Las Vegas , A Midnight in August

Guest Vignette by an anonymous sister of Janay Rice

The ache of a dying relationship is comparable to childbirth. It tears your insides apart; makes you throw up the sedatives you had been taking to cope with the unbearable pain. At some point in the process, you start to admit that there’s no turning back and that this has to come to an end somehow. For your survival. And sometimes, that moment comes only after your air supply has been cut off by the person who once had infinite love for you. In the home you built together. On the couch you shared bodily fluids. You look into his crazed eyes with the realization that he could kill more than your spirit. And you’re left with a choice that no one will ever understand. Either because you left and he was "too good of a man" to deserve that, or because you stayed knowing he was a violent bastard. There are nuances to this birthing process. If you push too soon, you will most certainly tear. If you don’t push, the pain will endure relentlessly. But you will always love everything that led up to this moment.

Because. He’s your baby.

West Side , Subway Ride

I enter the A train at 125th street. An older Dominican woman uses a small mirror to tweeze her chin hairs for the entire 13 minute express ride under Central Park. At Columbus Circle, we pick up a young Scandinavian woman with large, fish eyes and beaten red hair. It is an old train with tightly packed orange seats so she reluctantly rubs against a grey-haired sitar man. Port Authority stop unleashes a wave of aloof commuters. The suits nearly hide a mountain man with a yellow custom-made beard comb. He rakes his hair 40 or 50 times by the time we get to Penn Station. Here an Asian couple loses their balance as the subway car sways--one girl grips her black kiss-lip purse while the other girl drops her bag made of jean shorts sown closed at the butt. They steal a kiss. Doors open.      

East Harlem Cafe , Dinner

She had one of those window-shaking, soul-smacking power voices that could turn a flat café floor into a stage. Most of the songs were originals with only a melodic guitar and her reverberating cords. I ordered my usual turkey sandwich at the counter. “This is dedicated to all the women—no matter your size—who are beautiful”. I closed my eyes and breathed deep the mocha frappuccino iced latte earl grey tea air. It was a Spanish song about walking into the sun with a pimpled face, with hair that stands firm against the wind, with a booty that jiggles at each step, and with a smile that holds back a bitter sweet song of soul.

Liberia , Ebola Implosion 2014

Guest Vignette by Stephanie Nitschke

The new Ebola treatment center in West Point, Liberia has been attacked. My stomach drops as the faces of my youth program girls flash through my mind. Less than six months ago, I visited them in that very same slum. The community pulled apart the medical center shouting, “Ebola does not exist, you only have malaria!” Infected patients were taken out of the clinic and into the slum. On a normal day, West Point surges with tension so thick you could drop a match and the whole place would light on fire. All those people, all that energy, and ebola pent up for an indefinite period of time is asking for an implosion. 

Uganda . 2 Days after Nairobi Mall Attack

A terrorist alert spoiled my attempt at a girl’s night out. Avoid malls and public places they barked. Ugandan police—in all their 20 different uniforms—loitered importantly along every major thoroughfare. My favorite uniform is, of course, the all-white traffic cop suit with calf-high black army boots. They must rub hard to wash away the dust and red clay of the streets daily. I sidestep the barrel end of their nonchalantly holstered Cold-War era rifles and enter the supermarket. Another dinner party at home. I generally fear death by accident here more than by zealotry, but I took precaution this evening nonetheless. The next morning revealed that either peace or prudence had triumphed. We were not attacked in the night.

Murchison Falls, Uganda . January 2011

Guest Vignette by Peter Benhur Nyeko

A few miles from the mist of the roaring falls, Don Jorge the jungle giraffe and his gangly Rothchilds junta, having just stuffed themselves silly on a grazing fiesta, steal a pre-sunset savannah siesta betwixt the elephant palms. Harry the haughty hornbill and his chum Hernandez take their evening stroll past a graceful gazelle as the fading sunlight shimmers off their shiny plumage. Bambi the bushbuck toddler saunters onto the track and freezes, perplexed at the huge four legged people carrier roaring towards him. Lady Doe looks up from her grassy high tea, nods out to him and bolts for the shrubbery. Gulu, Kitgum, and Lamwo await.

My Police Encounters . Harlem Day or Night

The police directive must be for at least three cops to post up on both corners of my street at all times. There is one regular officer who is so tall he enjoys grabbing the top of the crosswalk signal to stretch his arms. Today, like most days, I find Mr. Giant Officer mid-joke with a wide, carefree smile and surprisingly high-pitch laugh. He always stops laughing abruptly just as you pass, much like a teenager playing keep-away with a private jeer. The three police block the center of the sidewalk so people sidestep them, cross the street, or move into the road to avoid them. Engrossed in my phone, I mistakenly bump Mr. Giant Officer with my large purse on his gun-side, knocking his hand from resting atop the holster. Fear grips me—I freeze. Yesterday, I saw him tapping it with his fingertips out of impatience or boredom. His hand ricochets back to his pistol instantly. The other officers whip their heads around to face me and two pedestrians slow down to stare. My threat level is being assessed. I don’t dare breathe or look up. He squares his hips to face me directly, leans down, and orders “Move along”. 

Airplane . Pre-Dawn

It feels like I exist less in both places—like I am less real compared to everyone else. I bunch little white pillows in the space between my seat and the curved, cold plane wall so I can crane my neck less watching the lapsing, dark ocean. A baby whimpers and the stranger beside me stirs for a moment. The world doesn’t seem to move on without them, despite them. Not me. I am painfully aware that the sun still rises here and the night still rages on there after I am gone, and even while I am leaving. I lean away from the sea as my breath fogs the triple-paned glass. It is humbling to visit your legacy. I am there just long enough to make a wave and gone long enough to have that wave calm into a current, and that current disappear into a ripple. Until finally there is only the water’s smooth steady glimmer reflecting a distant moon. 

Kensington Market, Toronto. Last Month

Guest Vignette by Arnab Majumdar            Professional Writer Extraordinaire 

 I find myself in a dusty corner of Toronto’s Kensington Market, working in a French diner with 1-star yelp reviews. I grab the mop with bleached and burned fingers, scanning the tables in an ever-increasing paranoia of bumping into someone from my past. Out in the distance I make out the skyscraper at First Canadian Place, that plain jewel of my ambitions where I sat just moments before. Uganda isn’t Canada, she explained. You’ll have to prove yourself. Stepping out to the floor, I catch the face of my father in the mirror, laughing at the overlap between his journey abroad and my return home. By the cash register the owner fires the recent illegal hire. I remember to go pick up my suit.

Lil' Mike's Birth. July 19-20, 2014

“I know it is meant for the baby’s butt, but we need it for our lips,” she said plainly with one hand up to her parted mouth and one pointing out to the hospital basinet. My family’s eyes darted around the crowded white room searching for sense. “Pass us the Vaseline, please”. Laughter littered the room. My brother crossed to her with his new father face—all apprehension and joy. The grandparents cooed a creole prayer and soft Haitian song by the large windows, as the new mother lay beautiful and glowingly spent in her bed and gown. “You just had a baby and ate an entire bag of gummy worms!” I made my way to the blue hat bundle. A new Black boy with long fingers and little mahogany rimmed ears. There he was lying eyes-wide in my brother’s tattooed arms. An inked chain coiled down from his shoulder to his forearm where his new son’s head rested just above the broken chain link. He lifted up the child of promise and whispered, “I love you little Mike.”