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280 pages, ebook
First published July 27, 2019

His soul was on fire and his heart was unbound. His questions were answered. He'd found them in the body, heart, and soul of the man he held. There was a twilight inside him, the end of something, a door closing as another one opened. He belonged here, in this moment, in this place. In these arms.
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"Ikolo chuckled, a tiny smile playing over his lips. Elliot wanted to drown in that smile, tease it out, make Ikolo laugh and break out into the wide, wonderful smile that stopped his heart."





Most people write me off when they see me.
They do not know my story.
They say I am just an African.
They judge me before they get to know me.
What they do not know is...
He was a teenager who craved a world that didn’t discard him at a single glance. He wanted a dream, but the world wouldn’t let him have one. He wanted a future in a world that looked deeper and saw who he really was, and that didn’t just stop at the color of his skin.
But for centuries, black skin had defined what a person was far more than who they were in their heart and soul: a slave. A second-class citizen. A threat, someone dangerous, someone to be avoided. A criminal. He was less than. He was less deserving of life. He was less vital to the racist world.
A man who lived through a holocaust of his country, the cataclysm of his soul, and came out the other side wanting to put his world and his people together again. A thousand different things could have broken Ikolo, but he never had.
The pride I have in the blood that runs through my veins;
The pride I have in my rich culture and the history of my people;
The pride I have in my strong family ties and the deep connection to my community;
The pride I have in the African music, African art, and African dance;
The pride I have in my name and the meaning behind it.
It clawed at him, scraped him raw inside every time the mzungus wanted to photograph their tragedies. Take pictures of their lives and send them to the West, glorifying their agony and calling it art. Some of those photos won awards, the photographers earning thousands of dollars for the perfect, best shot. The shot that captured the most eloquent suffering, the best visceral gut-punch agonizing image of African suffering. Photos that the West looked at and moved on with no more than a sigh, or changed the channel. It wasn’t Western suffering.
After the photos were taken, all the photographers went home and left Ikolo and everyone else behind. Their lives were nothing but phantoms on film, insubstantial beyond apertures and shutter speeds.
None of those photographers had to live this life. No one who sighed at their anguish could step into the photo and smell the blood and the filth, the despair so thick in the air it was the only thing that could push the humidity away, or feel the exhaustion that tried to shred his arms and legs from his body. No one had to live beyond the edges of the photos except for them: Africans.
His soul was on fire and his heart was unbound. His questions were answered. He’d found them in the body, heart, and soul of the man he held. There was a twilight inside him, the end of something, a door closing as another one opened. He belonged here, in this moment, in this place. In these arms.
Just as my name has meaning, I too will live my life with meaning.
So you think I am nothing?
Don’t worry about what I am now,
For what I will be, I am gradually becoming.
I will raise my head high wherever I go
Because of my African pride,
And nobody will take that away from me
