Darkwalker Story: Meet Calsepsi

Novella will be released in April 2021

Here is what I have been up to. Let me introduce you to Calsepsi.

There are few things that I remember now.

But the things I remember are so scattered now, but for you, my dear Dark children, I will tell you what I am able to remember. I have been of this blood, for four centuries.

Four hundred years.

Forty decades.

Yet, I remember my last dawn. But I am getting ahead of myself.

I am Calsespi, daughter of Queen Nkimbe and King Junkimbah. I have not seen my parents since I was stolen from the coast of what you may now call Mali. As was the tradition of my people and village that the youngest daughter, is married the oldest son of the next village. “To keep peace, we must sacrifice the precious, Calsepsi.” I was the peace. I was the precious.

The night before my wedding, our village was attacked by enemies of my betroved. My youngest brother, Kheme, grabbed me and pulled me to safety. I saw my village burn, my father taken and mother murdered because she wouldn’t tell where I was. I watched her eyes, my eyes now, looking into her face as she closed her eyes—willing the enemies of her children to not see where she looked. We hid in the brush for two days before we were captured by the Portguese.

I had never been more hungry.

I had never been more angry.

Kheme held onto me like our father did when I was small. His arms like branches, strong and sure as I cried from fear and hunger.

I remember the ship was quiet, the smell was horrendous. I remember all the languages and listened four ours in the bottom of this ship with these men that held what I know now as guns to us as they packed us in.

Packed like boxes.

I imaged if I could die, this is would Hell would be like:  hot, dark, and not knowing what is going on…ever. I remember sleeping a lot. I remember thinking, forgetting what land and sky look like. Kheme and I arrive in South Carolina—of course, I didn’t know that was what it was. I was shackled to Kheme, and separated from him and he screamed to me in our language and I reach for him, the irons placed on me clanging as laughter. “Aww, they must be married! Parson Shelby keep them together!”

Keep them together.

From that togetherness, we have never been apart. We were sold to Parson Shelby and his wife, an evil woman that had her eyes on Kheme from the time she got him. I remember she constantly touched him, stroked him, and would do all in her power to keep me us apart!

I also remember that Parson Shelby was a drunk. He ran a brothel, and I cleaned it. He was no shepherd, and reminded all those pale, ruddy faced people giving him money how it was their right to own people. How they were entitled to do so because ‘these dark, devil people need the brightness of our God. We rule over them to help them!”

That’s when it happened.

1648. It was winter. I remember how cold it was, and how pretty the morning was. Kheme had run away from after Parson Shelby beat him for the last time. That was the habit, you see. Parson Shelby’s wife would give something to Kheme to get him into her bed. After she would have her way with him, Parson Shelby would come in and beat him inside of their bedroom. With Kheme, wounded, again on the floor, Parson Shelby would make love to his wife—if that was what that was.

Kheme had run before that Christmas. He ran in the snow. I remember the blood, his bare feet, and my breath in the window. I had never been so scared. Now that I remember, there was nothing I had been more afraid of. There were stories of slaves that were killed by their masters. Some that jumped back into the ocean, determined to swim home.


Kheme came back by night, in the New Year of 1649. I had been the property of these owners for five years. The child of the Parson in my womb…not by my choice or desire. I remember how shiny that Kheme looked, how icy his skin was. He found me in the back room off the hearth, and he hugged me. Kheme was beaten for not speaking English, Bambara was our mother tongue.

While holding me, he told me that he had met someone and that he was more man than he had ever been. He told me in a loud rush in this small space on which I slept on the floor that he was different. Stronger. Faster. “I can see as well in the dark as the sun cold ever let me!” he said, still holding me. The scent of the outside in my nose, the cold pushing into me like needles. I no longer fear the lash, Calsepsi.” I squeezed him harder, happy to hear my name in the language of our parents. These people, these owners, called me ‘Bess’. He pulled me from the world of our creation, made up our my warm and his chill, and stood.  He looked like a giant as I sat on the floor, the life in me, flipping.  With his face to me, his back more like mountains. I wanted to go to him, hold him, share what he held in his heart like I had when we had crossed the ocean together. “I no longer fear the lash.”

I bit my lip, wrapping my arms around him. I willed my ears to hear everything that was going to happen next. “I no longer fear the lash, the heat or the cold.” If felt colder then. “I have seen the amshun in the village, saw him when I ran. I wanted the strength to come back and get to you, Calsepsi!” I stood then, all things in me buzzing. “Say it.” I said, I too not wanting the world to come in this moment by speaking the language of the people that stole us. “The amshun said that he would make me…”

I didn’t need him to say the word. I knew what the amshun was. I knew what they did. There was a girl I worked in the tavern with that was related to one. There was a rumor that an amshun had the pour of life and death, and it was in their blood to do so. “If you drink the potion of the amshun, death will not touch you.”

The slaves at that time didn’t know what a vampire was, you see. That wasn’t a reality. There was no word! But when my brother, my protector turned to face me, wrapped in the blankets which gave no warmth, my brother’s eyes opened and were red, this burning orange. “I no longer fear the lash.” As he wiped his mouth, he could see red on his teeth. Blood.

There was a word the other slaves had for those that went to see amshuns–  Darkwalkers. Amshuns were a special type of apothecary. They made medicines, poisons, yes. But this potion was not supposed to be real! It was supposed to be a myth. My brother was now a Darkwalker! Hearing my thoughts, he walked to me, pulling me back into his over six-foot frame.  “I came to get you Calsepsi.” There was something about him uttering the word, get. I watched as he took me to the salon, were Pastor Shelby and his wife lay on the blood, bleeding. He stood behind me, making me witness his Puric victory. “You never need to fear him taking you again, Calsepsi. Come with me, we can go home. I can make you strong enough to go home.”


It was that fast. The rage welling in me, sentient and more real than anything. I made one fist, then two. “Make me not fear the lash, my brother. Make me as strong as you.” As I exhaled, I felt a bite in my neck. Fire went through me, consuming and insistent. I remember opening my eyes willing them to stay open as I had times before when Parson Shelby would try and take my body. My eyes would make him leave, save for this last time in the fall. I felt the flipping in my belly slow and cease. “Calsepsi, drink.” I didn’t move. I turned to face him, head and limbs burning. Kheme put his  wrist to my mouth and I remember closing my eyes. His blood was cool, sweet and rippled down my throat.

I remember falling to the floor, screaming as what I carried inside of me crawling, oozing out of me. As it died, I held onto myself to keep from ripping in half. “Calsepsi, don’t fight it. You are so strong, and this will make you stronger!” He knelt at her head. “My dear sister, you will never have to fear any man—free or slave—ever again.”

The Life Of A Dangerous Black Girl-Lie #1: You Are Too Much

The most vicious lie you can tell a Black girl is that she is ‘too much.’

In the 39 years I have been on the planet, I have neither been explained what exactly is the criteria for being ‘too much’, nor have I been advised that being a good thing! So, what is too much? What does to mean to be ‘too much’? But there is a criteria to this! There is a reason that the world loves to call a girl they cannot deal with, who does not conform, a problem. She is a problem, because there is no archetype to the type of woman that she is. Rather than look at the gift that is femininity and ambition, it is the former that is seen the thing that is the aberration. The thing, this entity inside of her that must be stomped out, questioned, ignored or erased on every hand! 

We know the memes and quotes about the ‘quieting women.’ But there is a quote that I hold close to my chest about this idea of being ‘too much.’ The quote goes like this: “Black women will always be too loud for world that never intended to hear them.” We will always be too loud. Too vocal. Too angry. Too quiet. Too smart. Too…Black. We will always be too much. Yet, we go on anyway don’t we? Yet, there is something about this ‘too much.’ There is this indignity that comes with being called this, being classified as this. There are different types of scarlet letters–this I have seen myself. Black women are pushed into cookie cutter molds that cut pieces of us away! We are constantly pushed into these molds which are neither designed by us, or designed for us. Erasure is habit for Black women and girls! It has become easier to tell a girl what she is not, rather than confirm what she is!

What is she?

Can she not be both Black and ambitious?

Black and aware of her Blackness?

Can she not be what she determines outside of the gaze of an unaware public?

It is easier to assign ‘too much’ to a woman that you have no idea how to handle. This is a stigma, a warning to any other less-than man that wanted to be with her—but has no idea what that means? Too much as a woman, means there will be/are a certain type of man that will believe by the justification of his sex–and the superiority that only a phallus can grant–that you should accommodate this inadequacies with the lessening of yourself! And they become indignant when you do not, will not, shall never diminish for their comfort? As Eartha Kitt said, “Compromise? Compromise for what? Respect has to be earned!” Cersei Lannister said you have to earn a Queen–and she will always be whom she is. If you cannot chase her, if she dismisses you because you were not enough–admit that! A woman will always be ‘too much’ for a man that never intended on being enough for her.

Women whom are ‘too much’ change the world–because the world wouldn’t change for them.

The Rivalry Of Black Women: Why Does The World Needs Black Women To Fight?

“I don’t declare a winner when Black women are involved.”-my FB friend, Twyla.

I remember the Monica/Brandy, Brandy/Monica rivalry. I remember liking Brandy and Monica! But at the same time, when I heard Monica’s voice as a 14-year-old? Chile, you couldn’t tell me nothing! And I was wearing my hair short in high school anyway?! For whatever reason, my parents wouldn’t let me have ‘Brandy Braids.” But that is another conversation for another day.

The conversation surrounding this Verzuz Battle got me to thinking. Why is it such amusement to see Black women at each other? Why is the rivalry (or any rivalry) a sport between Black women a source of amusement for the entire world? Yet, it reminded me of a conversation that Tyra Banks had with Naomi Campbell when she had her talk show. Now, for those of you who are my younger tribe members, let me tell you who these two people are.

Tyra Banks (before she hosted/created America’s Next Top Model and had a talk show (Tyra)) was a supermodel in the late 1990’s. She is Black. She is still gorgeous.

Naomi Campbell is a supermodel, and has been a model for at least 30 years. Not an exaggeration. Not a typo. Naomi is 50 now, and still incredibly stunning.

I bring them up in this space of rivalry and competition because there are themes I saw in this Verzuz that I saw on the Naomi Campbell came on Tyra’s show! The thing that Tyra said to Naomi was the industry they were in (modeling, beauty) seemed to not be able to handle there being more than one Black supermodel in the industry.


Tyra went on to say that she felt that Naomi didn’t like her, she felt alone, and just wondered why it was Naomi (seemed) not to like her! Imagine that! Tyra Banks was a young, pretty, Black girl that is modeling–a very non-Black space, and the person that could help you–hates you! That struck me, deeply. It was from that show–that moment!–that I purposed I would not tear down another Black woman for my own gain.

With Brandy and Monica, Monica and Brandy I see the same thread. Women in an industry that thrives on talent, yes, but also exploits! This is the same industry that helped to take WHITNEY ELIZABETH HOUSTON from us! It is so easy for the world to put lanes and limits on Black women; to compete for things that we should have access to and for. Instead of fighting the industry by which we are making our way in, confronting the people/entities that control it, we fight for access to the one door they offer.

We fight each other for the one door.

The killer part? There was so much shade thrown on social media, that it overshadowed the fact these women have had careers in an industry that devours women or replicates them! What was the sweetest thing was this 30 second clip Verzuz didn’t show–Monica and Brandy actually hugging back stage. There was shade thrown at their outfits, and how they tried to make small talk. What I will say is the conversation did look forced. But, that is from the context of not seeing what happened backstage? Yeah, it does look more forced than it probably was.


But the history, the innuendo, and the need to have Black women compete for what should be shared or built to accommodate–it’s more amusing to have us fight. And we fall into it. Brandy has had so much success, and tragedy. Monica has had so much success and tragedy. And it is said that from great tragedy comes great art.

This rivalry was supposed be 20 years ago…so can we leave it there? Please?

This year has been hard enough. The easiest thing to do now, I feel, is celebrate more than we criticize. The winner last night for this Verzuz was the culture! It was us! It was good to just jam and reminiscence for a couple hours, man! It was lovely! They aren’t best friends, and they don’t ever need to be. They were grown-ass women with careers, babies and a bag to secure!

The most beautiful thing? They did it for us…because that’s what Black women do.

The Battle of “Pick Me’s”

This rant is courtesy of Facebook. A girl named Vanessa Bobineaux shared this and a FB friend of mine shared it after. This here is the roux of being a ‘Pick Me’. Dig this part though: I said what I said. -JBHarris, 9/1/2020

This is a false equivalence.

For every woman that is “tying to do what a man does”, there is a woman trying to do what she HAS to because the man that promised her help, DID NOT, HAS NOT, or WILL NOT!

This issue is not solely based on “feminist ideology.” Some is this is because men are not being raised or taught as they used to. Some men are TAUGHT a woman is supposed to do everything for you; she must become LESS than in order for you to be secure and right.

Biologically, I know I cannot do everything a man can do. The issue is when a man doesn’t want to do/know how to do all he is supposed to! And because the makeup of women is to nurture and maintain, we fill in the gaps!

We get the second job.

We take the extra shifts.

We take kids for hair cuts and braid appointments.

We change tires and oil.

We tend to you and the kids when you “just can’t do it today.”

We aren’t “losing” our uniqueness—WE ARE TIRED.

For that reason, we have stopped asking for help, because help isn’t coming. We carry the groceries in because we bought them! We go car shopping with Carvana and Car Facts because when some of us ask the men in our lives for help? Then we ‘need too much.’

But no, no, not losing our uniqueness. We are becoming something else—and not by choice. This strength has come from some of us as women tired of asking for help, and no one coming. Most women have no eversion to being taken care of—no woman I know does. We just haven’t been blessed with a partner who can do that consistently. That needs to be factored in as well! Not to mention there are women who need healing from the traumatic lie of “I don’t need a man for nothing”, but keep engaging in toxic behavior with the same people (read: men) they claim no to want.

This is bigger than a post.

How Do You Bury A King? (for Chadwick Boseman)

It is with deep sadness that I have to report the passing of Chadwick Boseman at age 43. This young man pressed, for US, so a generation of Black boys can see themselves on screen–for generations to come. Thank you, Chadwick. Thank you.

How do you bury a king

When all have seen him rise?

How do you bury a king when

We have all seen ourselves in his eyes?

How can you be told that he whom has

Embraced both crown and light

Now neither can exist in the same space

Because the vessel made able and ready

To hold both is now gone.

Gone, knowing that death is never the end and the end is only the beginning, because the beginning is always on going.

And since it is on-going, so must we be on-going.

We must go on.

Life must go on.

We must be alive to remain and to remain is to identify all that a king as left.

Nothing is gone, only remembered.

We take crown and light to remind

Ourselves our king has not left us…but is in us.

How do you bury a king

When all have seen him rise?

How do you bury a king when

We have all seen ourselves in his eyes?

(c) JBHarris, August 2020

In Remembering Anne Frank

Anne Frank - Diary, Quotes & Family - Biography
Anne Frank would have been 91 this year. Think about this.

I am a voracious reader, and a student of history. In past life, I wanted to study international business, but the arts won me over.

The first time I heard of Anne Frank I was 10 or 11 years old. I had a father who was a student of history, so documentaries were not a strange occurrence around my house growing up. Yet, I only began to hear about Anne Frank when I was in middle school–four years younger than the age she was when she died in Bergen-Belsen in 1945–46 years before I would be born. I remember being in my 6th grade Language Arts class and having to read excerpts of her diary for a unit we were studying–I think it was on narrative writing. In reading her diary for a class felt wrong to me. I knew she was dead, yes, so she wouldn’t mind. But, it was her diary! And it is for that reason, I have always given her work (that is what it is now, her work) a certain respect that I cannot place for any other writer. Neither do I have it for any other writer.

With the state of world including the rise in anti-Semitism, I comfort myself in watching V For Vendetta often. But, I actually watched the documentary #AnneFrank Parallel Stories on Netflix (Go! Watch it now!). And at 39–24 years older than Anne Frank got to be and 52 years younger than she would be today–that same reverence is there for her. As Helen Mirren read from her diary, I found out more about her than I new before! I had always wondered HOW she had lost her diary and WHO kept it (a woman named Miep who owned the house they hid in for 2 years). I had thought about whose decision it was to publish it (it was her father, the only Frank family survivor in early 1960’s-I can only imagine how he felt!). Through this documentary, Anne became more real–and more of a writer–than I thought as that 11-year-old girl at Yeatman Middle School, whose only outlet was reading and writing.

I am ashamed to say that I have not read her whole diary, but I aim to do that this year. Which leads to the question: What does this have to do with anything, right?

Stories matter. Stories teach. Stories reach! They compel, and they tell, and they give peace when they can, and warnings where they must! Anne Frank’s diary is a first-hand account of a girl in the beginning of life, watching her entire life change! And for this reason, for this cause, her work–her diary!–must be studied. It must be taught! The story of her life must be perserved!

I chose this picture of Anne because I like to think had she lived, this is how she would be poised at her desk. Or in her office writing for a newspaper. Or writing her novels. I imagine her all seasoned, wizened, badass with pen in hand. Just imagine what her autobiography would have been like?

Remember the Beyonce song I Was Here? That is how I felt watching this documentary. That is the feeling I get when I encourage other writers to tell their stories, and be bold enough to write down what they cannot speak. Words matter. Stories matter. The story of your life matters. Besides, if you don’t believe me, ask Anne.

Anne Frank quote: Dead people receive more flowers than the living ones  because...

Another shameless documentary plug on Netflix which is based on a book is Steal A Pencil For Me. You’re welcome.

Overview-Life Of A Dangerous Black Girl

Tee-shirt is courtesy of Made With Melanin on Instagram. I am a Brand Ambassador for them.

For my almost 40 years of living, I have been told what I am not. I have been told so often what I am not that am not sure just how I made it through the forests of lies made for me to die in. There in an incredible sense of self that Black woman and girls have to develop to survive, and it is echoed through the word of Poet Laureate, Lucille Clifton in her poem Won’t You Celebrate With Me:

won’t you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my other hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.

This has never been so apt as it right now. In the face of aging, the thought of aging alone and still desiring to fight to love and self once more—all while protecting everything and everyone that is around you. This miniseries was born from the Facebook live of Bishop Talbert Swan from last week. In that live, he spoke about the need for some white folk to control what people do in spaces they don’t belong in! Speaking on things they neither participated, contributed to or sustain. In that space, with that certain, there was need in me to free myself of the expectations people whom do not know me, or may know me, that I may might find my whole self…again. And perhaps, you find yours as well.

The writer bell hooks said, no woman has ever written enough. So with that as my war cry, I write. From that freedom, may I guide you out of your forest of lies as well. Let the light come.

Dear Megan…

Megan Thee Stallion Is Getting Dragged On Social Media Over Her GPA

Dear Megan:

I am so proud of you, owning all that you are, and not letting a male-dominated industry define who you are, what you should do, and what you need to become. As one that grew up listening to Monie Love, Yo-Yo, Queen Latifah and Lil’ Kim, I am delighted that you make beta males feel some type of way.


What I want you to know is you deserve better that how the world is treating you. It is irritating to see how easily rumors about you can be and are spread–and believed! Keep shining ma’am. And own every part of your WAP, do you hear me? On all parts of it.

Make no mistake, for every piece of ground you are walking on, for every door you walk into, know that you belong there! Now that its by your whit and hustle that you got to where you are, and let no one tell you different.

FUCK EM UP SIS! And do these on two occasions: frequently and often.

I want you to have the presence that Queen Latifah still does.

I want you to spit with the same confidence Foxxy, Lil Kim and Eve had.

Climb. Shine. Repeat.

I want you to–most importantly–remember what it is you bring to any situation, eat and any table–even if to have turn it over yourself.

See, what these 39 years of life have taught me to things in multiple instances:

1.) The world hates bold women.

2.) The world doesn’t know what to do with bold women.

Move in the world, Meg. And if they can’t hang? Move ’em out your world.

Always, Jaye

Sneak Peek-The Uber Driver

Thank you to Big Black Chapters for this challenge through the Facebook Page Big Black Chapters. This might be the start of something else. -JBHarris

Harley fiddled with her keychain outside the St. Anthony’s parking garage. She had called for her Uber after working all day. She flexed her feet in the white Dansko’s she wore. She closed her eyes, remembering the text she received sent during her lunch.

This is over. I want a divorce.

Harley closed her eyes, letting the warmth of the setting sun be pulled into her. It wasn’t the fact that she wanted a divorce. It was the fact that Khia had sent her this at lunch! The thing she normally didn’t get as a nurse on the cardiac transplant floor. Harley checked her lavender iPhone for the status of her Uber. The blinking of stoplight reflected off her phone, telling her that her driver, Samuel, would be there to get her in 12 minutes. Destination: Home.

She exhaled in to the March night, wishing she still had her mother to go home to. Her mother, Elizabeth, would have know what to do. Her perfume, something by Dior, would have enveloped her. Her tears would find safety on whatever shirt she wore. And she would lay in bed with her, and the magic in her bed would let her sleep.

Sleep would not be what she would get tonight. But if Chase as willing, she wouldn’t be sleeping alone either. “Get over one by getting under another,” her mother said. And who was she to argue?

Making A Place…For Us (For John Lewis)-#3

Q&A: Representative John Lewis Will Never Lose Hope
Wise men plant trees, even thought they may never see the shade of them.

Because he is with us,

and his history speaks to us,

we now we are the causes

of change and Good Trouble.

In his passing, in the seed

which became the root,

which begets the tree,

we can partake of shade

and strength, resting

for the moment, being

equipped for the fight

ahead, which should be won

which must be won!

We are both alone

and together,

both united and distant

as we remember what

heroes look like,

how loud lions are,

and the determination

it takes to be bridge

and door.

We are the causes of Good Trouble.

(c) JBHarris, August 2020