I Whisper by Jordée Josiah

I Whisper, “Forward On”

Author: Jordée Josiah
Winner Poetry 12 – 17 years

I chose to whisper
because it seems like the only form of the spoken word we listen to;

The only form we garner
our energies to appreciate.

The whisper says I’m
scared of the beginning, not the ending, because of the faith that is needed to
start every new journey.

Do I trust myself to
take the first step?

Or do I stay where I am
and keep wishing for the end?

Do I try to make a
difference, or do I follow my ancestors and sleep forever?

Do I become the coward
that hides in his own shadow?

Why choose to hold onto
the end of the rope dangling over a cliff when the rest of the rope is in
sight?

Why not hold tight and
climb to new heights?

Just like the moth is
not the death of day but the life of night,

So each of us is here
for a different time, season, and purpose.

We all hear the whisper,
“Forward On.”

We know it means to let
go of the past and step into a new era.

When are we going to
become the whisper and tell ourselves, friends, family and country,

To Forward On, and to
take only what we need to make a better future?

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION & TERMS OF USE
Winning pieces from the 2011 Independence Literary Arts Competition are published here, with the chairperson’s permission, for the purpose of showcasing the talent displayed during the competition. Copyright of these pieces remain the preserve of the writers and, as is the case with all Wadadli Youth Pen Prize/Wadadli Pen, content should not be copied, distributed, transmitted, used for commercial purposes, altered, transformed, or built upon without the consent of the copyright holders. All other site content is created by me (Joanne C. Hillhouse) or, in the case of winning Wadadli Pen stories, the specific authors unless otherwise indicated. The same rules apply.

This is Not a Good Time by Kimolisa Mings

This is Not a Good Time

Author: Kimolisa Mings
Winner 18 and over Poetry &

overall winner for the 2011 Independence Literary Arts Awards

Ladies and gentlemen,

This moment in time,

Is not great,

In fact,

It is awful.

Between wars and famine,

Revolutions and riots,

All taking place

In the backdrop

Of an economic downturn.

This, my friends,

Is not a good time.

The hemlines of

Our young women rise,

As the waistbands of

Our young men fall.

This, people,

Is not a good time.

I know it,

You know it,

We all know it,

And yet we are reminded

Over and over

By the media.

Through the television,

Via the radio,

In publications,

On the internet.

We are constantly being

Reminded of how

Bad our situation is.

Forcing us to relive

this awful moment,

Over and over.

Forcing us to wear the

Grey-coloured shades

Of misery.

Today,

In this moment,

I say “Enough!”

Enough with reminding us

Of the problems,

The debates of what and

where

It went wrong,

Looking for someone to

blame,

The political

puppet-shows.

Enough!

Instead,

Let us come together

And find a solution

To move forward,

To escape this place

Inhabited by

Fear, hatred,

Anger, and uncertainty.

Let us move forward

To a place where

We all prosper,

Big and small,

Rich and not so rich.

A place where happiness

is found

And occupies spirit and

mind,

Where there is success

from hard work,

And joy in our connections

With each other.

I believe we all possess

the God element…

The same thing that

Takes a grain of sand

And creates a pearl.

The same thing that

Creates a diamond

From a lump of coal.

We all possess it…

It can be found

In the smallest atom

And it can be found

In the largest galaxy.

We possess it…

The moment we were

conceived

We had this little piece

of God,

And as we grew,

We were taught to forget

it,

But I ask you,

I beg you to remember

How great you are.

They say the world

Is to end in 2012,

I say let it end.

And from the ashes

We will make a new one,

A better one,

A greater world.

Forward on,

Backward never.

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION & TERMS OF USE
Winning pieces from the 2011 Independence Literary Arts Competition are published here, with the chairperson’s permission, for the purpose of showcasing the talent displayed during the competition. Copyright of these pieces remain the preserve of the writers and, as is the case with all Wadadli Youth Pen Prize/Wadadli Pen, content should not be copied, distributed, transmitted, used for commercial purposes, altered, transformed, or built upon without the consent of the copyright holders. All other site content is created by me (Joanne C. Hillhouse) or, in the case of winning Wadadli Pen stories, the specific authors unless otherwise indicated. The same rules apply.

Pictures

Last year (2010), we did a visual arts component of the Wadadli Pen competition for the first time. Mark Brown assisted with setting that up and put a team together to select the winners. Last year was also the first time, entries were theme-specific, and that was mostly because Wadadli Pen after a three year hiatus was returning as part of a Black History Month programme I was spearheading with a small grouping of Antiguans (Zahra Airall, D. Gisele Isaac, Kush DaVid, Cedric Holder, Mark Brown, Brenda Lee Browne, the Museum of Antigua and Barbuda, the Best of Books). The visual art competition – which consisted primarily of mixed media pieces – was more successful than the lit arts competition, last year, I’ll be honest. The lit entries have picked up considerably this year (though it’s nowhere near what it was during the competition’s first run and in particular 2005) but 2010 was dismal. The art entries in a way kept the competition alive. So, it’s always bugged me that I didn’t have them for posting here. But thanks to ByZIAPhotography, the indefatigable Zahra Airall, I have at least some of them – albeit not properly tagged. If any of the artists venture here and can identify their pieces, I’d appreciate it. Everyone else, enjoy. And if you’re a budding Antiguan and/or Barbudan artist (35 or younger) who hasn’t yet registered for this year’s art competition (creating illustrations for the short listed stories), I hope this will provide inspiration and you’ll email your name, gender, age,  location, school, phone and email contact to wadadlipen@yahoo.com to be registered. I have to admit, even more than the stories themselves, I’m eager to see what images artists come up with in response to them. I may be a writer but I have a deep appreciation for all the arts. However, don’t worry, I won’t be judging the 2011 art pieces; that task falls to art teacher Renee Philip and her team.

   

The Torturer by Sandrena Martin

 

2005 winner Sandrena Martin reads 'The Torturer' at the Word Up! 2006 fundraiser

[2005 Young Explorer Wadadli Youth Pen Winner]

He sits on his cushioned throne watching us, his sweaty, heaving slaves, from a platform not ten yards north of me. He, in all his elegance, sits there, an evil smile playing about his lips. I cannot and will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me falter! I have got to keep going. I must keep up the pace. I cannot afford to slow down.

Every now-and-again he gives us a look of disdain then turns back to his ever-growing harem of former field workers. He turns his attention to one of us in particular, a nicely shaped chocolate colored girl. He glares at her lustfully for a few minutes then beckons her to come join him. Mentally, part of me beseeches her to get away, to run as far away as possible from that swine of a man, even though the larger part wishes to be in her shoes. She will never have to work out here with us any more.

 ‘Why couldn’t that be me? Is this what my disfigurement has damned me to, a life of eternal toil?! Will I ever be free? Will I…’ Instantly, my thoughts of self-pity are cut short. Someone has just slipped. He shouts to us, unconcerned, that we should continue our work. Had he no heart?

 I am entirely drenched in sweat. My body cries out for rest and I must obey. He spots me and slowly he walks towards me, his rod at his side, ever ready to deliver a chastising blow. Instead of striking me though, he speaks to me sharply, making me a public example. Hatred wells up in me and takes the place of my shame. I want to strike out! My hand even moves a bit, but I am, like every other fielder, powerless to stop him.

 Under his watch full eye, I return to my ploughshare, my hatred driving me on as a man does his horse team in a race. He makes us pick up the pace and smiles when he sees most of us stumble as we try to keep up with his demands. He becomes even more callous and orders us to pick up the pace once more. Most of us, try, as we might, cannot keep up with the mad man and fall, which only serves to incite his wrath more.

 Mercifully, the buzzer rings. We turn off our treadmills and grab our stuff. The instructor leaves with his arms around his latest conquest. The rest of us just file out of Torturer’s Gym, dejectedly. 

 THE END

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION & TERMS OF USE
Copyright of the winning Wadadli Pen stories and/or art work featured on this site belongs to the creators of the individual works and are used here purely for promotional and educational purposes. Other blog content, except otherwise noted, is created and/or maintained by Joanne C. Hillhouse. Site content should not be copied, distributed, transmitted, used for commercial purposes, altered, transformed, or built upon without the consent of the copyright holders.

Lucky Dollar by Sarah Ann Li

[Young Explorer Wadadli Youth Pen Prize 2005 Best Under 12]

For  the  past  few  weeks,  everyone  in  my  family  had  been  on  edge. My  mother  was    ill  and  needed  to have an  operation  and  all  the  doctors  we had visited recommended  one hospital  in  Miami  Florida.  Our  problem  was  that  we  couldn’t   afford  the  operation, (but)  we  were  advised  to  have  it  done  soon.

As  I  looked  around  my  small  but  tidy  room,  worrying  about  my  mother’s  health,  I  felt  useless. Was there anything I could do?  I  slowly  got  up  from  my  bed  and  began  walking  towards  the  door. It  was  Saturday,  I  helped  mama  with  the  morning  chores  while  my  dad  and  brother  left  for  work.  When  I   was  finished,  I  asked  mom’s  permission  to  go  play  with  my  best  friend  Sasha.  “Be  careful  and  come  back  before  lunch,” she  said,  softly.  I kissed  her  and  left.

As  I stepped  outside,  I  was  greeted  by  the  inviting  fresh  air.  The  birds  were  singing  sweetly  and  the  palm  trees  were  swaying  in  the  cool  breeze,  occasionally  hiding  the  brilliant  sun. I  nonchalantly  walked  along  the  sidewalk,  glancing  around  me  every  once  in  a  while.  Suddenly I noticed a glimmer up ahead.  Curiously, I quickly walked towards it.  It was a shiny dollar.  As  I  bent  to  pick  it  up  I  felt  lucky.  “It’s only a dollar,” I told myself, “I can’t do much with that.”  I was approaching Mr.  Black’s  Candy  shop  and decided  to get  some  candies  for  Sasha  and  me. 

In front  of  the  shop,  I  noticed  a  sign  which  said  Caribbean  Lottery  $1.2 million dollars. The  drawing  of  this  was  after  lunch.  Once inside the shop, my mouth began to water.  The  delicious  aroma  of  chocolate  sherbets  and  fudges  tickled  my  nose.  I handed   Mr.  Black  my  dollar  and   skipped  out  of  the  shop  feeling  satisfied  with  my  purchase.  I then continued on to Sash’s home.  We  played   a  bunch  of  games  with  some  other  children  in  the  neighborhood,   including  cricket.  I was free of worry during that time.  I  had  much  fun  but  had  to leave  since I  promised  mom  I would  be home before  lunch.

I   ran   as  fast  as  I   could,  almost  stumbling  into  Benny,  my  neighbor’s  dog.  I  quickly  patted  his  head  and  continued  to run  towards  my  home.  Upon  arriving,  I  shouted  to mama  that  I  was  home.  My  heart  was  pounding  as  I  sat  down  next  to  our  very  old  transistor  radio. With paper  and  pen  in  hand,  I  sat  poised;  excited,  hoping,  praying  and  waiting.  After  taking  the  winning  lottery  numbers  down  I  slipped  my  ticket  out  of  my  pocket  and   nervously  but  carefully  compared  the numbers.

Sarah Ann Li was one of three Wadadli Pen finalists to receive Optimist awards in 2005; the others were Rilys Adams and Sandrena Martin.

Who  could  have  thought  my  day  was  going  to  turn  out  like  that?  Yes, I had gotten the winning ticket!  I  dashed  into  mom’s  room  and  told  her  the  wondrous  news;  my  dad  and  my  brother  walked  in for  lunch  at  the  same  moment.  We all hugged each other in a tight, emotional hug. The  lord  had  answered  our  prayers,  words  could  not  express  the  feelings  which  flowed  through  us.  Mom was going to be well again.  “Thank you, Lord, for this miracle,” I prayed, silently.  I  felt  I  could  fly  as  the  weight  was  lifted  off  me. 

One  week  later  mama  had  the  operation  and  everything  was  successful.  The stress and worry were gone. We  all  continued  our  normal  lives  and   had  so  much  to  be  thankful  for.

 THE END

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION & TERMS OF USE
Copyright of the winning Wadadli Pen stories and/or art work featured on this site belongs to the creators of the individual works and are used here purely for promotional and educational purposes. Other blog content, except otherwise noted, is created and/or maintained by Joanne C. Hillhouse. Site content should not be copied, distributed, transmitted, used for commercial purposes, altered, transformed, or built upon without the consent of the copyright holders.

Road Trip to Paradise by Ayoka (Angelica) O’Donoghue

[2006 – Young Explorer Wadadli Youth Pen winner]

 “Cuckoo doodle doo…cuckoo doodle doo…”  
 
You don’t have to tell me twice, I’ve been waiting for this day for one whole week, seven whole days…and now it’s FINALLY here! I sprung up instantly energized and stretched. For the first time this week I was enjoying the feel of the cool breeze and the warm rays of the rising sun on my body. I ran over to my older brother to wake him.  
 
“Get up, get up, it’s today. Today’s the day, Dee. Today I get to go on the big road trip that everybody talks about! Yippee!” I all but shouted as I jumped up and down circling him.  
 
My enthusiasm was thrown back at me as Dee grumbled a snide remark, rolled his eyes and turned his back to me.  
 
“Awwww, come on Dee! Aren’t you the least bit happy for me?”  
 
“Just leave me alone Jay…please just leave me alone!”  
 
“You’re just jealous,” I grumbled as I turned away.  
 
Dee wasn’t going on the field trip today. Grandpa Joe said he wasn’t coming this time. Dee was disobedient, he wouldn’t eat his supper or take his vitamins, and only the obedient ones who ate their supper and did as they were told were taken on these special trips as a reward. This week, only a few were chosen for this trip and I felt just GREAT that I was among them! “Dee is not going to spoil this day for me, no way. This is going to be the most memorable and happiest day of my life, I just know it!” I grinned to myself as I skipped outside to look for Emm. Emm is my best friend, has been ever since I can remember. We were born just days apart, and we were both really excited about this trip.  
 
The place was buzzing with excitement when I got outside. Everyone going on the trip was excited, well…most of them were. Those not coming along were whispering amongst themselves. “They all must be so jealous,” I thought to myself. “Soon,” I whispered softly as my eyes searched for Emm, “very soon we’ll be on our way.” I spotted Emm and ran over to meet him.  
 
“Hey Emm! Ya all set an ready fu go?”  
 
“How ya mean, Jay. Ya tink a you wan cyan’t wait?”  
 
We both laughed, jumping up and down, as our excitement soared to yet another level.  
 
“EVERYBODY IN!” boomed Grandpa Joe’s gruffly voice.  
 
Emm and I were the first in line, well… I was first and Emm second. We were placed in the back of Grandpa Joe’s old pick-up and at last, the long awaited journey began. The old pick-up grumbled to life and began to move slowly down the old dusty road.  
 
“KFC! KFC! KFC” I kept saying that over and over in my head just so I wouldn’t forget it… as if I could. I had never been to KFC, but I sure heard a lot about it. That was all we chickens ever spoke about.  
 
KFC is chicken’s paradise, the land of milkshake and honey mustard. Many have gone before and none have returned. They say once you go Colonel your stay is eternal, but who would want to come back to Joe’s Chicken Farm after you’ve made it past those red and white gates of KFC.  

“I can’t wait to be at KFC”. I smiled again to myself, and as I looked back at Dee, he was grinning.  
 
“That’s the spirit Dee; you’ll make it to the other side eventually. Just be obedient and do as Grandpa Joe says. Eat your meals, take your vitamins, go to bed on time and one day you’ll join me on the other side. Till we ‘meat’ again my brother, till we ‘meat’ again.”  
 
To be continued…

THE END

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION & TERMS OF USE
Copyright of the winning Wadadli Pen stories and/or art work featured on this site belongs to the creators of the individual works and are used here purely for promotional and educational purposes. Other blog content, except otherwise noted, is created and/or maintained by Joanne C. Hillhouse. Site content should not be copied, distributed, transmitted, used for commercial purposes, altered, transformed, or built upon without the consent of the copyright holders.

Happy to be Black by Terrikia Benjamin

Terrikia accepts her prize package from the Museum's Michelle Henry

[winner under 12 age category 2010]

Nebula yawned and opened her eyes to the white walls of her lavishly decorated bedroom. She reluctantly pulled herself away from her comfortable, white, blanket and stepped into the cold, Saturday, February morning. Nebula quickly took a bath and brushed her teeth. When she was finished, she stared with disgust at her dark face in the mirror. “Why can’t I be pretty like my white friends?” she thought as she hurried downstairs.

As she entered the room, her father greeted her, “Good morning my beautiful daughter.” Nebula frowned and mumbled, “yeah right.” She sat down and savoured the sugary cereal. Her dad got up and gave her the newspaper. “Read page 13, it will interest you,” he said as he hurried out into the chilly weather.

Nebula flipped to page 13 in the newspaper and saw an advertisement for   the ‘Black and Beautiful’ teenage pageant. “This is not for me. I am not beautiful,” she muttered. “Don’t say that, you are a pretty young lady,” her mother shouted. Nebula screamed, “How can I enter that competition when I look like a black…”, “Ring, ring,” the phone interrupted.

“Answer the phone then read the book from the shelf called ‘My Black Heritage’,” said her mother as she walked into the kitchen.

“Hello,” Nebula answered the telephone. “Hi this is Chelsea. Did you hear about the ‘Black and Beautiful’ pageant?” Chelsea said. “I heard about it,” answered Nebula. “Well I’m going to enter and win. If you decide to enter you’ll need lots of practice and bleaching cream,” Chelsea said as she hung up the telephone.

Two hours later Nebula sat on a black leather sofa and read ‘My Black Heritage.’ She read about the essence of beauty. She read about her black African roots, Rosa Parks and Barack and Michelle Obama. “Wow!” she said to herself as the last words of the novel “beauty is inside of you” repeated themselves in her mind like the beat of an African drum. “Yes I can!” Nebula shouted as a beam of sunlight beamed through the blue curtain and saturated the room.

“Mom!” Nebula shouted as she ran to find her mother. “Yes Neb, what’s wrong?” her mother anxiously asked. “Thanks for the book mom. I learnt so much about my black identity and beauty. I want to enter the beauty contest,” she rambled. “I am so happy and proud of you,” her mother said. “My talent for the pageant will be a dance to the song ‘I am beautiful’.” “How do you know that you are black and beautiful,” asked her mother. Nebula stood confidently with a winning smile on her smooth black velvet face and answered, “I know that I am black and beautiful because I am a confident black girl who is proud of my African heritage and identity”. “You will win the pageant” shouted her mother. “Even if I don’t win, I am happy to be black and beautiful,” Nebula whispered as she hugged her mother.

THE END

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION & TERMS OF USE

Copyright of the winning Wadadli Pen stories and/or art work featured on this site belongs to the creators of the individual works and are used here purely for promotional and educational purposes. Other blog content, except otherwise noted, is created and/or maintained by Joanne C. Hillhouse – coordinator of the Wadadli Youth Pen Prize, and author of The Boy from Willow Bend and Dancing Nude in the Moonlight. Site content should not be copied, distributed, transmitted, used for commercial purposes, altered, transformed, or built upon without the consent of the copyright holders.

Skin Deep by Shakeema Edwards

 [winner 13 to 17 age category in the 2010 Wadadli Pen lit awards]

Shakeema Edwards at the 2010 awards ceremony

He rose his fist into the air but said nothing, yet a deaf-man’s ‘S’ echoed all around them, they heard screams of unity and peace ringing through the air; some were afraid. The[y] stood silent, they stood still, they felt oppression whipping at their bones, they felt the shackles on their feet and they knew they could not escape it. They cried, those who couldn’t help it; they saw children being beaten, there bodies weak from hunger, their empty mouths crying for death, they saw them bleed out in the distance, the red blood pouring from their wounds changed colour. It was now as black as its surroundings.  They felt the pain, deep in the pits of their stomach. They heard an old lady cry out for them. “Little Black boy,” She said, “whose face blends into the shadows of my dreams. Why have you forsaken me?” They felt ashamed. Standing where their Father’s had once stood, fighting for an independence they so quickly neglect. They thought about their fathers; starving away on slave ships, slaving away till death. They heard Bob Marley sing ['Redemption Song'], they heard the bullet ringing in the air that shot Martin Luther down; they had pulled the trigger. They had disowned their heritage, bleached their skin and blended in; they debased their brothers and made their mother weep. He lowered his fist and finally he screamed, “Brothers, Africa weeps.”

 I understood, I thought about my own sins and pains to do everything I could to disown my heritage, I thought about the contents of my medicine cabinet; my bleaching cream, my hair relaxer and the bandages from my surgery. I, who would soon be called to educate my children; what could I possibly do or say or teach them. What, when they asked about Malcolm X or Marcus Garvey, would I say when I knew nothing of them.

He raised his fist into the air as he told us, “I think somewhere in the progress you misunderstood, Black is not the colour of our hearts but our complexions, it is the shadow on our past but the shade which our bright futures will cast.  My brothers, return unto your mother’s bosom and repent, let her know that the days when we fight among ourselves would soon be gone and that the heart of Africa will always remain strong. Repeat after me, he shouted, “Hadharani Ni Umbika,” we repeated, “louder, Hadharani Ni Umbika,” we shouted, “again, Hadharani Ni Umbika,” we believed it.

THE END

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION & TERMS OF USE

Copyright of the winning Wadadli Pen stories and/or art work featured on this site belongs to the creators of the individual works and are used here purely for promotional and educational purposes. Other blog content, except otherwise noted, is created and/or maintained by Joanne C. Hillhouse – coordinator of the Wadadli Youth Pen Prize, and author of The Boy from Willow Bend and Dancing Nude in the Moonlight. Site content should not be copied, distributed, transmitted, used for commercial purposes, altered, transformed, or built upon without the consent of the copyright holders.