Songs From an African Jukebox

By Jessica Uruakpa

A raw, unfiltered and unapologetic look into how the African woman's memoir would read.

Songs From an African Jukebox is the debut first novel from the series

• Language: English
• Publisher: Little Amachara Publications
• Release date: Feb 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781838359911

Book preview

Preface

Over the years, I have written about personal experiences and observations, inspired by a thought, feeling or often some form of pain. Stories of journeys and discoveries as a black child in a foreign country, and that black child’s journey into adulthood, womanhood while juggling the complexities of today’s world.

As we have all adjusted, grieved and shifted during this period of uncertainty and despair, I found comfort in writing. I had to revisit these almost forgotten growing pains, so to speak and let more pour out. It was a burning, a sense of urgency to release all that had been within and hastened to the front during these past months. To finally create this collection of poems and stories inspired by memories, the thoughts and questions too often lived-in silence within the African culture.

And so finally Book One of the collection was born – painful, beautiful and absolutely necessary. As though our rebirth had finally begun, now able to let our jukebox play.

My Shade of Love

He knows not to ask me if that is my real hair;

Nor questions why two days later I am now a blonde;

He understands that yesterday I was happy but today I am sad and I don’t know why;

But he knows with a hug that tomorrow I will bounce back with a smile better than the day before.

He adores my multitude of colours,

Painting his masterpiece with each as though made especially for his brush;

He knows I am more than thick thighs and wide hips;

Seeing every shade of brown on my skin;

His lips know the curves that rewrite and challenge the world every day.

My blackness is his light,

He never hesitates when asked who I am and soaks up the knowledge of my world;

But never pretending to know the walk I walk.

He is my rock;

And I his forest.

Filled with beauty, each turn a mystery but never a chore;

He loves me, often more than I know nor deserve;

when I’m asked why him?

I answer quite simply, he understands my shade of love.

Mama, I want a Pony

I rushed through the front door, finding Mama. I wanted to know what a pony was. Hannah at school said she spent the weekend with her ponies. Was it a baby horse? Or perhaps a female horse? I needed to know. Hannah couldn’t shut up about these ponies, so I wondered if that was the answer to fitting in. I was tired, fed up with the stares at my new school, you know poor sad black girl. No, I wanted to be a cool fun black girl, to be asked to attend the parties. I wanted to wipe the smile off stuck up Hannah’s face. It’s a small horse Mama replied

And so, I told Mama what we both feared would follow, I need to start horse riding lessons. Mama sighed but nodded. At best I could hope for two lessons, if Papa felt it was another of my as he called it attempt to look white I would get 1. But that would do; I had learnt the art of storytelling so I would weave my one horse riding lesson into my parents and I are discussing getting me a horse. How’s that Hannah! 

White grammar school was a bitch, and I was tired of losing. Mama didn’t understand. Whilst the girls lined up to record their car registration with the admin office, I got my note signed so I could get 50% off my bus pass. As I left the line, I explained to Tracey that my parents were eager that I knew the value of money and she simply smiled, a sorrowful one and then went back to talking to the other girls. I knew all your names; first and last, what your parents did, and how many siblings you each had. When you spoke, I noted the shape of your smile and how straight or otherwise your teeth were. Tracey did as you all did; she looked through me and not at me. Do you even know the colour of my eyes? I’ve become very well accustomed to the shape of your back because this often is what I see when you finish talking. It amuses me how you pause briefly after your ramblings, looking for the perfect excuse to exit, as you realise you’ve stood with the black girl a little too long. Or worse, when you fear I may ask to be invited to the weekend plans you’ve all made in front of me but never