Marry the Plain Guy

Everybody wants a Jay to their Bey. I do get the glam and glitz of having beautiful life partners. Who doesn’t want to wake up to a well-muscled, perfectly-oiled moustached 6″3 chocolate hunk? Maybe it’s the affluent, well-connected lawyer who is charming and smells of fresh money from the bank machine (how come nobody made that smell into a cologne yet?) that has you screaming “wedding bells”. There’s the fine ass brother, who is so obviously a bachelor for life that he has scented lotions and pink slippers ready for you when you come to his pad. And there’s the awkward, maybe not the cutest but not the worst-looking, super sweet normal dude who probably works at IT or knows exactly how to put together IKEA furniture….without the instruction guide.

Choose the awkward dude. For real. He may not make the rounds with a fifty-watt smile at parties, but you won’t have to worry that he’s got his phone on Airplane Mode so you won’t hear his other three side chicks texting, WhatsApping and Facebook Messaging his ass. Unlike the stylish dudes onto every new trend–hoping the girls will follow the trail of Jordans and new fusion restaurants–awkward dude probably has his will written and paid off his college debt. The classy lawyer in Tom Ford cologne might call you up for a booty call, but awkward guy feels no qualms about texting you back right away because he truly wants to talk to you–and not just get in your pencil skirt. The smooth-talking bachelor might hint at marriage to lure you along, but awkward dude will likely be the one who is planning to get down on one knee–instead of tricking you into getting you onto your knees. Choose the awkward dude.

This blog is called ‘ConsciousBlackQueen’. I’m 100% for Black love, but I also believe Black women have been down in the dumps when it comes to marriage and we deserve love–in whatever colour or shade it happens to be. If your hellbent on a chocolate brother, but the brothers are not commiting–and you got yourself a white man who is willing to commit to you…shoot, get that ring, girl. And brothers, don’t lose out on a quality girl because she’s not all the 100 things on your checklist you need her to be–a perfectly Instagrammable wife. Get yourself a real girl, with real flaws, because I’m certain God made you with flaws as well. And ladies, forget the flashy cars and expensive shoes. Is he faithful? Can you trust him? Does this n—- text back?!


Create or Compound?

I have lived in a small, rural white town east of Toronto  (I’m from Toronto )  for the past 2 years. It is not easy as a Black woman living here. It is so bad racially that I have made a decision to homeschool my son .  I also started a POC and Indigenous Peoples Homeschool Co-op that already has 4 families and 10 children .  Is it better to create a Black inclusive community in a white town or just stay in your diverse city?

I noticed that I keep seeing more Black families in town. If there are places for them to congregate, it would make it easier to connect .  Something like a POC Meet Up. The university is what draws a lot of professional Black families here.  Refugees bring some ,  and others like me migrate here because cities like Toronto ,  Vancouver and Montreal are too expensive .

Politically, I’m a liberal ,  progressive feminist and fiercely pro-Black. Kingston is a good fit for Black conservatives who make good money, want to send their kids to “good” schools and sacrifice their Black identity in the meantime .  I’m not particularly excited to meet these types, and they seem bewildered (embarrassed ? ) to see me too.

Establishing Black roots in a predominantly White town can seem fruitless at first. You never know who you’ll be connecting or what solace you are providing to an isolated Black person or family by simply organizing .

There probably won’t be Jamaican patties and barbershops blasting soca anytime soon here, but a place to feel at home is what everyone deserves .


When you choose to be unapologetically Black ,  it shouldn’t be on a when-I-feel-like basis. You know ,  with one foot in the Eurocentric Starbucks and straighteners world; and the other raising a fist with your printed turban made ethically in Namibia. The thing is, once you stare racism in the face, you realize you are stronger than you thought.  You ask, really, is that it?

And of course,  we shouldn’t have to deal with discrimination and have our warrior shield on 24/7. But being charged higher car insurance in a Black neighbourhood,  getting stopped by police yet not having police assist or side with you when you need help , and being told “Go back to Africa, you f—– n—–r” are part of the parcel of being melanated,  at least while white supremacy is still the order of the day.

I’m not saying we should accept abuse, ostracism and blatant racial harassment and profiling .  I’m saying we need to be fearless .  We need to be strong. Because white supremacy is fear, hatred and evilness wrapped in a white suburban house with a picket fence and a little Retriever in the front. It’s in every institution that was not created by and for Black people .


And until we can put away our armour for good, we must not fear.

Religion vs Revolution

I joined a church this summer after being invited by my Kenyan hair braider. She is in fire for the Lord, and I only went because we live in a racist, rural town and I was desperate to see Black faces. There were Black children for my son to interact with, and not only were the pews filled with Kente cloth and dashiki-clad families, the pastor was Jamaican.

I’m from a Christian family, like most West Indians but as an adult I am highly critical of the church and it’s role in maintaining Black oppression. The church could be a revolutionary place. But instead of touching on freedom from white supremacy, it only speaks of a better life in Heaven…not on this earth. Great way to pacify the masses, pastor.

However, in the church there is Black pride. There are more married Black families and college students. There are more natural hairdos. There is more respect for one another. So I do not dismiss the church as a place for revolutionary work. Perhaps you can meet a compatriot there, a future spouse or an acquaintance who furthers your economic growth. And if not, it never hurts to have God on your side!

The African Disillusions of My Youth


I am an African who had their scales fall from their eyes

Traumatised from the revelation behind their lies

Of “You can be anything you want to be”

And “Follow your dreams”;

I mean, look what happened to Dr King

Follwing those smooth slithering serpents’ doctrines.

While I’m climbing on the rough side of this mountain

Living off the miseducated high; drunk off the “Whites only” fountain,

That Koolaid tasted fresh but my anger cannot be quenched

By the bleaching of my flesh and the injustice paraded in the press.

It doesn’t matter that I have the IQ of Einstein

If I have to reason and prove to “them” that I am mankind.

You see, my energy is spent marching the streets, picking up bricks

For my rights not be poisoned, my melanin not to be stripped.

So what if I have my masters, I still have to work in…

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Kwanzaa Preparation

This will be the first year we will celebrate Kwanzaa, and it’s very exciting to learn more about it. My son and I are memorizing the Nguzo Saba, and I have already prepared the “mihindi”. We colour Kwanzaa pages and talk about the harvest season.

It’s been a rough week for me, and as I am in anguish, my son has really pulled through to do more self-led learning and even helping clean the house without my provocation. This demonstrates to me that I may need to step back sometimes and see what my son is capable of.

Some Things Never Change

There will always be that white man in the grocery store with that stare.

There will be always be that one Black leader rising from the ashes of the fire of misery of his country.

There will always be that Black businessman in the Mercedes-Benz with a white wife.

Some things never change.


There will always be the surprised glances at your impeccable English.

There will always be the sniggling at your heavy, magnificent African name.

There will always be suspicious ogling at her hijab.

Some things never change.


There will always be the white elderly woman who clutches her purse tighter as you walk by.

There will always be young white men who view your female Black body licentiously.

There will always be African woman who wear their gele proudly and dance with the slopes and arcs of the earth in their bones, the light of the stars in their eyes.

Some things will never change.


There will always be a white leader hellbent on destroying equality and liberty, and the path to unity and peace in the name of greed and power. Their names just change over time.

There will always be a Black boy who dreams of becoming a doctor. And makes it.

There will always be the future of freedom in the womb of our women.

Some things will never change.