Quote
"When Madonna came out with her hit Vogue you knew it was over. She had taken a very specifically queer, transgendered, Latino and African-American phenomenon and totally erased that context with her lyrics, “It makes no difference if you’re black or white, if you’re a boy or girl.” Madonna was taking in tons of money, while the Queen who actually taught her how to Vogue sat before me in the club, strung out, depressed and broke. So if anybody requested Vogue or any other Madonna track, I told them, “No, this is a Madonna free zone! And as long as I’m DJ-ing you will not be allowed to Vogue to the decontextualized, reified, corporatized, liberalized, neutralized, asexualized, re-genderized, pop reflection of this dancefloor’s reality!"

DJ Sprinkles, “Ball’r (Madonna-Free Zone)” from Midtown 120 Blues, 2008 (via seki-gahara)

I posted this back in June of last year and it’s more relevant than ever. Fuck Madonna.

(via nightgaunts)

let’s drag madonna some more

(via howtobeafuckinglady)

While the Queen who actually taught her was strung out, depressed and broke. 

So I’m not the only person who taught a raggedy bitch something vital and didn’t get taken care of by said raggedy bitch.

(via bitteroreo)

(Source: prince-abibos, via chocolatehighhh)

Photoset

yagazieemezi:

Akwaeke Zara Emezi is an Igbo and Tamil writer born in Umuahia and raised in Aba, Nigeria. Her first full length novel, Somadina, was selected as a finalist for the New Visions Award by Lee and Low Books.

Published by The Sable E-Mag, her latest short story:

FEMIMO:

I took one of my taxis to the estate so that no one would recognise the car. The security at the first gate waved us in with a cursory flick of their torchlights, not bothering to bend to the window. After all, the taxi was only a common yellow, not the oil black that would tell them they could smile with expectation and not the shiny sugar red that would merit at least a curious glance through the glass. I did own cars like those, but I’ve long found the poor man’s yellow to be the most useful. I inherited them all with my father’s company when he stumbled to his knees and quietly died during a morning jog two years ago. My mother became a muted and folded woman after that, thinning out until I grew concerned about her fragility. Every time she blessed me, her palms felt like spun paper about to flake gently over my scalp. It had been nothing to do my duty, to ease her mind, to come home and take over.

As we pulled through the second gate, I turned over the invitation in my hands, feeling out the weight of the heavy paper. The driver spun the steering wheel slowly and drove the taxi into a corner of the sprawling parking lot. He was one of the few that I trusted, a sour old man with sharp ears, selective hearing and he was a beast behind a steering wheel. I handed him a fold of thousand naira notes and he handed me a mask in return- soft leather, made in battered oxblood. When I held it briefly against my face, it felt like another skin.

Aima had left me five weeks ago, after I watched her crumple against a wall while sobbing that I would never marry her. I didn’t mean to just watch, I knew I was supposed to pick her up, cradle her against me and tell her that I loved her, that of course I would marry her, but the raw bitterleaf truth was that I didn’t recognise the hysterical woman she had become. The things she said sounded like another woman’s mouth had eaten hers. When she finally stood up and looked at me with completely betrayed eyes, I didn’t recognise myself either. Tonight, my intent was to forget about both of us, the interminable drive to the airport and how she didn’t even turn around for a last look … (keep reading)

Website / Facebook / Twitter / Instagram

Dedicated to the Cultural Preservation of the African Aesthetic

(via queernoire)

Photo
Photo
boyirl:

Mural Painting “The Eye of Wynwood” in Wynwood, Art Basel 2013, MIami.

boyirl:

Mural Painting “The Eye of Wynwood” in Wynwood, Art Basel 2013, MIami.

(via cece0814)

Photo
Photoset

lotusrootsoup:

missinglinc:

thesuperbeing:

Sanaa Lathan + Instagram Photos [Set 2/2] 

Refuse to believe she’s 41.

FORTY-ONE?????

(Source: winterfells-wolf, via poeticallyflowing)

Photo
via imgfave for iPhone
Photo
via imgfave for iPhone
Photo
fashearly:

Frank Ocean’s Sophomore Album is Near Completion
Frank Ocean had a little announcement to make today, and he took it to his Tumblr to announce that he is skipping Coachella to ‘stay in the groove & finish this bitch.” That really can only mean one thing: his sophomore album. He also announced he will be opening for OutKast at the Pemberton Music Festival this summer, so you’ll get to see him with OutKast this summer still.
View Post

fashearly:

Frank Ocean’s Sophomore Album is Near Completion

Frank Ocean had a little announcement to make today, and he took it to his Tumblr to announce that he is skipping Coachella to ‘stay in the groove & finish this bitch.” That really can only mean one thing: his sophomore album. He also announced he will be opening for OutKast at the Pemberton Music Festival this summer, so you’ll get to see him with OutKast this summer still.

View Post

(via phoeni-xx)

Photoset

mrbootyluver:

yagazieemezi:

C L E A R   A S   B L A C K 

My parents raised me in a predominantly white suburb of a black city, but it was the Latin culture that taught me. My first words, my mother’s food, my grandma’s counsel, my grandpa’s stories, my father’s song, my manipulative manners, my sister’s eyes, our irreverent whispers in church, the old man that gave me candy, the young man called Piraña, who had very large teeth who showed up every 4 months- stayed for a couple hours and left everyone in the house screaming with laughter. All these things… were so very Latin.

I also grew up enveloped in black. Growing up so close to Washington D.C., it was inevitable. From my best friends to my favorite songs; from first loves to lost ones. These things that encircled me from my baby face to my awkward age and carried me to adulthood were the standard for me - a Latina growing up in a white suburb of a black city that did not know she was anything else but Latin.

3 years ago I found out that my great-great grandfather was black. My grandfather was brown, tall and slender with light blue eyes. His grandfather was an African man that came to Colombia and stayed for a while. Somehow this heritage was hidden underneath the shades between white and black. It got pushed more towards white and less towards black, until lines blurred and although I am Latina, I am covered in white. Just like my suburb, just like my face, I am not what is exposed.

Puerto Rico is an island made up of a vast hybridity of people including: African, Arab, Native In- dian, and European. This island also happens to be the capital of the world for Albinism. There are layers upon layers that make up how alibinism manifests physically, inside and out. Albinism is not just white on this island, its black too. There are people who have the condition of albinism, but do not display the physical characteristics commonly known of a person with albinism. They have normal pigmentation, dark eyes and hair.  They are black, white and everything in be- tween, and they are all people with albinisim.

The blackest person with the condition is still white, and the whitest person with albinism is still black. Because of the genetics of the people that make up this place, everyone is black, but not everyone is white. One word cannot embrace the whole of my identity. My make up lies in a million things that cover me and when unveiled are clear as black.  (via)

Website / Facebook / Twitter / Instagram

they need plenty of sun block and don’t go to east africa otherwise they’ll end up in some witch doctors bag of bones………

(via strelitzias)