Seven excerpts from Love's Troubadours - Karma: Book One by Ananda Leeke
Seven Novel Excerpts from Love's Troubadours - Karma: Book One by Ananda Kiamsha Madelyn Leeke.
Copyright 2007 by Madelyn C. Leeke. All rights reserved.
Novel Excerpt #1 from Chapter One
Yesterday, I woke up in the middle of the night sweating. An ocean of tears followed. The clock registered three thirty-six a.m. My psyche was attacked by the same nightmare that has repeated itself for the past several months: my life in living color. This time I was left with a question. Who am I? After the tear storm stopped, I tried to hide under my covers to avoid answering it, but it repeated itself until I turned on the light and reached for the handmade journal that my therapist Francis convinced me to purchase.
I wrote the question in big black letters across the pages of my journal:
Who am I?
My birth certificate says that I’m Belle Violette Francois, the daughter of Eugene Jerome Francois and Hyacinth Belle Baptiste Francois. I was born a few minutes after my twin sister, Violet Belle Francois on December 15, 1967. My family and friends say I’m Karma, a nickname my father gave me as a child. When I look in the mirror, I see that I’m a woman with long reddish-brown locs who sees the world through cocoa eyes. My skin is the color of burnt sugar. The French call it caramel, a contrasting force of salt and sugar. But who am I really? If I knew I guess I wouldn’t feel like a victim of identity theft. Not the typical kind where someone takes your identity for financial gain. I’m talking about a new and improved kind where life robs you of your hard-earned professional identity and leaves you with nothing more than a pile of ashes and never ending suffering.
Do I sound bitter? You bet your sweet ass I am. My life was supposed to be a certain way. I did everything I was supposed to do. And just when I was about to cash in on all of my hard work, I lost everything. I feel like an IDP, an internally displaced person who has been forced to leave her cosmopolitan life in New York City as a result of a human-made disaster called termination of employment. I’ve been deprived of my livelihood, network of friends, and access to personal services such as my yoga classes at Ta Yoga House; shiatsu massages at Artista Salon; manicures and pedicures at Perfect Polish; appointments with my loctician at Khamit Kinks; chocolate martinis on Fridays at Soul Cafe; Salsa dancing at S.O.B’s; and shopping sprees at Carol’s Daughter, Ann Taylor Loft, Eileen Fisher, and Moshood.I miss my life. I miss it dearly like a child longs for her mother or a lover mourns the loss of a lover. I do indeed miss my life. I miss who I used to be.
Novel Excerpt #2 from Chapter 10
As July’s infamous humidity wreaked havoc on the lives of Washingtonians, I tried to keep busy with my newfound routine. Meditation, yoga, and journaling in the wee hours of the morning. Teaching the seven a.m. gentle yoga class at the Center, Monday through Friday. Working on the fall gallery series at Howard University, Tuesday through Thursday. Most days, I moved through the pain in my soul and the sorrow in my heart by releasing my emotions on the pages of my journal. The Sapphire Sista Cypher convinced me that I wasn’t the only woman in Washington with heartache. Being in the company of women facing similar challenges inspired me to continue journaling and attending the monthly Cyphers.
After my first Cypher, I surprised myself when I accepted Serengeti’s invitation to an evening of Thai cuisine with some fellow sista poets at Bua Restaurant on 17th and P Streets. Resistance was my first response because my interactions with women haven’t always been positive. Despite the fact that I had close relationships with several women from college and my New York days, I had more luck with men as friends. My reservations were also tied to the madness that I experienced from a backstabbing sister and controlling mother. Despite my baggage, I took a leap of faith and listened to that still small voice inside me. The voice reminded me of Serengeti’s kindness. So I gave the sista poet gathering a chance.
A multicultural collage of seven urbanistas reveling in the spectrum of our feminine creativity sat comfortably around a long table at Bua on a hotter than July Thursday evening. Some of us could easily pass for the sepia version of those bling bling Prada wearing glamour girls from Sex and the City. The rest of us were an interesting mix of colliding colors, patterns, and textures. Our styles fell somewhere in between ghetto fabulousness and bohemian exquisiteness. Fashion designs from Trade Secrets, Stef ‘n’ Ty, Denise Goring, Moshood, The Tibet Collection, Ann Taylor Loft, Target, Filene’s Basement, and Eileen Fisher enhanced our womanly curves in all the right places. Belts, baubles, and a bonanza of diamonds, fresh water pearls, gemstones, Swarovski crystal rondels, glass beads, vintage, and African- and Asian-inspired jewelry and accessories dazzled our outfits.
The waiter kept coming back to our table to take our order, but we were knee deep in a discussion regarding Black women’s fiction. We all agreed that fiction allowed Black women to see images of themselves that were not regularly portrayed in mainstream media. However, our differences separated us into three camps. Serengeti, Kalahari, Ma’at, and I were members of the first camp. Serengeti pompously described us as people who appreciated “literature withbeautiful language and richly layered themes depicting African American life.” She even listed the names of certain authors such as Ann Petry, Nella Larsen, Zora Neale Hurston, Dorothy West, Paule Marshall, Alice Walker, Ntozake Shange, Toni Morrison, Gloria Naylor, and Jewell Parker Rhodes. I confessed that I had only read works by Alice, Ntozake, and Jewell, but also enjoyed Chick Lit, the contemporary literary genre that relays easy breezy Cover Girl lipstick tales of the perilous terrain that imperfect career women find themselves in and the impact it has on their psyche, weight, search for love in relationships, career, and wardrobe. Ma’at, Greer, and Yamuna chimed in with a passionate Amen. In a matter of seconds we were now the official members of the second camp: Chick Lit readers. Our conversation about authors such as Sandra Kitt, Sheneska Jackson, Donna Hill, and Tajuana Butler dominated the discussion. When we raved about the storylines and our impressions of Helen Fielding’s popular British book, Bridget Jones’ Diary, Serengeti got on her high horse and criticized us.
“I don’t understand how you can enjoy those Easter egg pastel-colored books with retro images of martini glasses, trendy purses, and spike heel pumps that most women in the real world would not even be caught dead in. Tell me what do you sistas exactly get for the money that you spend on mind candy with plots involving upwardly—mobile, designer clad, paper doll characters engaged in daytime television drama in urban scenes? Don’t bother answering the question because the mere fact that you read that deathless prose is a smack against all of the gains made in the feminist movement. Your preference for this trash threatens to flood the market in women’s reading.”
I wanted to interrupt her, but what good would it do. As a self-proclaimed champion of high culture, she obviously didn’t get the humor we found in reading stories about women that made us laugh without having a panic attack over what it says about women as modern feminists. So I joined Ma’at, Greer, and Yamuna in disregarding her comments. That’s when I learned that sometimes you have to ignore Serengeti. Like most of us, she was a complex woman with a multitude of layers and conflicting interests such as feminism and capitalism. Harmony was restored to the group when we all discovered our love for erotica. Sunee, the quietest one in the bunch, shared the titles of her three favorite books. We burst into laughter and sounded off a chorus of hallelujahs because we each owned copies of Erotique Noire, The Bluelight Corner, and Dark Eros in our personal libraries.
Novel Excerpt #3 from Chapter 10
A few hours later, Serengeti called to tell me that the location of tonight’s Sista7 gathering had changed to Greer’s apartment. I didn’t feel like going given all of the drama from Branford, Laurence, and Momma’s revelation about Daddy’s indiscretions. The only thing I wanted to do was hide in my bed underneath my comforter and pillows. When I told her that I might not come, she didn’t ask me any questions. She just reminded me that I always had an open invitation. Her understanding made me do a complete U turn and show up.
Greer was grappling with the news from her parents that her immediate family would not be attending her wedding because Niran was Thai and they both practiced Buddhism. She was devastated by their decision. I couldn’t see the problem they were having with Niran. In the short time that I have known him, he appeared to be a great guy who loved the ground Greer walked on. We were all baffled by her family’s response until she explained that they wanted her to marry a good ole’ Baptist Black man. When Greer calmed down, she admitted that she wasn’t really shocked by her family’s response since they never warmed up to Niran in the three years they had been dating. They tolerated him to a degree and always chastised her for meeting him on line at Love.AOL. Greer’s missionary mother referred to Internet dating as the Devil’s playground and condemned anyone who participated in such sinful activity. That comment alone let us all know that Greer and Niran never stood a chance with her family. The saving grace was that at least Niran’s family embraced the couple.
After listening to Greer bear her soul about her family drama and witnessing Sista7’s loving response to her, I felt more connected to the group. When it came time for me to give my life update, I opened my journal and read a portion of what had been troubling my heart for the past two months … my feelings for Branford.
Last week, I couldn’t stand the pain any longer … the sorrow in my heart had overwhelmed me to such a degree that I gathered all my stuff and got on the first red eye heading east of my past and straight to my next destination. I wanted to fast forward to my next series of blessings, but my past wouldn’t let me go. My present was full of tears intermingled with thoughts of why love with him was not possible. My future was blocked. The only safe place I had to rest my weary head was purgatory. It feels like my residence here is permanent. They keep telling me that it is temporary … for the time being, but no one in this damn place has informed me of my date of release. It is an unknown entity that I struggle with. Why did parts of my soul insist on sending the entire soul into this place of obvious danger? Glimpses of what it was like to be in his presence consume me. We were so in tune with each other on so many levels. The sweetness that we could have shared was impossible. The memories keep coming. How long must I exist in this place of pain and sorrow? It hurts so much that I wanna awaken love for love’s sake even though I know it is wrong. My saving grace has been the holy scripture: “Do not arise or awaken love until it so desires.” Melancholy sadness always fills the air when I reach this point in my process. Flashbacks of unwise choices that caused expensive pain pop up reminding me that all of my accounts are overextended. My heart is in debt. My soul is in bondage. My mind has been foreclosed upon. I am a fire sale waiting to happen. Today I reread the scripture…inhaling it as I have come to do. I chant it in the back of my mind so I will never forget that only Creator can bring love near. Not me. Not begging. Not pleading. Not becoming a sacrificial lamb. My prayer is to finally let go and give way to the flow of divine order. Hopefully the echo of scripture will be the wisdom my heart needs to heal itself so the next beloved can appear.
After I finished, Serengeti hugged me and whispered in my ear, “That took a lot of courage to share.”As the tears rolled down my face, the other members of the Sista7 extended hugs. Their unconditional support was more than I was prepared to receive. It was a blessing I hadn’t planned for, but definitely needed.
Novel Excerpt #4 from Chapter 12
The first thing that I noticed when I walked into the auditorium was the rainbow collective of sistas sitting in the audience. They represented a multitude of shapes, sizes, and colors. I settled in the back row closest to the door. My choice was strategic in case I needed to make a quick Pink Panther stage left exit.
DJ Fierce lowered the volume of the music as Greer approached the stage. She was wearing the Sapphire Sista Cypher trademark midnight blue t-shirt and a pair of jeans. I loved the t-shirt’s logo. It was a sista wearing an Afro as large as the one worn by Angela Davis, Assata Shakur, Katherine Cleaver, or Elaine Brown back in the day. The word Sapphire was spelled in bold red letters.
“Welcome to the October Sapphire Sista Cypher. My name is Greer Davis. It is my pleasure to serve as your Mistress of Ceremonies for the evening. Before we get started, I wanna take a few seconds to tell the neophytes what this event is all about. The Sapphire Sista Cypher has been meeting at Our Womanist Spirit Center for the past five years. We gather as a monthly collective of women representing all facets of the human rainbow. We come together in love to affirm our spirits and womanhood in creative expression. In this space, sistas speak their minds. They say things that fly in the face of convention. They reveal their truths. They cry, laugh, scream, and shout hallelujah and amen. Our expression is juicy, wild, uncompromising, and untamed. No one apologizes for the way they feel. Some of us are straight, gay, bisexual, transgender, Catholic, new age, Baptist, AME, Apostolic, Yoruba, Vodun, Akan, Unitarian, Protestant, Buddhist, Hindu, Muslim, Episcopalian, fashionistas, urban professionals, freelancers, entrepreneurs, stay-at-home mommies, working mothers, blue collar, white collar, pink collar, no collar, vegetarians, carnivores, feminists, womanists, democrats, republicans, independents, green party members, socialists, communists, etc. etc. No matter what we call ourselves, we are women defining ourselves from moment to moment with new language that moves beyond all identity markers. In this space, we unleash our authentic selves. We invite you to join us as we cast the flame of our lights onto the world.”
The audience applauded Greer. She blew kisses and moved the evening’s program along. “Ladies, tonight is Potluck Cypher. Last month we asked folks to submit anonymous writings in sealed envelopes. Tonight, they will be read by several of our nation’s finest word mistresses. The first one we’re gonna bring to the mic is Original Woman. She hails from Greensboro, North Carolina, and has been writing and performing her poetry in the Dirty South for seven years now. Original Woman is the author of three books of poetry and recently released her first CD, Cries of Oshun’s Daughter Down South. She is also an assistant professor at Bennett College. Give it up for Original Woman.”
Original Woman sauntered across the stage in a white cotton shirt, long denim skirt with a thigh high slit, and five-inch stiletto black boots that elevated her five foot nine inch full-figured frame to towering heights. She moved like she owned every inch of the universe. Original Woman wore a close-cropped Afro with silver hoop earrings dangling against a sable-colored face sans make-up. When she reached into the basket for a sealed envelope, I wondered if she would pick mine. As soon as she opened it and began reading, my wondering ceased and became a reality. In a deep raspy voice that reminded me of Me’shell Ndegeocello, she breathed life into my words.
“These thoughts are a collage of unwritten letters that my therapist instructed me to write. My heart and soul have eclipsed into a bitter lemon of sour poison manifesting in my thoughts, words, feelings, and actions as anger, betrayal, frustration, and disbelief. Many days are just plain apocalyptic. Yoga, breathing exercises, chanting, praying, and movement. Sometimes they work, but only for a moment. The emotions are never fully washed away. Journaling stops and starts. I languish. My heart is broken. My soul is splattered across the pages in thoughts that make no sense. Concentration, clarity, and communication with myself are all absent. So I stay lost by choice cuz’ if I tried to find me, I’d have to face it all. Walk through the madness. Embrace the apocalypse that my Daddy created when he betrayed my mother, sister, and me by fucking another woman and creating a son … Yeah if I found myself I’d have to admit that my Disneyland family illusion was a bunch of bullshit that my parents carefully orchestrated to conceal the truth … the truth that the love they proclaimed in front of me and my sister was a b-movie filled with my mother’s bourgeoisie fantasy world and my father’s bohemian Buddhist/Hindu academic nonsense that I bought into hook, line, and sinker. If I really found myself I’d have to admit that my mother drove my father into another woman’s arms. Maybe he just didn’t have any dick control from the get go which might explain my choice in emotionally unavailable men. Then if I did all of this, and looked at my twisted sister and her need to seek approval from my mother, I might have to admit that I’m just as twisted as she is. Isn’t it me who is falling for my bisexual best friend while choosing to fuck the married man at the family wedding? What does it make me? Human. Real. Authentic. Woman in process. Woman who sits across from her therapist every week facing what she is fearful of knowing. Woman struggling to uncover her hidden wholeness. Woman seeking to be well. Woman underemployed. Woman who doesn’t love herself? Wait a minute, I do love myself. The evidence is my willingness to work on my issues with a therapist. I’m a walking paradox. Complexity is my favorite cup of tea. Welcome to the prelude … the morning before my poetry awakens. It speaks on many levels. It is language squeezed from the crevices of my soul and the depths of my injured heart. I invite you to partake of a slice of my life in every poem."
Novel Excerpt #5 from Chapter 17
George’s play began with a dance company performing an Alvin Ailey-like piece. It reminded me of Revelations. Donny Hathaway’s impressionistic composition, I Love the Lord; He Heard My Cry (Parts I and II) played softly in the background. When they were finished, a male actor joined them on stage. He recited the signature poem. Additional selections from Hathaway’s final solo album, Extension of A Man were seamlessly woven between monologues. The Puerto Rican mother of the deceased artist performed a compelling spoken word piece. Her voice and body language accurately imitated the women I used to see on my way to work at El Museo del Barrio in East Harlem. Elementary school-aged tap dancers resembling Savion Glover and Marc Bamuthi Joseph blended intense sets of ricocheting rhythms and unfurled movement to compliment the gut wrenching pain pouring out of her heart as she created her own version of the Book of Lamentations. It was a mother’s mourning song and a grandmother’s testimony of not knowing what to do to prevent her grandchildren from dying before she had a chance to raise them. I wondered how mothers ever made a way out of no way. Love was the only answer.
The entire cast performed the closing monologue. As they recited the last line of the signature poem that George and his mother had written together, Hathaway’s classic standard, Someday We’ll All Be Free began to play. I silently read the words of the poem printed in the program.
Ask the Troubadours Who Have Come from Those Who Have Loved by George and Margaret Lancaster
Paint me a picture of those who managed to shine a glimmer of hope from their weary eyes as they crawled out of slavery’s despair with fragmented or nonexistent memories of a cultural richness and legacy that was so far from their grasp in a land that was not their own
Tell me a story of those who had little to nothing, planted it with faith the size of a mustard seed, tended to it with the utmost care, and waited patiently for what they couldn’t even begin to imagine or foresee
Sing me a song of those who loved when loving was an impossible reality Rejoice with me as we watch Creator proclaim that these beloved ones are Love’s Troubadours
Love’s Troubadours
Who should have perished in the midst of their Middle Passage hell, but instead made a choice and lived to overcome their fiery trials, emerging from the ashes unscathed like the children of the flame, Shadrach, Meshack, and Abednego
Love’s Troubadours
Whose human spirits should have cracked under the weight of legislated Jim Crow, but instead drank from the well of faith constructed by their ancestors for the purpose of restoring their souls
Love’s Troubadours
They are the ones that came before us
The ones who left us a legacy of faith, courage, commitment and service born out of love
Love’s Troubadours
They are ones who stood in the gap and continue to stand in the gap as our praying, persistent and powerful ancestors
Love’s Troubadours
They live in us and their presence has allowed us to become the ones who continue their legacy of faith, courage, commitment and service
Together, we are Love’s Troubadours, bound in the beauty and strength of our oneness
As a collective, we intuitively know that each one of us represents a thread in a multicolored
tapestry fashioned and made in the likeness of our Creator who strategically
spread us across the Diaspora as Africa’s daughters and sons
This holy tapestry is our sanctuary
It covers us as a bright and bold quilt, reminding us of our connection, divinity, and power to express and share love as a means of healing all things
Let the Church of Love’s Troubadours say,
Amen
Novel Excerpt #6 from Chapter 42
I decided to spend New Year’s Eve alone listening to some of my new music. Amel Larrieux’s Infinite Possibilities CD kept me company as I wrote a poem in my journal about what love looks like in my life.
What does love look like in my life?
Part One
In my life, love looks like a lotus flower in the center of my heart
Within the center of this lotus flower, lies a pink and green jewel shaped in the image of the Star of David
In this sacred place, I hold the love energy of my lifeIt is funneled through an equation that Stevie Wonder wrote about in the liner notes of his 1976 classic Songs in the Key of Life: love + love - hate = love energy
In my everyday life, this equation manifests in my thoughts, words, actions, choices, creativity, and relationships when I choose to allow it
When I make this choice, my heart opens to loving my spirit within, and everyone and everything in the universe
Part Two
In my life, love looks like me celebrating all of me surrendering to the sweetness of life claiming my beauty
Love looks like the trees, flowers, nature, Mother Earth, great goddesses and angels watching over me
Love looks like me embracing the light
living healthy
making time to pray and meditate opening a journal to write my thoughts
creating art
putting more massage, music, and movement in my life
relaxing with candles and drinking tea
practicing yoga with kindness, gentleness, compassion, and acceptance of my body for what it can and cannot do in the present moment
knowing myself and being able to be at peace with who I am
Part Three
Love looks like the feeling I get from being connected to God and everything in the universe when I listen to John Coltrane’s A Love Supreme
It looks like art, fruit, nature, and living in the light
It feels like when I remember and accept that God and I are one at all times
Part Four
Love looks like my life purpose me caring for myself the most powerful thing I can give myself and the universe flowing with the vibration of all life honoring the divinity in all things and people in the universe
After writing the poem, I sat rereading it a few times before falling asleep. Several hours later, my phone rang. I glanced at the clock. It registered 12:03 a.m. Momma was calling from Boston to wish me a Happy New Year. She sounded so bubbly and happy. After we spoke, I made a cup of blackberry tea and returned to my journal.
Novel Excerpt #7 from Chapter 44
I arrived at Mocha Hut an hour before we were scheduled to meet with Judy for the sole purpose of ordering a soy chai latte and reading my new book, being black. Unfortunately, the only thing that I did was eavesdrop on the discussion of a small group of people comfortably huddled around a table located a few feet from where I was sitting. Their physical presence as a group was striking. They came in a variety of colors, shapes, sizes, and genders. Their attire was colorful like a carnival on a Caribbean island. Bright blues, sunny yellows, joyful oranges, passionate reds, exciting pinks, luscious greens, and stunning purples.
They rested on seats made of faux leather. A medley of tea and coffee drinks decorated their table top. The aroma of hazelnut and vanilla coffee, early grey tea, apple cider, and hot chocolate filled the air. The group’s tone was upbeat and intense as they shared pieces of banana bread, oatmeal cookies, and blueberry scones. Their facial expressions alluded to confidential banter being exchanged. I think they thought nobody was listening since there were only a few of us urban dwellers taking up space on a rainy evening.The main speaker sat in the middle of her comrades. Her full Afro-puff ball flopped up and down and grazed her yellow citrine skin as she dramatized her words with hand movements. Her performance was so enticing that I book marked the page I was reading and gave her my full attention. “There are no formulas to follow when it comes to loving yourself and others. You have to ask yourself what do I need and what must I do to love myself? What do others need and what must I do to love them? Sometimes the answers to these questions are surprising. Sometimes in managing my own energy, I have been directed to seek a healthy emotional and spiritual balance by intentionally keeping physical distance from others and choosing to send them love and light from my spirit to theirs. The physical distance serves as a boundary that allows me to maintain detachment or interaction in the physical realm. It also reminds me that sometimes no matter how much we love others, the best thing we can do is let them be without any involvement or interaction. Then there are times, when I’m also called to accept that my choice in loving others influences the triangular connections I have with folks who are connected to all parties involved. That’s not an easy one to do, but sometimes it just makes more sense to step aside and let the connections go. New connections will fill the space of old ones. Life will move forward. I will grow. Maybe there’ll be days when I look back at the choices I’ve made and wonder did I do the right thing. No matter the answer, I’ll be called to accept it all and live in the present moment.”
The second speaker was a vanilla almond-colored man who wore a long black braid down his back. “It sounds like you are describing what I call the elasticity of love. The process by which you gently open your heart a little more each day to embrace the divine spark within yourself, others, and the universe. It makes you a little more grateful each day for a heart that is opening wider.”
The third speaker was a man with a thick unshaped reddish brown Afro that framed his sandalwood face like a halo. “When we make the decision to embrace another as our partner, do we ever ask ourselves if we have the emotional and spiritual maturity to be in a relationship? Do we realize that the purpose of relationships is twofold: spiritual and emotional healing? Are we really willing to do the work to heal ourselves in relationship and support our partners in their healing process? Are we honest about our strengths and weaknesses? Do we know how to resolve conflict? Are we willing to learn how?”
I missed the next response because Ma’at introduced me to Judy. Greer and Sunee arrived five minutes later. Yamuna, Kalahari, and Serengeti called to say they were running late. That gave me an opportunity to talk with Judy one-on-one about my inheritance. She asked me to describe my personal finance goals. I told her that I wanted to learn how to manage my income, pay off debt, and invest my inheritance wisely. She applauded me for having personal financial goals and investing the time to identify a financial advisor. I liked the way Judy took the time to find out about me as a person. She helped me see that my decisions were important steps in my journey to become healthy. We agreed to meet in a week to discuss how we could work best together.
Later that night, I woke up from a fitful sleep, wondering about the statements that the folks in Mocha Hut made. I realized that the only way I was going to find out if I could have a healthy relationship was to test the waters. Glancing around my kitchen, I wondered where I could find an eligible pool of bachelors at two thirty in the morning. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my laptop sitting on my breakfast bar. Voila. Love.AOL. Yamuna had success with it. Why not give it a try? My fingers pressed the on button. I logged onto my AOL account and visited the women’s ads to get ideas for my ad. I decided to call my ad “SBF Seeking New Friendships.” I had a good time writing it without censor.
It’s a new year. A time for new beginnings … new opportunities to connect with new people. I am a thirty something SBF with a creative spirit, honest heart, and open mind. My spirit, health, creativity, and relationships are the things I cherish the most in life. I’m passionate about art, music, yoga, theater, laughing, reading, meditating, spending time with family and friends, playing scrabble, learning Chaturanga (an Indian game that is the mother of chess), and taking walks in nature. I currently live in D.C., but spent several years in New York. I’m originally from Oakland, California with some serious Louisiana roots. If you are an honest, open-minded, spiritual, health-conscious, and fun-loving single man of color, send an e-mail. Please include a photo. Enjoy your new year!
I wasted no time in posting my ad. AOL sent me a message it would be approved in twenty-four hours. Let the game of seek and ye shall find a few good men begin. I waited two days before checking my e-mail.
A part of me was afraid that no one would respond to my ad. When I finally broke down and checked, I learned that I had nine potential suitors.
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Seven Novel Excerpts from Love's Troubadours - Karma: Book One by Ananda Kiamsha Madelyn Leeke.
