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Creation calls the utterer to reach again the larger circle. That communication must be the beginning of destruction s destruction, the preparation for creation s work.... Our vocation goes against unconnectedness. It is a call to create the way again, and where even the foundations have been assaulted and destroyed, where restoration has been made impossible, simply to create the way.

- Ayi Kwei Armah, Two Thousand Seasons


"As a Black poet and writer, I am proud of our Black, verbally bonding system born of our struggle to avoid annihilation - as Afro-American self, Afro-American marriage, community, and Afro-American culture. I am proud of this language that our continuing battle just to be has brought into currency. And so I hate the arrogant, prevailing rejection of this, our Afro-American language. And so I work, as a poet and writer, against the eradication of this system, this language, this carrier of Black-survivor consciousness."

- June Jordan, Civil Wars


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hmmmm. eye think eye respond better ta kwestions. short uv that. eyeve been here on god's gud green fa thirty four complete cycles. once eye wurked fa an environmental justice organization. nah eye du wurkforce development in construction. eye jes started gettin inta writin flash fiction. and after nearli ten years. am still strugglin as ta how ta make a science uv this vegetarian thang. oh yeah. eye ave mah own style uv writin. sum folks call it olabonics. eyeve self-published befa. ave a slew uv unfinished songs that eye wud luv ta see performed one dey. mah close frens call me a walkin musical. wud luv ta pick up tha guitar. eye miss performin. esp ta a live band. wud luv ta wurk wif a band all mah own. what else. eyem a big flirt & eyem corny as hell. eyeve been out tha country only twice so far. ghana and amsterdam. wud luv ta du helluva more travelin. uhm. thats all eye can scratch up fa nah. so holla if u want ta kno more. eyem pretty much an open book.

beluvid ola-jendai


*******


kolonji's left foot

kolonji loved isha more than he loved his left foot. the proof was in the pudding. drug free. having all his teeth. no baby mama drama. & a brand spanking new college degree. he could have had any piece of %#&@$! he wanted. but no matter who you asked. where you found kolojoni. every roll of the dice was bound to come up isha. the boy was near obsessive. no. he was obsessive. half of mango street knew it & knew it as early as when kolonji was seven.

while isha never seemed to notice or mind. kolonji carried his jones for her 15 years straight. uninterrupted. at least he was consistent. sacrimoniously speaking. he was a one man solitary misson. the last living devotee to the way isha curled her bottom lip. no matter how much he plyed her with affections. characteristic of most times kolonji attempted to get her attention. isha could care less. but he was always there. like a bad rash that wouldnt go away. he & the troupe of kolonjettes he had managed to convert to his cause. half of north campus had been baptized somewhere around junior year. inlcuding a couple of ishas close girls.

[girl. why dont you just give him some. & them maybe he`ll leave your %#&@$! alone & then free him up for the rest of us] isha was sitting on an untapped gold mine that every sista with a pulse on campus wanted for their own. for isha. kolonji was a curse. well. sheesh. he sweated her harder than a blackout in the middle of a hot humid day in the middle of july & the windows are painted shut.

suffering through a litany of male suitors who would eventually get pissed off to the height of pisstivity. kolonji was quickly becoming a liability. [me & kolonji. naw girl. hes more like my little brother. besides hes crazy.]

crazy indeed. once high school was over. looking for the quickest route off mango street. she shipped off to wesleyan the summer of `91 to escape him. her escape didnt last long. cuz come spring semester. there was kolonji nubyahn standing in the k thru m section on the late registration line. it was just like kolonji to be late & wrong. but more importantly. she knew then he was going to be a problem.

for the most part. kolonji kept his respectful distance. he knew the rules. hell. he had enough practice. by the time spring fling had went down senior year. on a dare. he had decided to sign up for the open mic. & in what was supposed to be a flattering immmortalization of isha in poem. entitled `how du you know` this grand demonstration of how he had become a walking encyclodepia on her vissicitudes.

as far as isha was concerned. kolonji had clearly crossed the line. this wasnt mango street anymore. & it wasnt cute. but it didnt end there. isha first responded by withdrawing visiting priviledeges. childhood friend or not. it was war. it was time for kolonji to grow up and get himself his own life. she could do without her own personal self-powered traveling %#&@$!-blocker.

quiet as its kept. afta the dust had settled. even isha had to accept. crazy as crazy is. kolonji had spit a damn gud poem. the kind of poem that grabs you in the medulla oblongata & dangles from the small of your spine. hell. women in the audience whose names only ended with the letter "a" started squirming in they seats. & the passion. the passion bled from kolonji that night as if it was his last will & testament. [how do you know]

the light glistening off his eyebow. sweat & tears & saliva percolating under the hood of his locks as he rattled the loose handwritten pages of his opus. it was a poem two years in the making. he poured every ounce of every inch of his being into it. practiced it on rooftops. lived in the words. chanting them like reading sanskrit while listening to sade`s greatest hits on auto-repeat for three months straight. that & stevie wonder`s overjoyed. & superwoman. oh and prince`s mellow yellow too. this was his black swan song.

kolonji was convinced this poem was gonna make or break him. it would be the last of a long line of last attempts. he would either have her or finally flush her out of his system. if he failed. he would simply find some other sister names aisha to unleash his unrequited love on. lavish her into blissful submission. & pretend to live happily ever after. & that would be that. even if he had to lie to himself to do it. the poem became histhesis. in fact it hangs framed over his english & literature professor`s mahoghany wood desk as tha only a plus professor covington had ever given out in her 12 year tenure. it was some deep %#&@$!.

word found its way back to mango street regarding kolonji`s antics. & so the crusade gained momentum. this even when kolonji had already conceded defeat. left the melange lounge & the spring fling open mic in a drunken stupor. this after not finding isha eyes anywhere in the audience. even tho he knew she was there when he started. he took the long walk home. shutting himself in his doorm room for two whole weeks before returning to the world of the living. well actually. he had run out of his near lifetime supply of ramen noodles.

graduation right around the corner. he skulked around campus. going through the motions. avoiding conversations. confrontations. hoping for that night at the melange to slip into the obscurity of most people`s short term memory. it was his fifteen minutes of fame and it was over. good riddance.

not three months after graduation and isha had finally gotten her wish. albeit with much fanfare. but she got it. not as sweet as she imagined it to be. but she got it. she was finally free. & at the same time feeling a non specific emptiness. like how recent amputees still feel a lost limb. something. something was missing. & while she couldnt bring herself to speak its name. the question resounded in the back of her head like a scratched cd. how do you know.

[girl. why dont you call him.] [eye dont even know where he is. plus. eye dont think he would forgive me.] [whats there to forgive.] silence.

thangsgiving. mango street was a lot smaller than isha had remembered it. also a lot grayer. less the vibrant magical mysrtical wonder that used to fill her days growing up. she had to know. walking slowing through that gate of number 17. she rang the nubyahns bell. this for the first time in 22 years becauseas tradition went. kolonji always found his way to her house. mama nubyahn let her in with a warm hug. leaning in to the living room to call kolonji from his old room upstairs.

[oh someone`s gonna be happy to see you] [kolonji. guess whos here. isha.]

kolonji half broke his neck racing down the stairs. & in fact fractured the heel of his left foot tripping sumwhere around halfway. you couldnt tell because he didnt skip a beat. it was all he could do to regain his composure and strike the now patented kolonji cool pose by the time he reached the bottom landing. letting the silence hang for a while while he digested aisha with his eyes. waiting for his cue. because he didnt want to betray the ardous ordeal it had taken him to get over her.

isha. eyes shifting. [can we go sumwhere & talk] [sure] kolonji responded cooly. starting to the back door. noticably limping. out the back & into the garage rec room. [well...] more silence. [ok. i`ll let u talk when ur ready] he offered. [its just that...] [what] [well eyeve been thinking...] [yes..] [well..] this tyme kolonji held his words. [i`ve been wanting to ask you. how do you know.] [i dont know what you mean] [i mean... your poem... how do you know"]

kolonji swung his head into another silence. he could feel another set-up coming. as if he hadnt fallen for that so many times before. [isha... i cant do this. not again.] by now. the heel of his left foot is throbbing. [cant do what] [this. this back & forth. this game you do.] [what do you mean game] [this tease. dammit. youve known how i felt about you since jump. hell. everyone & a monkey`s uncle knows.] [lonj. i kno. i...] [what] [its just that...] [what]

& then it comes. the curling of the infamous bottom lip that kolonji knew all too well. isha was now visably choking on her words. [how do .. you.. know] it seemed such an odd reversal. [ish. we cant keep duin this.] isha is insistent. [how do you know] kolonji. [what are you asking me] [your poem...] [ish. ive always known] [yes.. but... but .. how do you really kno... eye mean...][i jes know]

& right there. with the pain beginning to wax. the words begin to flow again. like water. the same words that graced the melange. only this time. for isha there was no escape. there was nowhere for her to run. she was transfixed. while her tears ran. listening to a crash course on her lyphe. how kolonji had been the ebb to her every eddy. he was always there. like a soundtrack that escapes your attention. he always had her back. through trials & tribulations. & bad breakups. & he took everything she dished. no complaint. [...how do you know...]

by now he was in full swing. the words first trickling. then rising to a fever pitch. her future. past. present. all rolled up woven inta one as he elocuted. he foot throbbing hard enough to form a resounding bass strecthing between the low notes. his whole being beating each breath. rest. stop. breathe again.

& isha was right there with him. in perfect sychronation. is quiet syncompation. riding the crest uv his rise & falls as the space between them dissapated. & the garage melted away. & there was just the words. pounding away. deeper into her subconscious. peeling away years of denial.

the conslusion of the last refrain found them heaving. breathing each others exhaust. kolonji`s foot throbbing as the top of his angular self. suspended deftly above isha. collapses. half in disbelief. he was sure he was dreaming. between the trail of tears. she whispers one last "how do you know..." as his weight crashes & lips collide. providing the choral response of that which is known but can not be seen. lips that need no rehearsal. limbs that spring into expert action. fast. hard groping. the surge uv emotion. a dream realize & frothing over itself.

saturday mornring. isha is in tha waiting room. & doctor shashen is chiding kolonji for not having his foot seen

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