them in the corner by the video game in the back of the club. They were definitely watching us. And when our eyes locked, the four of them fanned out onto the dance floor, skanking like wasn't nothing wrong.
And that was all wrong!
They spread out, bouncing around with some random girls, but we could see them lurking - Wrangla and Glass to the left, Mongrel and Boo on the right. I'm thinking: four of them; twelve of we. Ever since Lyla get lick down right outside the club, Mackie was not skinning or grinning with security, nobody couldn't even slip by the metal detector with piece of cigarette foil paper under their clothes. So, what they could try? We had the numbers.
But then, Glass dallied through the crowd, rushing over to our wall. Off pure reflex and instinct, my gun hand dug down into my pants waist, knowing better, but still hoping to God for a miracle.
Shit! Heard that crow caw again. I definitely wasn't high no more.
Let me tell you, Bull solid like a pillar or post, so it was hard to see over and around his shoulder. Next thing I know, though, Glass was standing with his hands buried in his jacket pockets, ranting and railing off, nearly chest to chest with Bull. I couldn't hear a word for sake of the thumping music; but he was running off his mouth non-stop and I knew it was gun talk, wicked talk, cause he was screwing up his mouth like he sucking a green mango or something so. His hands were poking around in his pockets emphasizing whatever foolishness was coming out his mouth.
On my left, Doc and English inched wide. Shortman, on my right, ain't notice nothing yet and his short rass definitely couldn't see over Bull or the crowd, so he was still picking stems out the weed, preparing to roll.
And then, Mongrel and Boo squeezed through the crowded floor and drew up beside Glass, who on cue, backed a Glock .40 out his coat pocket and carried on chatting even more fuckery, going on like a real, big-pussy gyal, now that he had representation beside him.
I gripped the Moet bottle neck. Doc and English did the same.
Bull inched up, closing the gap between him and yappy-yappy mouth Glass. Which in, caught Glass in a place somewhere between disbelief and feeling disrespected. His eyes bulged with confusion.
Mongrel looked at Glass with sour disgust, spit some cuss words at him and snatched the tool right out his confederate's hand. At the same time, Boo backed out a nine millimeter. In one fluid, in-sync motion, the two of them raised the machines and aimed.
My Publishing Journey
by Kaya Omodele @TheAbeng #TheAbeng
My book The Abeng and My Conscious Pen: Cries of Redemption is now in the hands of my editor.
The challenges getting a book published while behind a prison fence are many; obstacles jump up outta darkness like duppies/jumbies in the night. A problem will inevitably roll up like some old higue wanting to suck out all your energy and joy, threatening to transform your process into a nightmare.
But don't worry! Problems are mere opportunities to find creative solutions; so, fret not thyself. The ancient Egyptians found ways to time and harness the disastrous overflowing of the Nile; they converted destructive annual flooding into irrigation from which sprang one of the world's earliest and greatest civilizations. In other words, they made sugar outta ssshhhh (shingles ;-) )
So, right about now, I'm saying "Big up!" to my very own team of ancient Egyptians:
- My editor Tynisha from Dasheen Magazine and Camelitta Ink & Co...
- My publisher Sabrina from Beneath The Surface, Publishing...
- My production manager/marketing and sales specialist Rene...
- And Midnight Express Books for helping me maintain The Abeng and My Conscious Pen platform, not to mention my sanity.
I give nuff thanks and honor, Ladies.
It takes a village, people.
Friday, November 25, 2016
Abeng Short Story
Amalaika Vs. The Council of Elders
(The Palm Wine Controversy)
copyright K. Omodele 2016
Amalaika, gazelle-like in body but dragged in spirit, chucked her son all the way to the Circle of the Council of Elders. Bursting with vexation, she beat the over-sized boy with a bamboo-cane stick as the people of the village looked on, bemused, but with sinking hearts because Amalaika's husband and her two older sons had been captured and herded away with a dozen others, most likely to the slave fort hundreds of miles to the south. So, all that was left of Amalaika's family was a young daughter and this degge-degge, thirteen-year old son.
Breathing heavy and fast, the woman shoved the dirt-crusted boy to stand and face the elders. She addressed the council.
"Greetings Elders. This one will not stop drinking - he is a drunk." She wrinkled her nose.
The leader of the council was a bald, creaky-limbed man who nevertheless harnessed the presence of a growling leopard within him.
"Woman, this man-child will be initiating rites of passage soon."
"Yes, Baba." She straightened her back. Folded her lips in a fit of restraint.
"Boys will be boys. One rotten fruit now and then will not kill monkey," the council leader said, dismissively.
"Baba, he thinks he is a man but he does not hunt; does not bring food. All he wants to do is drink palm wine, day and night."
The boy dug his chin into his chest. He didn't move or look up; not even a twitch nor hint of protest.
Amalaika pleaded. "Wise One, if YOU tell him to stop drinking, he will obey. He will have to stop."
The council leader assessed the mother. HMMMMPPPH!
Then the whole Council of Elders roped in together, grumbled amongst themselves for a moment or two, then broke their huddle.
The Wise One's voice waded through a swamp of pity.
"Woman bring the boy in seven days. I will personally take care of this matter, then."
Amalaika grabbed her son by the back of the neck like a lioness transporting her cub, and lashed him homeward with the bamboo-cane stick.
Seven days staggered by; then finally, Amalaika, pepped with anticipation, brought her son back before the council.
The boy once again dug his chin into his chest.
The Wise One growled. "Look at me when I speak to you!"
The boy looked up, head still partially bowed.
Now the old man roared. "DON'T DRINK ANY MORE PALM WINE!"
The boy shivered, nodding. "Yes Wise One." Then, he backed away.
The council nodded and grinned, clearly pleased with themselves.
Amalaika stood still, grilling the council over coals of bewilderment.
"Is that all?"
The Wise One turned to her. "Yes...What more is warranted?"
"But you could have told him that seven days ago."
One of the Elders held up his palm. "Woman, you challenge the council?"
Shaking his head, the Wise One drew the man back and then told Amalaika.
"Seven days ago I was also drinking palm wine."
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