‘Queer Women Are Behaving Badly’ with Ayodele Olofintuade

Written by Inioluwa Ayanlowo

Edited by Veronica Vivi

Illustrated by Maïa Walcott 

Even in this day and age, the ideal Nigerian woman is a woman who is reserved, soft-spoken, and uninformed. She has made it her mission to remain calm and attractive to men, as she desires a successful marriage. While it can be tiring to constantly strive to satisfy the fragile male ego, she does not wish to be labeled as difficult: she has become so accustomed to being scrutinized for every detail of her persona that she simply wants to be accepted and does not wish to have to face life alone.

Add queerness into the mix and she will be condemned to always be in the background. After being constantly served homophobia with a side order of sexism, the Nigerian woman is content to just hide away and lead a life in the shadows. Ayodele Olofintuade taught me that sometimes you can dutifully follow society’s dictates and it still will not be enough to be accepted by it. So, as I was introduced to the Lakiriboto Chronicles at Ayodele Olofintuade’s 2021 Christmas Party, I understood the appeal of being a badly behaved woman. You can virtually be a mannequin and society will still find faults in you, so why not be badly behaved?

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The subversion and empowerment of Léopold Sédar Senghor’s “Black Woman”

Written by Hope Olagoke 

Edited by Veronica Vivi

Illustrated by Sâde Popoola @shadz_art

Poetry (either reading or writing it) had always been a form of artistic expression I tried to evade – a habit I picked up from secondary school as I found poems often ambiguous. My swift decision to major in English and literary studies in university lacked a reminder that I would have to deal with poems throughout my degree. A course I took in my junior year of university introduced me to Négritude, a cultural and literary movement that laid importance on embracing African heritage and identity. Therein, Léopold Sédar Senghor’s “Black Woman” was recommended as a Négritude poem written by one of the reputable figures, who pioneered this significant cultural movement. Thus, I discovered the masterpiece that would not only ignite my love for poetry, but also awaken my sense of self as African and, above all, as a Black Woman. 

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‘On Black Sisters Street’ Showcases the Nuances of Sexual Trafficking

Written by Precious Uzoma-Nwosu

Edited by Veronica Vivi

Illustrated by Noella Abba


While growing up, there were rules set by my father that were never to be compromised on, and among them was not spending holidays with another family aside from our own. I was greatly disturbed by this boundary, as my friends often share tales of their visits to their relatives’ houses after the school breaks. As I became wiser, I realized that my father felt his children would be safe from sexual exploitation, including sexual trafficking, if we stayed within his watch. Therefore, it was home, school (although boarding), church, and places that were supervised by him or my mother – he did not want to leave any loopholes.

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I May Destroy You, Atlanta and Get Out: Afro-Surrealism and the everyday horror of Blackness

Written by Laura Hackshaw

Edited by Veronica Vivi

Illustrated by Daley North

This is a show tune
But the show hasn’t been written for it, yet

Hound dogs on my trail
School children sitting in jail

Black cat cross my path
I think every day’s gonna be my last

Lord have mercy on this land of mine
We all gonna get it in due time
I don’t belong here
I don’t belong there
I’ve even stopped believing in prayer

–  Mississippi Goddamn by Nina Simone

‘‘Afro-Surrealism is drifting into contemporary culture on a rowboat with no oars…to hunt down clues for the cure.’’

–  D. Scot Miller – Afrosurreal Manifesto: Black is the New Black a 21st Century Manifesto (2009)

*This essay contains spoiler alerts for several TV shows and films

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Learning the Multiplicity of Being with Akwaeke Emezi

Written by Amuna Wagner

Edited by Veronica Vivi

Illustrated by Olamide Florence Adeoye aka Sharp Txngue

Do you believe in spirits? And does it matter whether you do? Akwaeke Emezi taught me that to Black people this question is essential for collective survival the day I stumbled upon Freshwater (2018) in my partner’s bookshelf. The novel pulled me into the life of Ada, the child of a Nigerian father and Tamil mother who suffers the pain of being a spirit trapped in flesh. An ọgbanje, to be exact. Ada is born a screaming baby “with one foot on the other side” (back cover), only a half-step ahead of madness. When she moves to the United States for college and her boyfriend sexually assaults her, spirits that have been living inside her emerge and assume increasing autonomy: the feminine Asughara, masculine Saint Vincent, and a collective “We” of brothersisters. Ada continues life as a fractured, multiple being, navigating her several selves’ desires and darkness.

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Centring Pleasure Activism with adrienne maree brown

Written by Amuna Wagner

Edited by Veronica Vivi

Illustrated by Olamide Florence Adeoye aka Sharp Txngue

“How do we make social justice the most pleasurable human experience?” (back cover) asks adrienne maree brown in her phenomenal book Pleasure Activism: The Politics of Feeling Good (2019). Guided by its opening chapter, Audre Lorde’s “Uses of the Erotic: Erotic As Power” (27-37), the anthology explores a world that centres pleasure and care for ourselves and others. The book doubles as a collection of radical theories and a study guide of hands-on practice. I was living in Cairo in 2021 when I stumbled across a class on pleasurable feminisms; a group of people gathered weekly to intimately study the book, intrigued by brown’s question: “How can we awaken within ourselves desires that make it impossible to settle for anything less than a fulfilling life?” (back cover). Over the course of three months, Pleasure Activism: The Politics of Feeling Good reordered my world view and became my road map on how to live a consciously political life without guilt.

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Octavia Butler is in Defence of Failure: Kindred’s Black Grief as a New Dawn

Written by Alma Simba

Edited by Katya Zabelski

Illustrated by Sage Anifowoshe

I come to Dana through Saidiya. And Saidiya comes to Dana in relation to Venus. We all convene under a sky of grief particular to black women. Of the crushing weight of history. I pick up from where Saidiya leaves off. The archive, the futility, the resignation to language and history never being enough. Of failure as the new sky. But maybe also the new dawn.

*

I come across Kindred by Octavia Butler in a reference by Saidiya Hartman’s 2008 article, “Venus in Two Acts.”  In the article, Hartman explores how the history of domination must be accepted by black people to try and untangle it. The article functions as a continuation of her earlier book, Lose Your Mother, where she charts the journey of the middle passage, loss, and connection to history. In “Venus in Two Acts,” Hartman continues this historical reconstruction and methodological struggle when she writes of a young girl who was murdered on a slave ship with little further information cited in the records. In both, Hartman highlights the difficulty in deciphering the blankness and violence in black historical narratives, while discussing the different options in the weighted obstacle of writing black history. 

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Elena Ferrante and ‘writing against’ a male literary tradition

Women’s self-discovery process cannot be adapted to a man’s model.” [1]

Written by Stefania Frustagli

Edited by Veronica Vivi

Illustrated by Maia Abayomi 

In the early stages of her writing life, Elena Ferrante considered her female nature a hindrance to her creative expression. “For a woman who has something to say,” she asked herself, “does it really take a miracle to dissolve the margins within which nature has enclosed her and show herself in her own words to the world?” [2]. In her lecture, Ferrante discusses how much the male literary tradition has shaped, restrained women’s writing, and how she tries to overcome this. Ferrante also mentions this theme in an interview where she states, “Nobody (…) is the true name, perhaps, of any woman who writes, since she writes from within an essentially male tradition.” [3]. 

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