what would it mean to write madness from the site of black girl interior?
[This Series is a conversation between my interior and the interior of Ada, Freshwater’s protagonist. As a Black girl who, at times, has experienced multiple selves, I allow my messy insides to narrate a semi-fictional account that reflects my spiritual experience of journeying with this book.
*If you have not yet read Part One of The Dear Asughara Series, please read that before you read this. You will need it for context and clarity, guidance and grounding.
. . .
THE DEAR ASỤGHARA SERIES: PART TWO
“the world in my head has been far more real than the one outside – may that’s the exact definition of madness, come to think of it”
(Freshwater, p. 93)
/
me
dear reader,
what you have to understand
is that
i live in multiple planes
i exist at multiple scales
as multiple selves
yes, multiple selves
and yes, it is true
there are multiple realities
occurring inside of me
all at once
and what you have to understand
is that the reality “in my head
[is often] far more real
than the [reality] outside” (93)
and this is a
sacred war
of sorts
-a war between the planes-
this is not a metaphor
it is literally
quite literal
as real as
Asughara
as real as
you, as me
if you are not
as strange as me
it’s likely
you will not
understand
if your body
is not a portal
it’s likely
you will not
get it. i have grown
weary with the work
of trying to explain
.
dear sister,
can you hold my hand
as i head into the chaos
of my making?
this is a sacred war of sorts
between we who wish to
return to the body, and we
who refuse to obey
.
wild child, to Asughara
blood. belief
and sensitive skin
i am prone
to too much knowing
it was a song for me, too
that brought me close
and ignited the
second birthing
.
me, to Asughara and Her Ghosts
i, too
have altars
with names
i wonder
how come
i am so much
like this woman –
sixteen with
scars and sins
reaching
arms outstretched
for a christ
and a cloth
that we cling to
a christ
and a cloth
that might
hold me. he
never came
but the gods did
or the spirits did. or
did they? was it really
just me all along?
and here i am
in north carolina
having to pretend
like pages of this
book have not
ruptured me. i knew
i should have never opened this
not here. not now. in
foreign hotel rooms
alone. with no comfort
no grounding
.
ancestor say
no mistakes
if not now when
my child
.
i am tasked
with rememory
of who it is i am
and what all i believe
with the journeying
of each page
/
wild child, to Asughara
we too tight tall twin sisters
birthed at the merging of our mother
birthed at the meeting of our mother
made wings out wounds and things
and this
is how we
survived
but we could not break
this child, this child
she knows
way too much
of her power now
/
me, to Asughara + Ada’s Ghosts + Mines
you, spirits
are not more
holy
than the
human life
of the girl
let that girl
have her human life
support her
in that path
you, shadow
are a sad sad city
set on tunnels
for loathing
but i
love you
i gift you good
with golden brick
roads and bridges
back home
this is your struggle
not mines
give us girls
our bodies back
give us girls
our wings
give us girls
our bodies back
give us back
our things
that girl, that Ada
she has a right
to her flesh
me, my girls, we got a right to
this flesh. please, give us back
our things
/
wild child, in third person, to everyone
she is
burnt orange
brick red
burgundy flame
unruly
wild. roaring
through oceans
and streams
the great Shango
may claim her head
at times, like ogbanje,
she wishes her dead
did you know, she’s only
half/ of one part?
at times
she despises
being human
wishes
for the flesh
to be wilder
hotter. more
untamed
hates
pearls and pageants
and prissy things. proper
and poised and last name
that is not her
mother’s
she wants
to be queer
just for the
rebel of it. to
revel in the
boldness
of her choosing
she wants to
act out. cut up. burn down
run away. to the moon
start over
she sees herself
in Asughara
she comes alive
in the light of Asughara
Asughara is the girl
that gives her wings
/
me, to Ada
Asughara
wakes up
the rage
of the child
and wages a war
inside me
this pretty precious thing
i call my life, this
wild child wanna
pull me out of
she is the baby
of the rape
like Asughara
the child
that was birthed
from a chimney
of chains
heavy, heavy
teen girl energy
smoking. choking
on rage
she is the rage
that lay dormant
inside me
Asughara
wakes her up
gives her wings
she wishes to
run amuck
f*ck sh*t up
waste her luck
she’s in love
with the fire
addictively
she is the girl
that wishes
to drown at sea
to set flame
to the ocean floor
to get stuck
and fall in love
with the flux space
she is the one
who pulls all souls
out my body
she is the one
who pulls my soul
out my body
she is so bored
with this picture perfect life
the life we made
to disguise her
she is addicted
to the pace of chaos
right now,
there is too much
peace
some girl in me
asks her,
what if we soften,
my sister, what if we
soften, and settle in?
she grins. wicked with
wonder, bout why we who
live here would ever really want
anything that is not
dysfunction
wild child, in third person, to everyone
wild child
has no desire
to come home
to here. this
body, this life
is no home to me
and death
ain’t quite home either
home is
the space between the gates
she loves to be in flux. uprooted
fully immersed
in the high of the feeling
the dive is what keeps her
alive
me, to Ada
she hates to be restricted
wants all of my time
a full whole
half life
ruled by the
feeling. and the
feening for the
feeling, of
destruction
wild child, in third person, to everyone
she does not
want to die
at least not
anymore. she
just wants to
straddle those
lines
she does not
want to die
at least not
anymore. she
just don’t
really wanna
stay alive
at least,
not alive like how they see it
healthy and whole and
here and stuff
she enjoys
the flux, like
way too much
she enjoys,
too thoroughly
her fragmentation
it is the thing that
keeps her
alive
me, to Ada
she fears,
desperately,
that if i
get well
i won’t
need her
that if i get well
there will be no room
for the girl and her
fire. her edge. her angst
she is a dragon
the spark of a
phoenix. she is
rare and raw and
raging
pacing back and forth
in the walls of my mind
she can’t afford
to bid me well
no, not this time
.
.
.
**stay tuned for Part Three of The Dear Asughara Series**
TEXT CITATIONS
Emezi, A. (2018). Freshwater (First hardcover edition). Groove Press.
IMAGE CITATION
“the strangeness of wildness and things.” wild child + reelaviolette. 2023.
+
deep gratitude for conversations with Ifechukwu and Dianu for returning me to the words angst and dysfunction in our collective explorations of Freshwater. deep gratitude to Eushavia and Elondra for providing the sacred container to explore the book in community.
