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There's this moment in A Sky Full of Elephants that sits with me. Actually, there are a lot of moments, but stick with me here. It's when the characters realize they're not just surviving the aftermath; they're deciding what comes after the aftermath. That space between "everything fell apart" and "what do we build now?" That's where Cebo Campbell plants his flag, and honestly, that's where we've been living for generations. Reconstruction isn't just a chapter in a history te

There's this quiet expectation in fantasy literature: when Black girls show up, they're witches. Root workers. Conjurers. Practitioners of something the industry keeps calling "dark" and "mystical." And look, I get it. That archetype comes from somewhere real. Our history is full of ritual and spiritual inheritance. The conjure woman, the root worker, the woman who knows which herbs heal and which words hold power? She's ancestral. She matters. But she's also become a loop. A

When I picked up Khalia Moreau's He Burns by the River , I knew I was stepping into Trinidad in the 1960s. What I didn't expect was how deeply the story would hold up a mirror to something we all recognize across the Black diaspora—colorism. The novel follows two brothers: Danny, the light-skinned golden child who everyone loves and admires, and Roran, his darker-skinned brother who carries the weight of constant comparison, jealousy, and responsibility. When Danny falls ill,

There's a moment in Jamila Minnicks' stunning debut "Moonrise Over New Jessup" where Alice Young steps off a bus in 1957 Alabama expecting to encounter the familiar signage of segregation, "White Only" and "Colored", only to discover something extraordinary. New Jessup is an all-Black town where residents have not only rejected integration but have built something remarkable: a thriving community that operates entirely on its own terms. Reading about New Jessup in 2025 feels