Obsidian Shards: Afro-Horror Tales

Behind Every Successful Black Man

Author's Note:

This one's obvious. 

Behind every successful Black man, she stands watching.

Her eyes are a large chasm in the earth, ready to take in and swallow up everything her sight falls upon. Her hair is a large puff of the night sky, glimmered with starlight and wisps of grey stellar wind. Mourning dew clings to the fibers and makes her shine like an event horizon while she basks in the sun. Her arms are mighty tree branches that stretch far and wide, tangling all life in their crazy grip. Her body is a warm, soft nest that vibrates with the smooth rhythm of her heart beat. 

It is she who is the phantom itch on the back of your spine that will not go away, it is the sharp edges of her nails as they brush along your skin. She is that which consoled you, nurtured you, provided a home in your darkest days. When you had a desire, she threw fuel and kindling onto the fire. She is the muse that whispers in your ear, granting you ideas and supporting your drive to see them through.

She held you up in victory after your first successful battle. She marveled at the crops reaped by your hands. She too feels the bubbles from the bottom of the champagne flute that you drain in victory of a successful new quarter. She listens to your inauguration speech with curious, analytical ears. 

She wants not accolades. She needs not tribute. She does not need you to complete her own desires. Her initiatives are unknown to a being of your lowly stature, nor are they ever meant to be known. 

Behind every successful Black man is the Strong Black Woman. Watching. 

And now? She has seen enough.