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Essays/Fiction

“A Special Soul” from Kam Remembered by Jesse Childs

Photo by losvizzero

“Isaiah,” says Abeni. “Can you connect any more of your lives like this?”

“Isaiah is not available,” says a high-pitched voice. “He is with the eternal master.”

“Who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?” asks Abeni.

“This is Tehuti. Isaiah is a special soul. He is a holy person that is protected by his ancestors. He remembers these lives because the memories are imprinted in his genes. He is the living testimony of the one bloodline that reaches back to the first thought and it is through him that humanity will remember that this oneness is the only reality. I can answer on his behalf while he is with the eternal master,” says Tehuti.

“Alright, please tell me how he can remember more than one life at once?”

“Every life is just a piece of the one life; the everlasting life. Nothing is separate. It only appears so. It is true Isaiah and Kam have been connected since before time existed. They are descended from the original souls that are soon to return to your Earthly realm. The end of the suffering will happen within his lifetime. As for the past lives, his seed traveled over the seas and sprouted anew in the land now called the Americas. His life as a rubber tapper reintroduced him to the people he came from; the ones from across the sea that were stolen by the ghost people. You call them Africans. The woman he fell in love with was a princess and priestess from his original society descended from his royal Kushite lineage. The children they had are Isaiah’s ancestors in this lifetime. The children of the slaves became the parents that ultimately bore Kam and Isaiah. Again, nothing is separate. It only appears as so.”

“So you are telling me Isaiah is in essence reading the memory stored in his genetic DNA? This is truly remarkable!” exclaims Abeni.

“The history of your race is encoded in every person that is born and dies.”

“The African race?” asks Abeni.

“No, the human race,” replies Tehuti. “Humans’ early ancestors could communicate with us, the divine beings. Only recently have humans remembered how to do this and that is part of why we are communicating through Isaiah to you. Work like this and the work of others like you bridge the gap in genetic memory that will reconnect human beings to their divine ancestry. You will recall the original names of your people and land and the coming generations will lead your species back into cosmic balance with nature and the universe.”

“I will take what you are saying to heart,” says Abeni.

“You must. Also, you must tell Isaiah that his father is still and forever will be with him. He died because his heart would not grow. Kam was not letting love into his life and it is ultimately love that causes the heart to pulse. He refused to acknowledge this and thus his heart gave up on him. However, do not tell him until the time is right, you will know when. Now, Isaiah is done speaking to the eternal master. I am leaving you for this time but you must continue your work if the future is to be fulfilled.”

“I will,” replies Abeni.

(You can download the whole chapter here KAM REMEMBERED – Chapter Three)

***  End ***

Born in 1982, the artist known as Nap Nat the Napi Natural (real name Jesse Childs) is the spearhead of the “Afromerican Project”; a movement that strives to unite so-called African-Americans and Africans living in America and throughout the Diaspora. By moving to Chicago at the age of 18 Childs was exposed to a more intense environment than his native home of the southwest USA (California, Colorado and New Mexico). Ten years, one Bachelor’s degree and a novel later, the author/musician now lives in Oakland. His first novel titled Isaiah Eleven was published in 2008 and the follow up novel, Kam Remembered is due out June 2010. In addition, the books come with an accompanying music soundtrack of original music produced by the “Afromerican Project.”

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“The Gentleman” by E. Payne

"The Gentleman." Copyright E. Payne. All Rights Reserved.

A soft orange glow from a smoldering cigarette revealed the smooth brown cheeks of the woman who stood facing me.

“Smoking’s bad for you,” I said quietly outside her front door, speaking into the darkness that separated us.

“For all I know…” the woman said out of one side of her mouth while holding the cigarette in place with the other, “…you are too.”

A few hours earlier we had been complete strangers sitting across from each other on the F Train from the City to Queens. I couldn’t help but stare. She was gorgeous and I was nearly drunk after a night out with friends. Thirty years old and unconcerned with failure, it was easy to introduce myself. She told me her name was Jean, pronounced the way the French do. Our conversation went so well, I managed to talk her off the train at my stop to join me for a cup of coffee at a diner near my apartment. It got late quickly as we sipped and I sobered up.

I was excited when she accepted my offer to drive her home.

“I only smoke outside every once in a while, but you’re right, you know,” admitted Jean with a sigh.  “I actually quit a month ago…been holding onto this last pack…a crutch I guess.”  She took two deep drags before letting the white stick fall from her fingers. We both watched the cloud of smoke rise and fade beneath the streetlights. She shrugged her shoulders and uttered a whimsical, “oh well,” before popping an Altoid.

“Maybe I make you nervous.” I said smiling.

Jean gave me a sly smile as she bent down to collect her half-smoked cigarette.

“Maybe,” she admitted coyly.

She stood and opened her door —- a heavy piece of oak attached to a well manicured, brown brick Tudor on a treeless street in Laurelton. A bark that sounded more like a question than a statement or a warning greeted us.

I peered over her shoulder.

“My boyfriend,” Jean explained, smiling. “He doesn’t like it when I’m out late.”

“Big or small?”

“Medium…he’s a mutt.”  Jean paused to glance up and down her block.  “Well, what a pleasant surprise for a Thursday!  I’m so glad I didn’t ignore you on the train…but it’s getting late.”

I was going to protest, but before I could, she grabbed the lapels of my jacket and pulled me close. Her high-styled, asymmetrical flapper’s bob tilted back as she gazed up at me. The full moon overhead floated as a reflection in her large brown eyes.

Jean stopped, seemingly suddenly aware of the mixed signal she was sending. She hastily let me go, leaving behind her hand prints in the black velvet of my jacket.

“Thanks for everything,” she said in a restrained tone, “…the conversation, the coffee and the ride home from the train. And thanks for walking me to the door…you’re truly a gentleman.”

“Don’t be a stranger,” I said. “You have my number. Maybe we can get together again for more coffee…or something.”

“Or something. Goodnight, Elijah.”

“Goodnight, Jean.”

The door closed behind her.  I stayed on the porch long enough to hear the lock click.

“Don’t be a stranger,” I muttered sarcastically to myself thinking back to times when I uttered more silken lyrics to less silken females. I took in the night air and unexpectedly caught the soft scent of her perfume left behind on my jacket.

I descended the four gray stone steps of her porch. Cold and night nipped at me every step of the way to my empty car.  I appreciated Jean’s restraint. I had given up one-night stands and all other kinds of meaningless sex as a New Year’s resolution. So far so good, one week into February.

But in truth, it was cold, I was lonely and it was late. I most certainly would’ve taken her had she taken me.

Originally published at Spindle Magazine © 2008.

Eric Payne. I am a writer, a poet, a burgeoning photographer, a father, a son, a husband and a lover of art. You can visit my blog, Makes Me Wanna Holler, at http://www.makesmewannaholler.com

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“Authentic Manhood” by F.J. Goodall

Photograph by No Name Photography. Used by permission (Creative Commons).

Walking through my old neighborhood, I noticed one of my old friends, Vando, walking toward me.

“What’s up, man,” he said as we shook hands. A few years had passed since I had seen Vando, but his weathered face made it seem as if it was decades.

“Nothing much,” I replied. “What’s been up with you?”

“Same ole, same ole,” he said. “Just trying to survive.” I knew all about his means of survival. Petty theft, pimping, and drug trafficking kept his pockets full of cash.

Since we last saw each other, I had graduated from college, got married, had kids and moved to the burbs. Vando, on the other had lived in the same house and hung out on the same corners that we did as teenagers. As I gazed into Vando’s dark eyes, the world I worked so hard to forget became real to me again, and I began to see traces of my former self in Vando’s weary face.

Before meeting Vando, books were my escape, taking me to places that transcended the poverty, squalor, and despair that surrounded me. Through my books, I could be an astronaut, detective, or brave knight. But the life Vando introduced me to proved to be more alluring than my pristine fantasies. Our escapades were filled with excitement and danger. We mostly engaged in typical juvenile delinquent activities such as shoplifting, vandalizing, or fighting with other boys. But one day, things took a turn for the worse.

Vando and I were loitering on a corner when he noticed a girl walking by. His demeanor turned grim, his body grew tense. Suddenly, he broke a huge branch from a tree, ran to the girl and started beating her. Tears mixed with blood poured from her face as Vando pummeled her – each blow producing a sickening whap against her flesh.

Afraid Vando would kill the girl, I grabbed the branch. My insolence caused Vando to turn his wrath on me. I was frightened, but I held on refusing to allow him to beat that girl anymore.

“Let’s get outta here,” he said after several minutes. Vando released the branch and we ran to his house narrowly escaping some men who were chasing us.

Once we were safely inside, Vando told his grandmother, “If someone knocks on the door, don’t answer it.” The gentle woman nodded quietly and continued watching television as if she had experienced this situation before. Vando and I ran to his bedroom and crouched in the darkness without uttering a word. We sat for about twenty minutes before we were startled by police officers’ banging on the front door.

“Just chill out,” Vando said coolly. “Don’t say nothin’ and they’ll leave.”

After a few minutes, they did leave. When they were gone, I turned to Vando and asked, “What’s wrong with you man? Why’d you beat up that girl?”

“She lied on me. She got what she deserved.”

I wanted to tell Vando that no one deserved such brutal treatment; that he was a cold, heartless animal. However, I said nothing because I didn’t want Vando to think I was soft.

After that night I avoided Vando as much as possible. Whenever he asked me to hang out with him, I always gave him an excuse. He eventually got the message and left me alone.

With Vando, I was able to tap into the raw masculinity that boys long for. But I was misguided as many young males are. I thought that Vando was teaching me how to be a man. All he was teaching me was how to be a criminal. That’s why it is so important for fathers to be involved in their sons’ lives. As much as my mother tried to teach me how to be a man, her gender prevented her lessons from sticking. Sons need fathers.

I realize that my sons will most likely encounter Vandos in their lives. It is up to me to provide them with an authentic version of manhood so they will not be enticed by this pale imitation. I must teach them to balance their need to be rough, rugged and raw, with the ability to be caring and respectful. My example will be their sword and shield in the battle for their hearts and minds.

F.J. Goodall is the editor of Soul Portrait. He also writes the blog Mocha Dad.

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