If Nenan Mode had raised me,
half the year would’ve smelled like rosewater and roasted cashews,
With Sunday mornings draped in silk robes
and the sound of Edith Piaf playing softly in the background, over simmering djon djon rice.
My French?
Elegant. Piercing.
A weapon dipped in velvet.
I’d speak like I carried the secrets of queens—
because she would’ve told me I did.
Because she knew I did.
If Nenan Mode had shaped my girlhood,
I would’ve learned that silence is not submission—
It is a strategy.
That perfume is a prayer,
Heels are declarations,
And books are the most loyal men you’ll ever meet.
She would’ve taught me how to pour rum
without spilling the truth,
How to slice through shame with a well-timed glance,
and how to choose my lovers like I choose my fruit—
ripe, rich, and ready.
Or not at all.
I would’ve walked into rooms
with the kind of stillness that unsettles weak men.
I would’ve known the difference between being watched
and being witnessed.
And when someone called me “too much,”
I would’ve smiled,
crossed my legs with poise,
and whispered,
“Good. Then I’m not for your palate.”
But here’s the secret,
The part no one tells you about lineage:
Even when the hands don’t raise you,
Their spirit does.
And so, I’ve become her anyway—
a woman with a spine made of cinnamon and steel,
a tongue fluent in prophecy,
and a gaze that calls men to the altar
or back to themselves.
She didn’t need to teach me in person.
She encoded me.
So today, I wear red lipstick in her honor.
I light candles with her name on my breath.
I correct the curve in my spine and say thank you.
And when I speak French—half-Creole, half-dream—
I swear I hear her humming approval through the veil.
Nenan Mode,
You would’ve raised me into a woman of silk and thunder.
And still—here I am.
You did——
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