Subraj Singh is an award winning director and playwright, a fiction writer and columnist.
By Ryhaan Shah Sweet veins of sugar run deep within our skin Whipped and seared with striations of blood And salt-filled wounds, an indelible record Written on our backs A dark ink that runs through time Straight from our fore-parents’ pain History is not a past tense but a well-remembered thing Of toil and terror that bleeds into the present hours And addresses our soul with stories of monied greed That dripped from light, sugar-sweetened skins Those that clamped the chains, those that cracked the whips To brutish laughter and are risen yet again To entrap with new stories of gluttony and greed Wearing their thin disguise, wearing their blackened sheen That drills down through layers and layers of time To claim sweet veins of oil that rest unworried in the core beneath And we who once were hurt and who once felt the pain Have learned to profit from the loss And to profit from the gain And the massa-day avarice we once condemned and blamed We see in the mirror now garbed in full length And caught in full embrace of the very greed Of the very sweetened deals Now that we have signed our name Here on this dotted line that pushes past the past That pushes past the pain To reveal the grins, the skin-teeth open mouths Of the shiny, oil-slickened beings That we have become
Ryhaan Shah, who has worked as a journalist in print and television, has had three novels published in the United Kingdom.
Nadia Sagar is an attorney-at-law. In her spare time, she writes short stories and is currently working on a collection she hopes to one day publish.
In addition to being a journalist, university lecturer and newly admitted member of the bar, Chevy Devonish is an avid volunteer with various organisations, including the Volunteer Youth Corp.
By Nathaniel Wren For women who are difficult to love, I wish to understand your character.
Nathaniel Wren is a Guyanese-born writer residing in New York. His interest in poetry was piqued during his time as a student of the St.
Dear Coast Landerz ah Guyana By Gabrielle E. Mohamed Do, prey tell, Why ayo tink Ya own meh lan?
In “Dear Coast Landerz ah Guyana,”creole poet Gabrielle Mohamed confronts the attitudes of coastland residents to their indigenous counterparts by way of a letter of complaint.
By Nicholas Peters Colonialism had already imposed colonial mindsets on the psyche of African people, which meant that they continued to reproduce coloniality as their future even after direct juridical colonialism has been dismantled – Sabelo J.Ndlovu-Gatsheni
Nicholas Peters’ “Imagining Future Guyanas” is the last of four non-fiction works we decided to feature this month.
By Vidyaratha Kissoon I see the sign – “Doubles $200” – on the cart at the busy corner of the road and I think never mind who is watching, I am going to stand and eat one and I don’t care how much mess I make on my mouth and hands and clothes.
Vidyaratha Kissoon’s “Half of a doubles with tamarind in George-town,” which is the third of four non-fiction pieces we are featuring this month, is an edited version of a post first published on his blog, Thoughts of a Minibus Traveller, which is now in its tenth year.
By Nikita Blair Something’s Not Right In October 2016, Anika Lambert was a busy young woman.
Curated by Andre Haynes and Dreylan Johnson “When your body betrays you,” by Nikita Blair, is the second of four non-fiction works that will be featured this month.
By Carinya Sharples Growing up, not many of the characters in the books I read looked like me.
‘The books that make us’ is the first of four non-fiction works that will be featured this month.
By Daryll Goodchild “Always diggin’, diggin’ in people trench. Why yuh nuh move from hey, eh boi?
“Crekateh” is one of the stories from Daryll Goodchild’s self-published short story collection, Crassin de Rivvah, which was launched last month in Trinidad during Carifesta.
Not many people wan hear bout’ haunting. They doh wan hear bout ghosts and angry dead babies coming back to take you in ground that warm yet somehow cold.