Site icon S Y N A P S I S

the dear asughara series: part two

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 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)





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 



as real as

you, as me 


if you are not

as strange as me

it’s likely 

you will not



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



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



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


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




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 



for the flesh

to be wilder

hotter. more




pearls and pageants

and prissy things. proper

and poised and last name

that is not her


she wants 

to be queer

just for the

rebel of it. to

revel in the


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 


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



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



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



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



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



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



wild child, in third person, to everyone 

she does not

want to die

at least not

anymore. she

just wants to

straddle those



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



me, to Ada

she fears, 


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 



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**


Emezi, A. (2018). Freshwater (First hardcover edition). Groove Press.


“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.

Exit mobile version