Voodoonauts Presents: A Collection of Black Magical Stories & Poetry

By Android Press

From the Voodoonauts Afrofuturist collective for Black science fiction and fantasy writers.

When a desperately mundane woman borrows clothing from her mother, a soucouyant goes searching for her skin. A Nigerian parent climbs mountains to heaven to steal a name and glorious destiny for their newborn. A master tailor gets her sk

• Language: English
• Publisher: Android Press
• Release date: Nov 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781958121108

Book preview

Voodoonauts Presents: (Re)Living Mythology

Voodoonauts Presents: (Re)Living Mythology

Voodoonauts Presents: (Re)Living Mythology

Voodoonauts

Yvette Lisa Ndlovu, Shingai Njeri Kagunda, L.P Kindred, H.D Hunter

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Android Press

VOODOONAUTS PRESENTS: (RE)LIVING MYTHOLOGY

Copyright © 2022 Shingai Njeri Kagunda, Yvette Lisa Ndlovu, 

H.D. Hunter, and L.P. Kindred

All rights reserved. This publication may not be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means,

including posting online, without the express written permission of Android Press and Voodoonauts.

If you like the book and want to share it with friends, please consider buying additional copies.

La Siréne Copyright © 2022 by Lysz Flo

The Names We Take Copyright © 2022 by S.O. Arogunmati 

The Feeding of Closed Mouths Copyright © 2022 by Eden Royce

Paying Forward Copyright © 2022 by Ernestine-Vera Kabushemeye Gahimbare

The Visit Copyright © 2022 by Tina Jenkins Bell

Searching for Duni Copyright © 2022 by Tola Owolabi

Adobe Copyright © 2022 by Jermane Cooper

Blackman’s Flight in 4 Parts Copyright © 2021 by Shingai Njeri Kagunda

A Missile Against the Darkness Copyright © 2022 by Yvette Lisa Ndlovu

Seeds of Sisters Copyright © 2022 by Wesley Fox

Gogo Moroto Copyright © 2022 by T. L. Huchu

Both Hands Copyright © 2022 by Christopher Caldwell

The Lotus Woman Copyright © 2022 by Shingai Njeri Kagunda

Stars Born Blue Copyright © 2022 by LP Kindred

Blackman's Flight in 4 Parts was originally published in February 2021 by Fantasy Magazine.

Published by Android Press 

Eugene, Oregon

www.android-press.com

Cover Illustrated by Paul Lewin

ISBN 978-1-958121-11-5 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-958121-10-8 (eBook)

Contents

Introduction

LA SIRÉNE

THE NAMES WE TAKE

THE FEEDING OF CLOSED MOUTHS

PAYING FORWARD

THE VISIT

SEARCHING FOR DUNI

LA SIRÉNE (continued)

ABODE

BLACKMAN’S FLIGHT IN 4 PARTS

A MISSILE AGAINST THE DARKNESS

SEEDS OF SISTERS

GOGO MAROTO

BOTH HANDS

THE LOTUS WOMAN

STARS BORN BLUE

THE EDITORS

Introduction

Dzepfunde

When the storytellers of Southern Africa called sarunganos begin their nganos, they say Paivapo. It means Once Upon a Time… or There once was….

Two African Women were called to the United States to study in its most hallowed (read: Whitest and most Elitist) halls. In response, they traveled thousands of miles from home and family to nurture their craft and deepen their dreams. Did they foresee the isolation or loneliness of their singularity in Imperial spaces? The world may never know.

But when they met each other the emptiness cored out by this experience in one spoke to the emptiness in the other. To that call, they answered as griots are known to. They created something to stem the isolation, to prove amongst themselves that Black Words Matter. So they called. 

And two Brothers from the Diaspora responded with a reverberant yes. With their four voices combined, they called. 

Voodoonauts is the response as a community for Black Speculation, independent of Diasporic or Continental status, independent of time zones or nationalities, 

The first fellows are the response. Also time and heart donated by the likes of Eboni J. Dunbar and Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah. It was within Nana Kwame’s session we heard the call for an anthology. 

We responded with submission guidelines, another call. And the response warmed our hearts. 

For two years, we’ve held and refined these stories and poems from our first cohort, a handful of esteemed guests, and even some of the founders’ work. We said:

Every Black Child went to bed with their parents or grandparents telling them a story of old or greatness or warning or joy. Or they had a friend who told them about the ways of the world when they were too young to learn for themselves. And because of that, every Black Person lives with narratives, superstitions, customs that impact the way we walk through the world. 

From John Henry to the Orisha, from impundulu to Candyman, the aziza and Baron Samedi, back to Bre’r Rabbit and Bast and T’Challa. Black People the world over hold myriad and, sometimes, intermingled mythos, wives tales, and folklore. 

With this theme - (Re)Living Mythology - we ask you to explore where you’re coming from and where you’re going to, in the liminal space that is now - or not. Your works can be mythpunk and urban legend and darkening of pantheon and more than retellings and villains-to-protagonists and explorations of modern myths and beyond. 

If you look closely in these pages, you might find Baron Samedi and soucouyants, a crooked preacher in search of power and a desperate mother in search of a name for her child, a goddess made of night and a goddess made for water. If you look closely, you might find resilience and joy and magic. If you look closely you might find the textures of Blackness as found in Chicago, Bulawayo, Nairobi, Lagos, Saint Louis, Port-au-Prince, San Juan, and Glasgow. 

But if you read the book as a whole, you might find you’re looking closely at yourself. (Re)Living Mythology is a call to action - to make magic of the mundane, to dream yourself into the future, to survive every horror, to find your own quests - to see yourself in Blackness, whether that’s for the first time or the millionth. 

And when you close the book, you’ll respond as we have to sarunganos for generations. 

Dzepfunde - Continue, we are listening.

LA SIRÉNE

Lysz Flo

I - ocean goddess 

Child of eternal blackness

Grant you gifts of breath bubbles 

to seep into unworthy lungs 

Each scale,

composed of dying angry ancestral tears 

I — the daughter of all of the Vodoun

/they/ couldn’t drown out of us.

Throwing /us/ overboard 

Fatuous minds

to disbelieve 

we be creatures  

— untouched & made eternal by magic

we 

— creators of civilizations 

where /they/ cannot taint the waters with their ineptitude. 

A side eye keeps you 

Gasping 

Clawing 

for an air that ceases 

under thick waves 

Grandiose mortal 

Faltering god 

Pompous pretender 

They always recoil 

When my smile becomes 

Hunger ridden 

My shark fang      sharpens

accountability and karma 

becomes a hand over their throat 

as I coax my heart shards 

from their appeased 

unending bellies 

I

Watch each droplet 

                                      F

A

L

L 

become the fire burning their 

lungs 

maniacal laughter vibrates 

coast to coast 

For some 

there is forgiveness 

For me 

my reverie is 

revenge

***

Lysz Flo is an AfroCaribbean Latinx, polyglot, spoken word artist, indie author, generative workshop facilitator, member of The Estuary Collective, and podcast host of Creatively Exposed and Voodoonauts Summer 2020 Fellow. She released her poetry novel Soliloquy of an Ice Queen, March 2020. Her poems can be found in Hellebore, Skin Coloured Mag, Digging Press and various anthologies. Online Crystal and Spiritual wellness shop owner at Astrolyszics.com

THE NAMES WE TAKE

S.O. Arogunmati 

Inever thought I could be an olè àyànmọ̀, the most dishonourable of wrongdoings .

What I am about to attempt, I have tried before with several others and have been unsuccessful thus far. But I cannot afford to fail today. It is the eighth day and my last chance before her fate is sealed.  

I glance up at the large estate seated behind the packed clay walls. Ash gray tiles top warm brick, and off-white pillars frame the building.  I spy movement at the front gates, and my mouth dries in anticipation. I watch anxiously from my position behind the wide palm tree, apprehension tying my stomach into knots. The fear causes me to sweat profusely, and the Lagosian sun hanging overhead does little to help. Its rays beat down on my balding head, and my scalp burns in response. I palm my forehead, wiping away the sweat there before it can fall into my eyes.

The gate swings open on well-oiled hinges, barely making a sound—an indication of the immense wealth the owner possesses. I gather my nerves, along with my faded blue kaftan and small duffle bag, and shuffle forward on worn sandals. I rush forth as a large, black Range Rover makes its way through the opened space. I get caught in a plume of exhaust fumes as I step into the path of the vehicle. My eyes water and my throat attempts to detangle the cough stuck in its center. I flail my hands around to get the driver’s attention. The large car continues to reverse into me, but I stand my ground, waving my hands frantically. It breaks just shy of my body. And I sigh in relief. Moving swiftly, I drop my opened duffle and pull out a scrawny, dead cat—its orange fur matted with dark blood. Road kill I had discovered just yesterday. I shove the carcass as hard as I can into one of the vehicle’s exhaust pipes.

I stand upright, just as the door on the driver’s side pops open and the driver steps out, frustration and anger evident on his pox-marked face. Ọ̀gá, he shouts, wetin be this!? Kílo n ṣe? Ṣèbí you wan die. Get out of our way!

Ẹ má bínú, Sa, I say, breathless, I waka there, I gesture vaguely at my backside, when I noticed that there is something stuck to the car. Where it am, e be like say it go cause the moto wahala.

The driver sizes me up, suspiciously, then steps towards the back of the car with hesitation.

Really? But I checked the car this morning, I didn’t see anything.

It’s there o, I reply. Abeg, come and look.

The driver comes to where I stand, and I point low at the tuft of fur now sticking out from the end of the car. Sa, wò dádá before problem dey.

At my prodding, the driver bends low for a closer look, his too-small suit straining at the seams from the action.

Ahh lótọ́ ni, I think some animal is stuck— before he can finish his sentence I raise the large rock I had deftly retrieved from my bag and slam it into the back of his head. I am careful not to hit too hard as to cause severe injury, but he dizzies and collapses against the car from the force. I quickly drop the rock and nudge it and my, now empty, bag under the SUV. Then I pretend to attend to him.

Sa, sa! Are you okay? What is it? I query loudly, fake surprise coloring my tone. I gently sit the driver down and rest his body against the car. He mumbles, incoherently, as I run to the side of the vehicle and knock on the window.

The dark, tinted window rolls down and a pair of oversized, sunglass frames settled below a high, golden forehead, looks in my direction. I had only seen this face in store magazines and on TV screens, but the visage of Arrow Petrol’s General Manager was unmistakable.

What is the issue? he questions, the hint of a European accent making his words sound odd to me.

Ọ̀gá? Sa, I mean. Sa, I stammer, I’m so sorry to disturb, Sa. But it’s your driver. As he was checking the matter I brought to his attention. He stood up láí tọ́jú…erm, I mean he stood up without care. And umm, he hit his head on the tail of the car...um, I mean the bumper. Gbàs gbòs! Ẹ kò ṣọ́ra. He has now fallen. I finish rambling my tale.

The GM stares back at me, expressionless from the little I could see of his face. He heaves a sigh of irritation before stepping out of the vehicle. He is shorter than he appears to be in media. Even still, he is dressed in a well-tailored suit and gives off an air of confidence and entitlement.

Show me, he demands. I bring him to where the driver rests against the vehicle, his head lulling to the side. The man huffs in frustration. I’m already late. What kind of nonsense is this? he grunts, with little regard for his driver’s well-being.

Ermm… I say, not knowing how to answer, I can help you take him back inside. He considers me then nods in assent.

I bend and grab hold of the driver’s upper body. I pause, expectantly. When the man does not reach to lift the driver’s legs, I realize that he assumes I will carry the driver inside by myself. I purse my lips in annoyance then brace my legs and begin heaving the man with my limited strength. Clay and dirt stain his clothes, but I manage to drag him back to the gate where the GM calls for a gate man to take over.

Once the driver is out of my