Fiwi Time Anthology (eBook)

Stories of Truth, Power and Identity from a New Generation

Black British Book Festival, Jamaica Book Festival (Autoren)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
150 Seiten
Publishdrive (Verlag)
978-0-00-096299-7 (ISBN)

Infos

'Fi Wi Time' is not just a title, it is a declaration. A call to a new generation of voices across the Black British and Jamaican diasporas to step forward, speak truth, and write boldly.

Born from a transatlantic partnership between the Black British Book Festival and the Jamaican Book Festival, this powerful anthology is the culmination of a six-week digital fellowship that brought together emerging Black writers of Jamaican heritage aged 18-35 from the UK and Jamaica. Through workshops, guest mentorship, and creative collaboration, these writers explored identity, heritage, belonging, race, and resistance, resulting in a collection that pulses with passion and clarity.

From stirring personal essays to fearless storytelling, Fi Wi Time captures the experiences, struggles, triumphs, and dreams of a generation reclaiming its narrative.

Featuring Work By: Claramae Flemming, Muminah Koleoso, Kareen Brooks, Kenloy Smith, Careese Hutchinson, Liam Cohen, Keenan Falconer, Dr. Maxine Meju, Hannah Adereti, Jenelle Samuels, Jemmar Samuels, Kerece 'Lilanie' Williams, Osheen Wright, Shekinah Brown, Llyrio Boateng, Amanda Lawson, Michaela Spencer, Corrine Willis, Shanese Oneida Whyte, Devonae J. Manderson, Tanice L. McIntosh. Forewords by: DD Armstrong - Writer and facilitator of the fellowship, and Selina Brown - Founder & CEO, Black British Book Festival

This anthology is a celebration of culture, truth, memory, and imagination. A testament to the power of creative nonfiction in the hands of young Black writers ready to honour the oral traditions of the past and shape the future.

It is, indeed, Fi Wi Time.

Textauszug

Claramae Flemming

***

Of Love

I came across a man’s story that unravelled some beliefs that I held so closely. Beliefs I am not sure I could have fully articulated at the time, realised they had fully formed, nor pinpointed a pivotal moment when they did.

His words chipped away at my notions on a version of a topic I felt I knew.

Or at least, was familiar with its idealised form. In those moments, between his words and my reflections, I was confronted with the fact that the beliefs I had somehow come to hold lacked both dimension and depth. As far as familiarity goes, I could not distinguish its eyes from its essence.

That is on the topic of love.

Four letters that may cause different worlds of thoughts to bubble, all at once, to the forefront of minds. Or nothing at all. A word which sometimes carries a heavy burden of hopes set upon it. Or none whatsoever. Depending on who you ask or (per the fleeting nature that is opinion) which points in time you ask the very same person, a quilt of varying definitions, duties, experiences and expectations can be hemmed together. Some so different from the other, you’d question if there were even a common thread. Perhaps it is this nature that has made it the topic of interest of so many books, films, art pieces and everything in between. The elusive definition that can somehow be commandeered by each one of us and through each new story of love that we hear.

Yet for me, I found the romantic take of this term the most exhilarating. The type that as a genre potentially generates billions for the film and book industries. The type in which the ideals come conveniently sandwiched, packaged, and played out in a less than three hours film. Or a melodic tune. Cute, spiffy, suspenseful, and almost always in one way or another, unwaveringly effortless. Alluring and shiny.

His words, however, peeled away the veneer of a ‘perfect’ love I’d been dreaming of. A story not shared with me personally. Rather, in video form, it was documented in space and time, shared with the world, and whoever came across it could listen. So, I did…

“A wah you know ‘bout love, ehn?” My parents giggled.

Their amusement crowding out their curiosity when I said I was going to write about love. I was not shocked by their cynicism. I have never been in a relationship, and neither can my parents reference to any point in time when I bought someone ‘special’ home. Despite the glaring gap in my romantic résumé, it wasn’t hard for me to construct my own embarrassingly naïve characterisations.

A brick laid from a 2-hour romantic trope of fake turned real relationships to another of love at first sight. Conversations on hypothetical scenarios to indulge in love stories. However, one of my favourite sources of romantic pageantry became music.

In one form it was always there. Right in the moments of summer where the worlds of Jamaica and England combined for me. In so many London evening BBQs. When the weather finally became hospitable enough for West Indian hosting. Where the skyline staved of autumn’s sombre to become one harmonious colour - for a moment, the meeting place of streaks of strawberry courting plush mango clouds. There, in the 2010s, there was a good likelihood that I would be making my way to one of those precious evenings.

My eyes would glisten as my parents and I docked to whichever family member’s or friend’s house that night’s soiree was being held. The warm yellow light flaring from windows, I could just sometimes make out the specs of people bobbing around, forming a wave of anticipation in me that sometimes burbled out in a cough. Partly attributed to my nervous excitement. Yet likely the result of the tiny buoys of ash which floated away from an ancient drum grill. Releasing a sweet aroma of pimento and brown sugar… and triggering my asthma along with it.

If, by some chance, I did not see or smell where I would be for the next few hours, I heard it. No London-based Jamaican BBQ in the 2000s or 2010s (or even today) was complete without a curated selection of the island’s melodies. Earmarked from the ‘80s to the early ‘00s, blasted from a solid sound system operation (which also meant I felt it through the pavement too).

As I stood amidst the haze and cackles of BBQ smoke, the music that played in the background wasn’t just a soundtrack… it felt more precious than that. They were little snippets into tiny declarations of wars won and lost on love.

As my British ears aged and I guided myself to tune in the varying tempos and notes of patois in genres of mento, ska, rocksteady and reggae - I saw a deep tenderness. In songful sonnets that were of heartbreak yet perplexingly endearing. Through songs like Phyllis Dillon’s Picture On the Wall, or Alton Ellis’ I’m Still in Love with You which lamented over a sunken relationship. However, it was the genre of old school lovers’ rock, the unashamed declarations of affection, the appreciation and gratitude showcased, which captivated the romantic in me.

Songs like Beres Hammond’s I Feel Good and Sanchez’s rendition of Missing You

bravely announced to the world their longing to be in the embrace of their love. Where, for just a moment, it seemed like everything else melted away.

I would be lying if I said I had never found myself dreaming of my turn to experience this kind of love. In these dreamed-up glimmers of romance, my partner would just know me, and I – him. There wasn’t necessarily a beginning, middle or end. No hardship. No obstacles we had to overcome together. We just drifted into each other’s lives, perfectly. Implicitly… all worries and fears ceased from...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 6.6.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-10: 0-00-096299-6 / 0000962996
• ISBN-13: 978-0-00-096299-7 / 9780000962997