What We Carry, Repeat, and Repair — A Jamaican Girlhood
I talk about justice all the time. But reading from my 2nd book, Baba at Calabash wasn’t theory. It was personal. It was memory pushing past my chest, asking to be witnessed.
My hands were shaking. Not from fear—but from the truth rising in my throat, threatening to spill before I was ready. I was reliving something that still breathes beneath my skin.
Baba is for every Black girl who was told to be quiet while bleeding. For those who buried parts of themselves to make others more comfortable. For those still building in the wreckage.
Calabashfestival gave me room to read what I wasn’t sure I could say. It remains one of the few spaces that holds story with tenderness and integrity. I’m grateful—for the stillness, for the safety, and for the women (and one man) who came up to me afterward to share your own truths. I’m still carrying them.
I cant wait to share this with the world.
