In the most Rihanna way possible, sis made it known a few days ago that she was pregnant; she posed in an oversized pink Chanel jacket, which was left tastefully open to reveal her bump, and paired with baggy jeans, draped in jewels including an encrusted cross.
This past week has been awkward. My sleeping patterns have been misplaced and it felt like I subjected myself to an obscene amount of unnecessary screen time out of boredom.
“Black eye, black hair, black skin Black queen stand majestic with the black king Today I’ll sing you a black song, you need to hear about beautiful black things ‘cause Most time we hear about black, we hear about black magic and black witches Black list, black book, black market Black Friday, ya spend off your black riches I’ve never seen a doctor in black nor seen a black pill fi cure no black people But I’ve seen bush doctors like Tosh and Marley resurrect like a real black beatle Malcom, Marcus, Martin When you see Walter Rodney ask him.”
It may be a bit late, but Happy New Year, nevertheless.
How many dead women will it take before we recognise intimate partner violence as an actual pandemic?
Contrary to popular belief, Black people don’t like to constantly talk about race.
I have thrown myself into the Christmas preparation madness early this year.
I don’t remember “the talk” that was given to me when I got my period.
Seeing clothing by Trinidadian fashion designer Meiling gracing the pages of Harper’s Bazaar US this week served as a gentle reminder of the soulfulness that is the Caribbean aesthetic.
With COP26 dominating the news cycle, energy companies and our behaviour as consumers have come under the microscope once again.
Every time I experience any form of racism, it is always “the apology” that manages to drive the knife further into the wound.
Death will always appear to be untimely for anyone who has lost someone no matter how predictable it seemed.
The period between the last week in September and the second week in October always feels like that interval between Christmas Day and New Year’s Day for me.
I celebrated 32 years around the sun last weekend. I consider it to be a massive blessing considering the state of the world and how many lives have been upended either due to the pandemic, increased natural disaster or political and economic turmoil over the past year.
I go back and forth trying to understand why Guyanese at home and abroad find it so easy to latch onto movements like Black Lives Matter, which originate in North America and the West with so much zeal and passion but find it difficult to draw similar comparisons to and act the same when incidents that bear similarities happen right here at home.
If one needed to find another description for the Met Gala, it could quite adequately be called the Fashion Olympics.
2020 was such a gruelling and exhausting year. Loss felt constant.
After taking a digital detox from Instagram for close to eight months, I reopened my account only to have it disabled for violating the community terms.
The act of being vulnerable is a daunting one. It is one that invites waves of fear, a sense of out-of-placeness and magnifies the possibility of it being weaponized.
I hear about climate change 24/7 because of the nature of my husband’s work.
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