Relatable Rhythms

Tag: fiction

  • The Other Black Girl: A Review

    The Other Black Girl: A Review

    Zakiya Dalila Harris didn’t just write a thriller. She wrote a mirror — one I wasn’t prepared to look into as deeply as I did.

    When I first met Nella, I was annoyed. She felt mousy, passive, too willing to shrink herself to fit into Wagner’s white publishing world. But somewhere around Chapter 6, when she spiraled into her relationship with her hair, something cracked open. Suddenly I wasn’t just reading Nella. I was reading me.

    Her reflections on growing up Black in a white environment, on trying to honor the Blackness her parents instilled while navigating spaces that didn’t care about it — that was my story. Her longing to have been taught the “Blacktivities,” her desire to belong to Black spaces she didn’t grow up in, her dreams of writing, her complicated relationship with her own hair… I saw myself so clearly that I felt my toes get stepped on. And that’s when the book stopped being entertainment and became something else entirely.

    The Violence of Being “The Only One”

    Nella’s opinions about Colin Franklin’s book gutted me. The way she was dismissed, minimized, and then strategically overshadowed by Hazel — it was too familiar. Hazel’s arrival wasn’t just competition; it was a threat wrapped in locs and charm. From the moment she stepped on the page, I didn’t trust her. And I was right not to.

    But what made it hard wasn’t Hazel’s behavior — it was Nella’s reaction to it. Her passivity. Her desire to play the game. Her fear of rocking the boat. I kept asking myself: Would I have done anything differently at her age? And the uncomfortable answer was probably not.

    There’s a particular exhaustion that comes with being the only Black woman in a white space. You learn to pick your battles. You learn to swallow your brilliance. You learn to code-switch so seamlessly that you forget you’re doing it. And then someone like Hazel shows up — bold, unbothered, magnetic — and suddenly you’re questioning everything you’ve ever done to survive. That comparison is a violence all its own.

    Hazel, Gaslighting, and the Quiet Horror of Being Undermined

    Hazel’s manipulation is subtle at first — the kind of thing you could excuse away if you wanted to. But I didn’t want to. I felt the shift in her tone. The way she changed details only Nella would notice. The way she played dumb. The way she weaponized code-switching as a joke. Hazel wasn’t just gaslighting Nella. She was gaslighting me as a reader.

    And the worst part? Nella kept doubting herself. Kept shrinking. Kept hoping Hazel would follow the unspoken rules of Black sisterhood. But Hazel wasn’t playing that game. She was playing a different one entirely — one where success meant being the only Black girl, not the best one. That hit hard.

    The Coalition: A Terrifyingly Plausible Idea

    When the concept of the OBGs — a coalition of Black women willing to sabotage other Black women for success — emerged, I laughed. Not because it was funny, but because it was possible. Harris tapped into something real: the way scarcity, racism, and generational trauma can twist ambition into something monstrous. The idea that white institutions wouldn’t even notice the internal warfare? That part felt too true.

    And then the twist: the pomade. The formula. The literal chemical manipulation of Black women’s minds and identities. It was absurd and yet… not. Black hair has always been political. Always been a site of control, pride, rebellion, and vulnerability. Of course the horror would live there. Of course the violation would happen through our scalps.

    Watching Nella Unravel

    By the time Nella blurts out “You people are unfuckingbelievable” in the meeting, I felt like I was watching a slow-motion car crash. She was unraveling in real time — the same unraveling that happened to Kendra decades earlier. The same unraveling that happens when a Black woman finally hits her limit. And still, she didn’t tell her boyfriend. Didn’t tell her best friend until too late. Didn’t call the number. Didn’t trust her instincts.

    I wanted to shake her. But I also understood her. When you’ve spent your whole life trying to be agreeable, trying to be palatable, trying to be the “good Black girl,” it’s hard to suddenly become the one who blows up the spot. Even when you should.

    The Past, the Present, and the Price of Survival

    The chapters from Kendra and Diana’s perspectives were devastating. The betrayal. The jealousy. The way white institutions reward compliance and punish authenticity. The way Black women are forced to choose between survival and selfhood.

    Diana’s justification — that she was helping Black women “navigate racism more easily” — was chilling. Because it echoed real conversations. Real compromises. Real temptations.

    What is the cost of success in a world not built for you?

    What are you willing to lose?

    And who are you willing to become?

    Hair, Sisterhood, and the Final Violation

    The natural hair party scene was brilliant and horrifying. The intimacy of Black women doing hair together — the trust, the nostalgia, the sacredness — made the betrayal feel personal. Of course Nella let her guard down. Of course she closed her eyes. Of course she didn’t expect danger to come through something so familiar and beautiful. That’s what made it hurt. Thank God for her best friend; because Nella was seconds away from losing herself completely.

    In the End, the Book Isn’t Just About Publishing

    It’s about identity.

    It’s about survival.

    It’s about the cost of assimilation.

    It’s about the quiet terror of being the only Black girl in the room — and the even greater terror of realizing you’re not.

    Reading The Other Black Girl felt like watching a version of myself walk into a trap I’ve spent my whole life trying to avoid. It was uncomfortable, infuriating, validating, and deeply familiar.

    And that’s why it worked.

  • Sky Full of Elephants: A Review

    Sky Full of Elephants: A Review

    Finishing Sky Full of Elephants by Cebo Campbell left me in a strange, buzzing limbo — the kind where you close the book and just sit there, blinking, trying to figure out what exactly you’ve just experienced. Hours later, I’m still turning Campbell’s premise over in my mind, still deciding how I feel about the world he built and the argument he’s making. As a Black woman actively working through my own history with racism and the “marvelous condition of being black,” I couldn’t help but read this book with both my heart and my guard up. And honestly? I’m still not sure where I land. But here’s where the journey took me.

    This Book Stayed With Me

    Emotionally, Campbell had me in a chokehold. Recognition hit first — I saw Sydney immediately, because at some point in my life, she was me. Then came discomfort, the kind that makes you shift in your seat because the idea being presented doesn’t sit quite right in your spirit. But there was warmth too, in the way Campbell paints Blackness with such clarity and affection that I could almost see the scenes unfolding in my own living room. And tension — real tension — as Charlie approached his choice and I realized I was wrestling with the same question he was: Is this really the way to seek retribution for my people?

    By the time relief arrived, I was grateful it was Charlie and not me who had to press that button. And grateful for the loophole he found. This book lingers. It forces reflection. It makes you sit with yourself.

    Campbell’s Voice Is Unmistakable

    One thing about Campbell: he writes like a man who knows exactly what he’s trying to say. His voice shows up most clearly in characters like Vivian and Hosea — people who believe something so deeply that they bend the air around them. Sydney, by contrast, is all shaky confidence and internal longing, trying to convince herself she’s more solid than she feels. Charlie wavers until he doesn’t, until one encounter snaps everything into place and his voice finally rings with the same certainty as the others.

    If the book’s central idea is about harnessing Black consciousness for collective transformation, then its secondary theme is the quiet, powerful act of stepping fully into one’s own internal well of confidence. Campbell writes that tension beautifully.

    The Ideas Are Big — And Sometimes Bigger Than the Page

    My copy of this book looks like it survived a storm — scribbles everywhere, questions, rebuttals, affirmations. Campbell made me think, and not in a gentle way. I found myself pausing often, sometimes nodding, sometimes frowning, sometimes whispering “hold up now” to no one in particular.

    The moment I realized the book wasn’t just about restoring Black consciousness but also about imagining what we could accomplish if we tapped into that shared frequency — that was a breath of fresh air. It reminded me of moments of collective Black joy that feel almost supernatural. Like my best friend’s wedding reception in 2024, when the DJ transitioned from Waka Flocka to the slow‑burn horns of “Swag Surfin’,” and suddenly the entire dance floor became one organism. Arms linked. Bodies rocking. Time suspended. That feeling — that unity — is the closest thing I’ve ever felt to the frequency Campbell describes.

    And yet, even with all that wonder, I found myself wanting more. The book asks, “In a world without white people, what does it mean to be Black?” But when Charlie reflects on how unprepared America was after the event, I balked. My margin note on page seven reads, “What? With all these magical and talented niggas walking the earth? Ain’t no way.” Because truly — ain’t no way. I refuse to believe we wouldn’t have been ready to hold, repair, and reimagine the systems we’ve been forced to navigate for generations. That part felt dismissive of our brilliance.

    A Beautiful Ending, But a Split Focus 

    Structurally, the book felt torn between two stories: a young woman coming of age in a world she barely recognizes, and a speculative exploration of Black potential unleashed. Both are compelling. Both deserved space. But together, they sometimes competed for attention.

    Half the book is spent journeying toward the reimagined Alabama city — which, once revealed, is stunning and deeply satisfying. But Sydney and Charlie end up in different emotional and physical places by the end, and I found myself wishing their arcs converged more intentionally, especially given their shared history and the consciousness‑shifting festival that should have bound them.

    Still, the final image — a city under the stars, powered by unity, love, and a frequency only we can access — is breathtaking. It made me wonder what a two‑part story could have done with all this potential.