Dystopia, IRL

Parable of the Sower (1993). The Wilderness (2025). Assata (1987).

One, a dystopia set in what is now present day. The second, a searing contemporary reflection of how we somehow manage to balance light heartedness and impending doom. And third, a stark reminder that the doom is not impending, nor has it already befallen us, rather, it is our very foundation.

The doom is what forced Assata to exile, it’s what colored Octavia’s imagination of a world in which the doom would no longer be deniable, and it’s also what impelled a reality in which revolution sometimes looks like joy and sometimes looks like just getting by and sometimes looks like the wilderness that Angela so beautifully and accurately conjured.

The Wilderness explores adulting through its many phases: life and love, birth and death, friendship and romance. All of these against the backdrop of a burning world and a crumbling empire, our very own IRL dystopia.

In our world, the language of dystopia flows through our daily conversations. Talk of wildfires at dinner with friends and kettling during coffee break in the office kitchen, or more likely when you linger on the zoom with your work bestie.

This is the world we know. Assata and Parable of the Sower remind us that this is the world we’ve always known. Despite the growing discomforts, nothing feels quite like home more than the status quo.

This doom has been looming overhead for generations. Dark, imposing storm clouds, mollifying our outrage by occasionally shapeshifting into a light fog, easing our fears of a flood while never quite clearing our vision. But little did we know, it’s actually us who control the weather. Our compassion the sun, our empathy the blue skies, our love the key to a beautiful day.

Parable of the Sower (1993). The Wilderness (2025). Assata (1987). I wasn’t sure what led me to read these three books one after the other. But, whatever or whoever, I’m grateful for the reminder that while death is certain, it doesn’t have to be imminent. We decide if the sun will shine on only a select few or if it will warm all of humanity.

Signed,

N.A.

What Francia Márquez Reminded Me About Black Women’s Activism

Almost two years ago, I wrote an article about how newly elected Colombian vice president Francia Márquez would be great news for human rights. Yesterday, I was honored and delighted to be in the room as she addressed a group of Afro-descendant land and territory defenders from across Latin America and the Caribbean; and I was nothing short of impressed.

To be completely honest, the article I wrote two years ago was quite diplomatic. I was writing it for publication on my employer’s website, so I had to keep it cute. I praised her resume of work and her previous accolades, I connected her issues to the ones we worked on, and I kept it pushing. If anything, I just wanted to mark the history books with a subtle, don’t say I never said anything.

But what I felt at the time and didn’t say, and what I felt yesterday in her presence, is that regardless of the restrictions of executive office, Francia Márquez is the type of dark-skinned, Black woman, get shit done (dare I say radical), grassroots activist that gives white supremacist systems a run for their money.

Last week, I was telling a friend how excited I was that I might get a chance to meet Colombia’s first Black woman vice president. My friend, unfamiliar with Colombian politics, replied, “oh, she’s like our Kamala.” “Absolutely not!” I explained, “She was never a prosecutor, she came from grassroots movements, she actually cares about her people.” Francia Márquez is not the type of Black woman that makes representation seem nominal or visual only, Francia Marquez is in the league with the likes of Fannie Lou Hamer and Lélia Gonzalez, with Tarana Burke and Marielle Franco.

Since taking office, Francia has been pioneering the region by making diplomatic connections with African countries. And she’s been very clear about the fact that she’s doing it because Black people in Colombia, and throughout the diaspora, need to shake off their white supremacist, colonialism-imposed negative views of Africa and start getting to know where they come from. She is the reason Colombia is opening embassies across the Continent. She’s also done a great deal to push forward reparations work in Colombia. But here I go again with her resume.

What struck me most listening to Francia Márquez yesterday was actually not her speech at all, it was her introductory acknowledgements. The very first words of her remarks were “Saludos a todos, todas y todes.” For those who don’t speak Spanish, while this translates to “greetings to all,” it is not a simple “to all,” rather it is proactively and purposefully gender inclusive. In spirit, it’s “greetings to the gentlemen, the ladies, and the theys.” She continued to acknowledge the “people of import” in the room: the organizers of the event, the Black defenders who were the attendees, etc. But before moving on to her speech, she purposefully and specifically acknowledged “LGBTQ people, people with disabilities, and Roma people,” all groups too often invisibilized in Colombia.

You see, there’s this really special thing that Black women human rights defenders like Francia always do that sets them apart from the rest: when they move up, they bring others up with them. Kimberlé Crenshaw coined the term intersectionality referring to Black women, referring to the specific exclusions we face because of the combination of our race and gender. And if there’s one thing living life at such a prominent intersection will teach you, it’s not to forget others. Black women human rights defenders don’t just fight for ourselves, we fight for everybody. We have a keen understanding that none of us are free until we are all free, and that freedom starts with the freedom of the most marginalized among us.

Francia Márquez isn’t perfect, and her administration surely isn’t either. But there is a magic that emanates from the place where her identity, her authentic dedication, and her willingness to utilize the power of her office converge. I think we can all learn a little something from that and use it to push liberation forward.

Signed,

N.A.

The Magic of Mariane Ibrahim Gallery

I never leave Mariane Ibrahim Gallery without a peaceful heart, an uplifting story, and the inspiration to write. Tonight, the night of the opening reception of Amoako Boafo’s The One That Got Away, I arrived alone but excited to experience the art; and I ended the night in the warm, friendly company of five beautiful Black women. But let’s back up for a bit.

In May of 2022, I embarked on my first solo trip to Paris, France. I stepped out of Charles de Gaulle with basic French and a list of sparsely googled museums and galleries that would help me fulfill my desire to experience all the Blackness Paris had to offer. One Saturday morning I made my way to Mariane Ibrahim Gallery, ignorant to the impact it would have. On display was Amoako Boafo’s Inside Out. I sat for a long while on the blue sofa of the gallery’s second story, and stared in awe at the vibrant pieces on the walls. I’d never before had such an inexplicably touching experience with art. That trip to Paris, and my experience at Mariane Ibrahim Gallery inspired me to seek out Black art and culture everywhere I traveled.

In February 2023, I visited Chicago and Mariane Ibrahim Gallery was top of my list of Black culture experiences in the city. This time, it was the group exhibition Hauntology: Ghostly Matters, and particularly Olukemi Lijadu’s film that completely blew me away. I once again saw deep parts of me reflected on the white walls of the gallery. Not to mention, I met a lovely friend at the gallery who I seamlessly connecting with over art, culture, language, and heritage.

So, this year as I began my journey as a nomad – a journey afforded to me by a job in which I literally study the state of Blackness in the Americas – I knew that, everywhere I went, my top priority would be discovering the diasporic magic of each place I visited. Mexico City is my first destination and, to be honest, the Mariane Ibrahim Gallery is the entire reason I came. The gallery’s third location opened here early last year, and I knew I had to witness it. And when I got an email about an opening reception for a new exhibit – of none other than the artist who I was first introduced to – I knew I had to attend.

As I mentioned, my main goal for this new nomad journey is to uncover the Black culture of the places I visit. And to be frank, Mexico City has posed quite the challenge. Of course there are Black people in Mexico City, but most of Mexico’s afrodiasporic culture and people are based in other parts of the country. While I encounter Black people on a fairly regular basis, it’s been quite difficult to find Afro-Mexican culture here in the city, and that’s been a bit disappointing.

When I entered Mariane Ibrahim Gallery tonight, I was met with the very Black art of Ghanaian Amoako Boafo, and I could see the whole diaspora before my eyes: Black art on the walls, Black people in the rooms, Black clothes on Black bodies, and Spanish, French, and English mingling through the air. After slowly and thoughtfully making my way through the exhibit, I mustered up the courage to approach a group of Black women (English speaking and American accent having) in the courtyard. They welcomed me warmly, and we quickly figured out that we had a mutual friend who was actually on her way to the event. Armed with my new crew (very helpful for introverts such as myself) I met many new people throughout the night. People hailing from the coasts of West Africa to the Caribbean Sea, and we all collectively marveled at the art that reminded us of home and our families and ourselves.

I plan to return to the gallery to muse on the art with less of a crowd. But even with the commotion of tonight, I knew that I made the right decision and that I am exactly where I need to be. My wild and fantastical decision to sell all of my possessions and leave the city in which I had so intentionally made a home for a dream to travel the world and discover the African diaspora has actually come to fruition.

While I’m still on the lookout to learn more about Afro-Mexican culture from Afro-Mexican people, I feel as though I’m on the right track. And if there’s one thing this new lifestyle has taught me in my short experience, it’s to take things as they come. So, “on the right track” has me more than content. And I’m so grateful to Mariane Ibrahim Gallery for continuing to blow me away with exceptional and inspirational Black art all around the world.

Signed,

N.A.

My Journey to the Sacred Black Feminine

One year ago today I wrote my first Signed, N.A. blog post. The creation of this blog is in large part owed to Transcendant Kingdom by Yaa Gyasi, a book that taught me that books I can relate to actually exist. Since I read Transcendent Kingdom in January 2021, I’ve continued to find books that make me feel truly seen. And now, at the one year milestone of this blogging endeavor, one book stands out among the rest: Dr. Christena Cleveland’s God Is a Black Woman.

In my first Signed, N.A. post a year ago, I mused on my identification with the title Nwanyị Akwụkwọ and set an intention to write and share “reflections on what I’ve learned about myself and the world around me through literature.” When I read God Is a Black Woman I learned things about myself in a deeper way than I ever have before. I felt connection, not only to the author and her story, but also to my ancestors, and maybe even to my chi (s/o to the Signed, N.A. readers who know what I’m talking about). The things I learned and felt from this book were of such a personal nature that I wasn’t sure I wanted to share, and I went back and forth quite a bit on the decision. But, as we arrive at a year of Signed, N.A., and I reflect on the intentions I set at the beginning of this so called pilgrimage, I could only come to one conclusion: to share with you all My Journey to the Sacred Black Feminine…

* * *

In the church I grew up in, the most frequently used image of Christ is a painting of Jesus as a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, broad-shouldered, phenotypically white man wearing a bold red robe. Several times over the course of my life, and particularly during my time as an active member of this church, I have paused to think about the implications of this image, or similar ones, being the one I most easily associate with God or the Divine. In recent years, I have taken a furtive and concerted look inward to unpack how what Dr. Christena Cleveland refers to as white male god has influenced how I see myself and how I move through the world.

My journey away from the church I was raised in and toward a more personal divine experience has raised many questions from others, and I often find myself without what I would consider adequate answers. And while I have always and continue to assert that my experience needs no explanation as its depths defy the bounds of human language, I would also like to thank Dr. Cleveland for her book, God Is a Black Woman, which, for the first time, has provided me with some language that I feel comes close to explaining the transformative journey I am on.

Throughout the book, Dr. Cleveland introduces the readers to a Sacred Black Feminine who displays characteristics of a Divine Mother and who descends from on high to wallow in humanity with their child. The Sacred Black Feminine is not perfect and does not look down on me, rather, She shares my experiences, intimately knows my trials, and struggles alongside me. Dr. Cleveland also writes about the importance of valuing and giving credence to Black women’s lived experiences with divinity even when they contradict religious theory or doctrine. Personally, this is a principle I appreciate in all aspects of life. I truly believe that just because something hasn’t been dissected and extrapolated using scientific theory doesn’t mean that what I or anyone else feels and/or experiences is not true and real.

It was this distinct cognitive dissonance that caused me to leave behind white male god and seek out the Sacred Black Feminine. As a womanist and human rights advocate, I have a deep conviction for the ideals that we are not free until we are all free, and that the most marginalized hold the key to liberation. These are ideals I try my best to exemplify in my work for justice and equity. Yet, when I stepped back and examined the manner in which I was approaching my personal spiritual liberation, I realized the god I was acquainted with was very distant from my pain, was not familiar with my life experiences, and often made me feel as though I was sprinting in the sand to catch up with someone who started before me, ahead of me, and on solid ground.

It was about four years ago that I first began to more consciously and consistently notice this dissonance in how I saw the world and how I believed god saw me. But as I look back on the expanse of my short life, I do see that the Sacred Black Feminine was whispering in my ear all along.

The first time I heard Joan Osborne’s “One of Us ” in my early teens, I was enamored. It was the first time I remember considering a god like me rather than one whom I was trying to be like. And though I was raised to believe in a loving god, the kind of god Joan Osborne sang about seemed capable of a level of empathy I had never before attributed to the Divine.

This was one of my first whispers. Since then, I’ve become better acquainted with this sort of divine empathy. I’ve known and felt it from the Divine, as well as from the divinity I’ve encountered in others, and manifested in myself. And through a series of gentle whispers and words of encouragement I arrived at an undeniable fork in the road with white male god on high on one hand, and Sacred Black Feminine beside on the other. So, I chose the path of understanding and empathy, the path whose love was designed specifically for me, and was immense enough to be designed distinctly for each individual.

A large part of my journey since then has been arriving at the recognition and acknowledgment that the Divinity within me is just as important as the Divinity outside of me. I’m proud to say that I now exist in “the world of the Sacred Black Feminine in which [I can trust] my experience and embodied wisdom more than reason and tradition. “

So, to others who may be in my shoes, I would like to suggest that you may already know what you’re looking for and where to find it. Just trust yourself, and know that there is indeed a Divine Being who knows you and your experiences so well that she might just be you.

Signed,

N.A.

Black Women’s Exile

Exile. I’ve been pondering the concept quite a bit of late. Merriam-Webster has two definitions of the word: (1) the state or a period of forced absence from one’s country or home; and (2) the state or a period of voluntary absence from one’s country or home.

There is only one word of difference between the two definitions: “forced” versus “voluntary.” And I ask myself, who has ever voluntarily been in exile?? Is an exit voluntary simply because no one is physically pushing you out?

Tiffanie Drayton’s Black American Refugee elucidates how the United States’ relationship to Black people is abusive. Her book follows her journey of leaving two abusive relationships, one with her partner, and one with America, and returning to her home in Trinidad. Did Tiffanie choose exile?

In the autobiography of Assata Shakur, she details the witch hunt carried out by the US government and its security forces, that came very close to taking her life on more than one occasion, which led to her fleeing to Cuba. Did Assata choose exile?

Blue by Emmelie Prophète details the lives of (fictional) Black women who are trying to escape life in a country with the misfortune of being a former colony and not a former colonizer. But she laments that all that is truly achieved are lonely funerals that loved ones on both sides are too distant and too poor to attend. Do they too choose exile?

So what exactly is a “voluntary” exile? Maybe it is choosing personal liberation over hollow promises of opportunity; choosing a hard life over no life at all.

But are these really choices at all?

Another interesting detail of Merriam-Webster’s definitions is the use of the phrase “country or home.” While the dichotomy of “forced” versus “voluntary” exile leaves me disconcerted, I am at the same time affirmed by the explicit distinction between “country” and “home.” The type of exile I am most intrigued by is the type that afflicts those for whom country and home are not synonymous.

What makes a country a possession if not a feeling of home? What allows for ease of tongue in the utterance of the phrase “my country”? Is it the seal and color of a passport? Is it the culmination of one’s life experiences within a particular border? And what makes a home if there is no country on which it stands? Is it the language of one’s dreams? Is it the smell of a favorite dish ?

Maybe exile is the empty space in the Venn diagram of country and home. Maybe exile is the absence of the privilege, bestowed on so few, to see no delineation between country and home, between passport and pass the plate, between mother tongue and motherland.

It seems to me that there is no choice when it comes to exile. It seems to me that there is only a force, from within or without, but usually both, yearning for a reality in which home and country, and liberation and dignity can all coincide.

Ụmụ Nwanyị Akwụkwọ: Crossing the Diaspora

everyman by M Shelly Conner

In my very first signed, N.A. blog post, I wrote that “I have found books to be an incredibly candid mirror upon which to self reflect.” This still rings true, but perhaps in a different sense than I originally intended. The book that catalysed my now voracious reading habit, and hence is the seed that sprouted this blog, was Transcendent Kingdom by Yaa Gyasi (read my lit musing of it here). Now that was a book in which I truly felt reflected! The commonalities between myself and the protagonist really blew me away. However, as I’ve continued on this bibliophilic journey, I’ve found books can also be a mirror in a “pot calling the kettle black” kind of way: We’re both black – many times we’re even both Black – but we’re definitely different shapes, we have different backgrounds and different experiences, yet it seems there’s something to this shared color and shared fire under our asses that can lead us down a pathway of connection and insight.

I’m aware that this may come off vague, and maybe even like a metaphor gone too far, but I’ll elaborate. Reading everyman by M Shelly Conner was like following a secret pathway I never knew existed, convincing myself I was lost, then ending up at my own front door, home. Everyman’s protagonist Eve is a woman on a mission to discover herself. An orphan and a product of the Great Migration, Eve feels lost, and hopes retracing her family tree will also give some shape to her own identity.

Eve and I have very different stories and very different histories. As a Black person in the United States whose ancestors do not trace back to the western portion of the Atlantic slave trade, I often find myself pushing against the confines of a perceived monolithic Black America. I sometimes feel as if variations of this erroneous perception follow me around, even as I’ve left the US to live in other parts of the Americas. Furthermore, I am well aware that my disdain for being mischaracterized as “the wrong kind of Black” has nothing to do with these other cultures, and everything to do with what I perceive as a deficit in my own Igbo-ness.

All of this to say, I don’t read a book like everyman, about a character like Eve, expecting anything other than a great story; but, everyman gave me so much more! I see so many parts of myself in Eve; we share a visceral and intimate sense of a great unknown and an insatiable impulse to search and find. I found myself buoyed and comforted by everyman‘s numerous depictions of influential and integral Black women who assisted Eve on her journey of self-discovery; and, I recognized in them so many of those who have and continue to help me on my own journey. I often marvel at the African diaspora for its multitude of iterations around the world, but this time around, I was awed by the ties that bind.

Signed,

N.A.

p.s. I would also like to recognize all of the extraordinary Black women characters in everyman whom I left unnamed, Eve is definitely a product of her invaluable community and heredity. If you’d like to read more stories about real-life extraordinary Black women, take a look at my 3-part series for The Conflicted Womanist entitled An Ode to Black Women who Resist: Revolution, Activism, & Rest.