Cracked Open: How Afro Urban Society’s Writing Workshop Inspired Transformation and Creativity
BY NABATHEGODDESS
Mr French
I took a writing class that cracked me open like a coconut. In places I didn’t know needed cracking. Our instructor, Mr French, well Michael French, but who doesn’t want to say ‘Mr French’ to a beautiful black man with a beautiful black-from-somewhere-fun accent, who’s teaching you a fiction writing class from a beautiful room, that looks like an attic or a cabin, very woody, flooded with light, splattered with thoughts and giving off vibes of this is the writing retreat we all need. I wonder if he lives there…
I digress, this was the class:
How I Got Here
First, an intro. Hey, I’m Naba. I’m a writer, self-published. I write poetry and poetic prose. My style is more stream of consciousness. I process my downloads in writing and then I publish. It excites me that the world basically reads my journals.
I made a book, Pleased :)! A collection of 8 poems that are serenades to myself, my lover-friends and an ode to my Grandma, Nabangala the first. A great achievement, right? Considering I wrote the poems, designed the book, found an editor and raised money to print 150 copies!!
Well, the book went to print in June 2023, and I went and took a job. After 3 years of being liberated from Babylon and writing full-time, and earning from my writing- I self-published, printed and then went and took a job. In retrospect, I call that running pro max™. And fear. I believe it was a fear of being great. And a not knowing how to pause and celebrate my accomplishments.
Fast forward a year later, I am blocked, burnt out and once again, trying to get free from Babylon. (I had already got out in 2020. I was so angry with myself for giving up and going back. Nkt!) Building back lost momentum is a hard job, as was evidenced by my experience finally hosting a book launch party 12 months after release. It felt like pulling teeth, pushing a boulder up a hill, insert relevant idiom…
When I’m at my best, I convene with ease. Bringing people together is usually a magical, seamless experience. This time, it was painful. I had lost so much ground hiding behind this job, supporting and spotlighting other artists while I neglected myself.
I broke free. Left the job. Chose myself. And saw the email about the writing workshop.
The Class
I loved the class. Saturday 8pm for me. I loved the excuse to say no to everyone else’s plans. Solitude was my cure for the blocked and burned out state I was in. I loved my classmates. There is such beauty in being in an exclusive group of copper-coloured folk from different parts of the world. Shoutout to my faves: Caleb, such good vibes. When he’s excited its infectious. His happy face looks like a 10-year old that found their happy place. Jamila, always listening, gave great feedback, very self assured writing and super good fiction! The Professor :)! They gave the impression of a very organised mind and it showed in the flow of their final story for the class. Left me feeling ‘wow’ with bright shiny eyes because “wow, I’m inspired.” And finally Sheila! Blew my mind. She described the Kitchen in a way that had me relive my own childhood, imagine my mother’s childhood and get a peek into my grandma’s childhood too! I want to read more from Sheila. I love that she has chosen to write.
The Coconut
I signed up for the class in search of writing prompts. I write my writings in response to life. I love a good writing prompt. First class, I was ready. Saturday night. I took a nap right before. Fresh as a daisy and just in time. Every conversation was a writing prompt. We talked about our ideal lives:
In my ideal life, I speak up to 100 African languages. I write lesbian erotica in any language of my choice and its translated 100 ways. I drive only red cars everywhere I go. I eat a perfectly high vibrational diet of fruit and raw veg. I live on a mountain overlooking the ocean. I travel the world from tropical beach to tropical beach hosting Lesbian Love Fests. I am insanely rich off of my words!
We talked about our different identities:
Divine feminine/ Goddess/ Lesbian/ African/ Creator/ Magic Maker
Then Mr French asked us to list 5 inherited traditions from our upbringings. Here comes the coconut. These were mine:
Always make room for others even if it makes you uncomfortable
Plan like a crisis is coming
Emotions are expensive
Be modest, be nice
Shit-talking family members as a norm
The Crack
I barely made it to class on week four because: always make room for others even if it makes you uncomfortable. I made too much room that week and by Saturday night, I had nothing left for myself. That day I tuned into class like I was listening to the radio. Too depleted to hold up a pen and write, or hold a conversation with eight other people.
In my story drafts for class over the 5 weeks, “Mother” came up a lot as the antagonist in my life. The person who taught me to “always make room”. I learned by example, watching her always adjust for others and then bitch about it (see no.5 above), but still do it. Long-suffering. Self-righteous too, because I remember a lament once about “… but Mary is a good girl, mimi sijafanyia mtu vibaya,” in response to another family member talking shit about her.
In creating up fiction scenarios for this inherited tradition, I unlocked a lot of anger about the invasion of my personal space. Past and present invasions. The crack.
Invasions like, in the lead up to week 4 of class, a friend called and asked to stay over a few days. I automatically said yes and didn’t ask how long they would stay. Turned out to be six days. Six days up until 3 hours before class on Saturday. For me it was six days of people pleasing, my natural inherited reflex when it comes to people I love or people I feel obligated to. Six days of making room, indulging their needs, saying yes to plans when all I really wanted was to be home alone. Every moment of those six days was a drain on my energy because I had to put myself and my needs away to co-exist with them.
Invasions like neighbours who feel entitled to ‘hanging out’ and who are constantly barging in asking for stuff. I didn’t know this before but I truly hate to be interrupted. I don’t make friends with my neighbours anymore. That familiarity is too costly for me. Small talk easily turns into a constant invasion of my space. When I’m home there is no sound I dread more than somebody coming up the stairs calling out my name- because they are usually uninvited and always wanting something. Absolutely not. I encourage self-reliance for all of us. I read somewhere that self-reliance is an absence of interference. Yes, please.
And my invasion origin story. As a child sharing a room with my sister. A room that was always messy, piles of stuff everywhere and I don’t remember ever having any alone time in there. Then sharing a room with the nanny. Then with my mother at some point. Then at my dad’s houses where my room would also be the office, the laundry room, the guest room… always me who had to make room.
Which brought me to now. In my adulthood, I have been adjusting for others and dying inside about it- but I didn’t clock this until now. Until the coconut cracked. I realise that I don’t just live alone, (in a perfect one bedroom apartment, designed for one!) because I’m single and child-free. I live alone because it is my life’s purpose to reclaim my personal space. What?!
Bliss! That “no” rolls off my tongue like butter now. I say no to 95% of the things that people ask of me and wow! Saying no about my personal space is the freedom level I’ve been reaching for all my life. I feel like a child who just learned how to say “mine”.
The adult in me looks around and says, “All mine!”
My Short Story
I owe Mr French and my classmates a story. I never quite wrote mine for the final class, I lost momentum after the Week 4 interruption. Truth is, I’m nervous about writing fiction. It feels like something that those writers ‘over there’ can do and they do it really well. However!!! This class showed me that fiction is how we get to work out our true demons. In imagining a world of your own creation, your mind is lulled into a safe space and the realest parts of you start to shine through. The realest pains and shadows feel safe to come out and show themselves. Seeing these parts of you, acknowledging them and then showing them to the world is such catharsis.
So, I know that this nervousness is masked excitement because the writing prompts are here and they are plenty!!! I am so excited to write!
To Mr French- you did the damn thing. Colour me inspired, informed and cracked open like a coconut. I’mma send you a picture from my own beautiful cabin/ attic, writing retreat room flooded with light, wood finishings and my thoughts all over the walls!
This article first appeared on The Pleased Newsletter. Subscribe for more Naba stories!
In my ideal life, I speak up to 100 African languages. I write lesbian erotica in any language of my choice and its translated 100 ways. I drive only red cars everywhere I go. I eat a perfectly high vibrational diet of fruit and raw veg. I live on a mountain overlooking the ocean. I travel the world from tropical beach to tropical beach hosting Lesbian Love Fests. I am insanely rich off of my words!