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February marks Black History Month in most parts of the diaspora (except in the UK, where it is celebrated in October). For us, the descendants of African peoples, this month-long observance is a time to honour the remarkable achievements and resilience of Black individuals throughout history; those who dared (and still dare) to live, dream and create despite more than five centuries of systemic adversity.

In this inaugural edition of "SIGNS OF THE TOMES," we present five contemporary coffee table books that joyfully and unapologetically encapsulate the richness of the Black experience. Authored by Black writers, or centred on Black narratives, these selections are not only visually stunning but also serve as vital records of Black lives and contributions to polity and culture, the arts, sports, travel and fashion.

1. The Most Iconic

Sapeurs: The Gentlemen of Bacongo by Daniele Tamagni

This groundbreaking work introduced the "African coffee table book genre" as we know it today. Via the world of the vibrant and audacious Sapeurs—Congolese dandies known for their impeccable style, it challenged prevailing narratives at the time by showcasing a contemporary, CLOTHED Africa. By ushering Black faces on coffee tables around the world, with the same heft and presence as the (still) reigning king of coffee tables, Tom Ford, The Gentlemen of Bacongo quickly sold out. After the death of its author a few years later, it was only found in secondary markets for many years. However, the iconic tome, featuring the African dandy (Sapeur in French) in a hot pink suit and matching bowler, is back in print through its original publishers, Trolley Books.

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2. The Most Re-defining

Afrosurf by Mami Wata

I'm sure you’ve heard at least one of the following sayings: Black people can't swim, we don't ski, and we definitely don't skydive or bungee jump! Well, it's true for most: Many of us refuse to, or are deathly afraid of participating in these kinds of dare-devil activities. Surf was also on my non-exhaustive list of "cultural don'ts" until a few years ago when I saw a curious Kickstarter campaign for an art book entitled AFROSURF. Edited by Mami Wata, a Cape Town surf company, "Afrosurf" is the first book to comprehensively document and celebrate surfing and related street culture in Africa. Initially appearing in 2021, the title seeks to redefine what we hold true about ourselves, our limitations, and the "extreme" leisures of our kinfolks across the globe.

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3. The Most Fashionable

Supreme Models: Iconic Black Women Who Revolutionized Fashion by Marcellas Reynolds

My interest in fashion - like most - began with models. In the early 2000s, during Jamaica's successful model wave, I would pore over the rare newspaper clippings and Models.com articles to keep abreast of the local muses who'd gone on to become international stars: Carla Campbell, Nadine Willis, Jaunel McKenzie, Reshima Hemmings, Sunna Gottshalk, Nakiesha Robinson, Canise Jackson, Jeneil Williams....to name a few. This led me to discover the other top girls of the moment, like Kinee Diouf, Mia Aminata, Sessilee Lopez, Ajak Deng, Tia Shipman, Chanel Iman....and the list goes on. Reynolds' book is an ode to that magical period - and the watershed era before. Celebrating over 70 Black models from the past seven decades, the anthology highlights their groundbreaking contributions to the fashion industry and is filled with stunning visuals and personal narratives. A must-have for all fashion enthusiasts!

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4. The Most “Must-Have”

Rihanna by Rihanna

So far, I've avoided monographs (i.e., books devoted to a single artist or their body of work) because they are not usually varied or mainstream enough for a general audience. But I would be remiss if I didn't mention Rihanna's 2019 release by Phaidon. A visual autobiography, this 500-page tome offers an intimate look into the life and career of the Barbadian superstar. Featuring personal photographs and unique design elements such as designer bookstands, cloth-bound covers, and pull-out posters, “Rihanna” - the book - is both a collector's item and a testament to Rihanna's multifaceted influence. A hit among her millions of millennial and Gen-Z fans upon its release, it's essentially a work of art!

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5. The Most Wanderlust

Zanzibar by Aline Coquelle

French photographer Aline Coquelle presents a love letter to the Zanzibar archipelago, capturing its breathtaking landscapes and vibrant culture. Released in 2020, “Zanzibar” immerses readers in the island's beauty and heritage by mimicking the clear blue waters of the Indian Ocean, which have made the region famous and a much-loved tourist destination, on its cover. In a series of intimate portraits of an indigenous community bursting with life, Coquelle - through her lens - preserves and celebrates life beyond paradise.

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Bonus: The Most Unexpected

Jamaica Vibes by Lisa Lovatt-Smith and Novia McDonald Whyte

If there was any doubt about the coolest island in the Caribbean, it's settled: "Jamaica Vibes" shines a spotlight on the renowned tropical island - the eternal home of Reggae, Bond, and “irie”. Released in the fall of 2023, it includes a foreword by Chris Blackwell, founder of Island Records, offering readers a visual feast of Jamaica's landscapes and lifestyles.

Incorporating these titles into your collection will not only enhance your decor but honour the diverse narratives that exist within the Black community. Each book serves as a testament and celebration of Black excellence, inviting reflection and conversation. And given their sheer size and design, they are guaranteed to please even the most discerning book collector.

Selection: Sapeurs: The Gentlemen of Bacongo by Daniele Tamagni (Trolley Books); Afrosurf by Mami Wata (Mami Wata); Supreme Models: Iconic Black Women Who Revolutionized Fashion by Marcellas Reynolds (Abrams Books); Rihanna by Rihanna (Phaidon); Zanzibar by Aline Coquelle (Assouline); Jamaica Vibes by Lisa Lovatt-Smith and Novia McDonald Whyte (Assouline).

16/02/2025

Signs of the Tomes is a quarterly column and guide to the most captivating coffee-table books, tomes, and monographs. From breathtaking photography and bold design, to deep dives into art, culture, and history, these are the books that are meant to be seen, held, and savoured.

And as I’ve lived in France now for the last 10 years (which makes me almost French), that eye-roll essentially comes with the most French of sounds: pfff

As time goes on, my indifference changes - first to annoyance, then to weariness, and then to apathy once more.

Given the fact that viral challenges are (usually) lighthearted and fun, you’re perhaps inclined to ask, ‘Mario, why the disdain?”

Well, apart from them being absolute and mindless distractions - a game of ostrich, and more so during these troubled times - I’ve always felt we could find better use for our collective energy. Plus, I’ve never been one to follow the crowd. Maybe it’s my Taurean energy. Or the mere fact of my being Jamaican. In fact, I can still hear my mother’s voice when she thought I wasn’t thinking for myself: “Monkey see, monkey do?!”

Moreover, January’s viral challenges are often rehashed ideas, made pretty and “new” by hashtags and a fresh coat of moniker paint. Case in point, 2026’s “2016 challenge” bears a striking resemblance to 2019’s #10yearchallenge, which itself was a spinoff of 2014’s #gloupchallenge, and the many similar iterations before. And seriously, if you’ve participated in any of the aforementioned ones, how many of these do you really need to do in a lifetime? Asking for a friend….

Plus, with the boom of AI - and yes, speaking as a self-proclaimed conspiracist - I can’t help but wonder what kind of data-training these endlessly rehashed ideas signal, and more pointedly: who benefits?

My yo-yo attitude is perhaps best explained by the 2012 Cody ChesNutt song - from where this article also gets its title - What Kind of Cool (Will We Think of Next), in which the RnB crooner chides and accuses about the distressing and (seeming) non-progressive state of Black men and women, notably in 20th and 21st century America. In that, despite being the innovators of ‘cool’ and some of those endearing and enduring moments of pop culture, they’re (we’re) stagnant in the things that really matter - ownership of our ideas, for example - and in sum underperforming at our potential and “begging to be paid.”

In the 5-minute-long anthem, he muses:

The poignant refrain then teases:

What kind of cool will we think of next? To HIDE behind...

Not much seems to have changed in 2026 - six years after the world vowed to change. Except now, that ChesNutt’s 2012 ‘unaware’ Black is now a metaphor for the unconcerned millennial and Gen-Z of our time - more attuned to viral tends and social media nostalgia than they are at wanting to right a world that is gravely ill.

A few years ago, at the start of the year, an acquaintance of mine, Anna, travelled around Asia for 8 months, simply as a dare to herself of what was possible with a Jamaican passport. Last year, I successfully negotiated my release from a job in which I felt I was shrinking, to do things “my way”, in a sort of way Frank Sinatra sang about. And while not everything needs to be announced - or even performed for the world - those are the ten-year challenges I want to see more of.

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Instead of another glow-up photo, let’s ask ourselves: Are we braver, more conscious, more upright? Or, collectively, how have we evolved as people and as a country, and are our respective Governments doing the people’s work?

Because if we must keep challenging ourselves, the challenge should be more substance over virality.

Otherwise, we’re left with the same question ChesNutt posed over a decade ago on January 1, 2012:

What kind of cool will we think of next… to hide behind?

The Effrontery is an op-ed column examining culture, power, taste, and contradiction - calling out irrationality, complacency, and performative thinking with clarity, wit, and zero filter.

Share Son of the Antillean Soil

February marks Black History Month in most parts of the diaspora (except in the UK, where it is celebrated in October). For us, the descendants of African peoples, this month-long observance is a time to honour the remarkable achievements and resilience of Black individuals throughout history; those who dared (and still dare) to live, dream and create despite more than five centuries of systemic adversity.

In this inaugural edition of "SIGNS OF THE TOMES," we present five contemporary coffee table books that joyfully and unapologetically encapsulate the richness of the Black experience. Authored by Black writers, or centred on Black narratives, these selections are not only visually stunning but also serve as vital records of Black lives and contributions to polity and culture, the arts, sports, travel and fashion.

1. The Most Iconic

Sapeurs: The Gentlemen of Bacongo by Daniele Tamagni

This groundbreaking work introduced the "African coffee table book genre" as we know it today. Via the world of the vibrant and audacious Sapeurs—Congolese dandies known for their impeccable style, it challenged prevailing narratives at the time by showcasing a contemporary, CLOTHED Africa. By ushering Black faces on coffee tables around the world, with the same heft and presence as the (still) reigning king of coffee tables, Tom Ford, The Gentlemen of Bacongo quickly sold out. After the death of its author a few years later, it was only found in secondary markets for many years. However, the iconic tome, featuring the African dandy (Sapeur in French) in a hot pink suit and matching bowler, is back in print through its original publishers, Trolley Books.

Share

2. The Most Re-defining

Afrosurf by Mami Wata

I'm sure you’ve heard at least one of the following sayings: Black people can't swim, we don't ski, and we definitely don't skydive or bungee jump! Well, it's true for most: Many of us refuse to, or are deathly afraid of participating in these kinds of dare-devil activities. Surf was also on my non-exhaustive list of "cultural don'ts" until a few years ago when I saw a curious Kickstarter campaign for an art book entitled AFROSURF. Edited by Mami Wata, a Cape Town surf company, "Afrosurf" is the first book to comprehensively document and celebrate surfing and related street culture in Africa. Initially appearing in 2021, the title seeks to redefine what we hold true about ourselves, our limitations, and the "extreme" leisures of our kinfolks across the globe.

Subscribe now

3. The Most Fashionable

Supreme Models: Iconic Black Women Who Revolutionized Fashion by Marcellas Reynolds

My interest in fashion - like most - began with models. In the early 2000s, during Jamaica's successful model wave, I would pore over the rare newspaper clippings and Models.com articles to keep abreast of the local muses who'd gone on to become international stars: Carla Campbell, Nadine Willis, Jaunel McKenzie, Reshima Hemmings, Sunna Gottshalk, Nakiesha Robinson, Canise Jackson, Jeneil Williams....to name a few. This led me to discover the other top girls of the moment, like Kinee Diouf, Mia Aminata, Sessilee Lopez, Ajak Deng, Tia Shipman, Chanel Iman....and the list goes on. Reynolds' book is an ode to that magical period - and the watershed era before. Celebrating over 70 Black models from the past seven decades, the anthology highlights their groundbreaking contributions to the fashion industry and is filled with stunning visuals and personal narratives. A must-have for all fashion enthusiasts!

Subscribe now

4. The Most “Must-Have”

Rihanna by Rihanna

So far, I've avoided monographs (i.e., books devoted to a single artist or their body of work) because they are not usually varied or mainstream enough for a general audience. But I would be remiss if I didn't mention Rihanna's 2019 release by Phaidon. A visual autobiography, this 500-page tome offers an intimate look into the life and career of the Barbadian superstar. Featuring personal photographs and unique design elements such as designer bookstands, cloth-bound covers, and pull-out posters, “Rihanna” - the book - is both a collector's item and a testament to Rihanna's multifaceted influence. A hit among her millions of millennial and Gen-Z fans upon its release, it's essentially a work of art!

Share

5. The Most Wanderlust

Zanzibar by Aline Coquelle

French photographer Aline Coquelle presents a love letter to the Zanzibar archipelago, capturing its breathtaking landscapes and vibrant culture. Released in 2020, “Zanzibar” immerses readers in the island's beauty and heritage by mimicking the clear blue waters of the Indian Ocean, which have made the region famous and a much-loved tourist destination, on its cover. In a series of intimate portraits of an indigenous community bursting with life, Coquelle - through her lens - preserves and celebrates life beyond paradise.

Subscribe now

Bonus: The Most Unexpected

Jamaica Vibes by Lisa Lovatt-Smith and Novia McDonald Whyte

If there was any doubt about the coolest island in the Caribbean, it's settled: "Jamaica Vibes" shines a spotlight on the renowned tropical island - the eternal home of Reggae, Bond, and “irie”. Released in the fall of 2023, it includes a foreword by Chris Blackwell, founder of Island Records, offering readers a visual feast of Jamaica's landscapes and lifestyles.

Incorporating these titles into your collection will not only enhance your decor but honour the diverse narratives that exist within the Black community. Each book serves as a testament and celebration of Black excellence, inviting reflection and conversation. And given their sheer size and design, they are guaranteed to please even the most discerning book collector.

Selection: Sapeurs: The Gentlemen of Bacongo by Daniele Tamagni (Trolley Books); Afrosurf by Mami Wata (Mami Wata); Supreme Models: Iconic Black Women Who Revolutionized Fashion by Marcellas Reynolds (Abrams Books); Rihanna by Rihanna (Phaidon); Zanzibar by Aline Coquelle (Assouline); Jamaica Vibes by Lisa Lovatt-Smith and Novia McDonald Whyte (Assouline).

16/02/2025

Signs of the Tomes is a quarterly column and guide to the most captivating coffee-table books, tomes, and monographs. From breathtaking photography and bold design, to deep dives into art, culture, and history, these are the books that are meant to be seen, held, and savoured.

Every so often, I’m complimented on my style and, consequently, asked about the thought process behind the pieces I choose to acquire. Alas, the response is not a simple one: My journey to the style I have now—somewhere between a (millennial) minimalist and an eclectic (geriatric)—grew out of a desire to express myself through my clothes, create a more sustainable wardrobe that wasn’t dictated by cyclical trends, and support and pay homage to the designers and style subsets I adored.

Being someone who hates small talk, this new (fashion) moral code would be a way to say who I was (and subsequently how I wish to be treated) without engaging in the effete, sometimes uncomfortable small talk that accompanies such developmental milestones.

“My journey to the style I have now - somewhere between a (millennial) minimalist and an eclectic (geriatric) - grew out of a desire to express myself through my clothes…”

To achieve this, I had to—in other words—know myself. I had to identify what I liked about specific pieces of clothing and about the worlds and minds of the designers who designed them. I also had to learn my body: At 5’8” (175 cm) tall, with a torso as long as my legs, I had to gain an understanding—through trial and error, no less—of what looked good on me and what I felt good wearing.

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Thankfully, in fashion, this age-old adage of “know thyself” holds more weight than you might think. To wit, personal style is not just about following trends or being able to dress in the most fashionable or expensive labels. Ultimately, it reflects who you are at your innermost core and is an expression of your staunchest values, which in my case were such individuality, sustainability and timelessness.

Here are six (6) easy steps to help you better learn and define your personal style.

1-Reflect on Your Lifestyle and Personality: Consider your daily activities, work environment, and leisure preferences. Are you more inclined towards formal, casual, or sporty attire? Where do you spend most of your time? Align your wardrobe with your TRUE lifestyle (not the one for show or social media), and let your clothes be an extension of your personality. For instance, my creative office environment means that many pieces I buy and wear for work are also great for casual events with friends or a stroll around town. A few of my current faves like Our Legacy, Needles and Jacques Soloviere fit perfectly into my minimal eclectic aesthetic, not only for their timeless yet unique designs, but also their cultural variety (Our Legacy is from Sweden, Needles from Japan and Jacques Soloviere from France).

2-Understand Your Body Shape: Knowing your body type is crucial in selecting clothes that fit well and flatter your physique. Some styles and cuts naturally complement your shape, whether you’re tall, short, athletic, or stocky. Also, have a good tailor on speed dial. Even ready-to-wear looks better tailored! Understanding my body shape helped me to understand that cropped clothing (tops and bottoms) was a way to trick the eye into thinking I was taller than I was. Or that oversized clothing, when in the right proportions, isn't to be avoided. The Intact sleeveless vest in 100% cotton from Swedish brand Our Legacy has been one of my favourite (and most worn) purchases this summer.

Source: Farfetch.com

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3-Seek Inspiration but Never Imitate: Identify and follow the fashion icons whose style you like, read style blogs, and observe the street style of your favourite influencer. However, think less about fashion trends and imitating the outfits that you see. Instead, the goal is to identify and articulate what you like about particular outfits and adapt these inspirations to suit your individuality rather than imitating them. Is it the shape, the colour, the texture, or the pairings? Some of the style influencers I follow like Amanda Murray, ASAP Rocky and Rihanna, are masters at incorporating even the most avant-garde looks with daywear! Something I was hesitant to do has become almost second-nature now simply because I have seen others do it.

Source: Pinterest.com

4-Emphasize Quality Over Quantity - Start With The Basics: When a wardrobe overhaul is imminent, you might be tempted to do it quickly. However, the road to personal style mastery - i.e. learning what flatters your body and what you feel good wearing - should be a slow burn, kind of like Bridgerton Season 2. Start with the basics and choose quality fabrics, which in the long run last longer and look better. For instance, a crisp white shirt, well-made jeans and sturdy leather shoes are timeless investments. For variety, however, I have created my own personal 3-3 Rule: I try to have only three (3) variations of an item, which may differ in cut, design or materials. And when I am about to purchase a new item, I ask myself, “Can this be worn with three (3) things I currently own?” You can create your own system. Remember, though, it's not about the number of clothes you have, but the quality and how they make you feel.

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5-Wear and Keep Only What Makes You Feel Good: Periodically review and edit your wardrobe. Discard those items that no longer fit or make you feel self-conscious. Great outfits are the result of an organised, curated closet. Keep only the things in your defined style in which you feel confident and comfortable.

“Personal style is not just about following trends or being able to dress in the most fashionable or expensive labels… it reflects who you are at your innermost core…”

6-Know Thy Future Self: Conversely, the best way to achieve the personal style you want is to also think about your future self: Where do you see yourself in the next ten years, or at 50, for example, and how do you wish to be addressed - or even remembered? An adage says, dress for the job you want. But I say, dress for the golden-ager you wish to become!

Source: instagram.com/gramparents

Personal style is about individuality and self-expression. Ultimately, the only rule is to wear whatever makes you feel good. Mastering your personal style is an evolving journey that includes trial, error, and, most of all, discovery. Know yourself, be authentic, and let your style speak for you.

02/07/2024

Person & Style, a monthly column and your ultimate guide to discovering and refining your personal style through my own journey. Join me as we explore the art of personal dressing, empowering you to present your best self with confidence and flair.

Stay tuned for more updates and even more original content.

Until then, why not take a trip down memory lane and catch up on all your favourite posts? And of course, "don't forget to like, subscribe and share" - your support means the world!

Forever yours,

Mario

- Mario Davis

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The young chap seated beside me at the time, Davon (I think that was his name), wrote the title you see above, “I Am A Bird”.

Our teacher, Miss Dover, was none too pleased upon reading said essay and gave him a sound thrashing.

“I am a bird?! I am a bird, nuh! Fly! Fly, make me see!”

As the strap found his back in rapid, vexed flurries, Davon writhed in pain, his arms flailing around him, either to fly as directed or as a shield from the lashes of the irate teacher.

Years later I find myself being able to laugh at the memory of the shrieking teacher and the class of frightened six-year-olds; though I dare say that sort of rigour, and ‘discipline’ was too excessive. Even then I knew that.

We were in constant fear that one wrong move and we’d be hit, or screamed at, which no doubt added to my dislike for her, Miss Samms and Miss Richards - my grades 3 and 4 teachers respectively. I found them to be unjustly strict women of dour personalities, who seemed to love dispensing corporal punishment at the drop of a hat. In the case of Miss Dover - a woman at the end of her career - I can now say she had no business teaching impressionable children. And that’s my unchanging opinion.

I remember another time when we were asked to make Christmas cards, and as I deemed the piece of cheap art paper too small, I wrote “Merry Xmas”. Instead of commending a 6-year old for his obvious range of knowledge, she berated me for - as she said - “taking Christ out of Christmas”.

I would find out many years later that the Christmas card reaction was as a result of my father having gone to her a few weeks prior to say he didn’t think I was being challenged enough, to which he was met dismissively with, “Every parent says that about their child.”

But my father (himself a teacher at the time, albeit untrained) was right - as my grades eventually proved. I skipped a grade at the end of the year.

There are certain times, almost like clockwork, when I think about Davon, his essay and Miss Dover; usually towards the end of the year and whenever I hear Nelly Furtado’s seminal single, “I’m Like A Bird”. I think about what it must be like to be like birds, perceived yet elusive, earthly yet heavenly.

He may have been on to something that young Davon. At that tender age he’d already understood the freedom that birds enjoyed, and - like them - wanted to be free.

It’s been rainy and grey these past few days in Paris. Temperatures have dropped, I’m disillusioned with my job, and as we embark on another year I’ve found myself asking questions and thinking how great it would be to be outdoors, in another city, home - anywhere except this damp - sometimes inhospitable - city. It would be possible if only I could fly - like birds.

Birds.

Beautiful and majestic;

earthly yet celestial.

Free.

Oh if only I had wings.

For 2023, I wish for each and every one the possibility to soar like birds.

Happy New Year!

Mario

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If my 2021 revelation could be resumed in a few words, it would be this Jamaican proverb: Parson christen dem pickney fuss.

A Jamaican proverb (and truism), which translates to, "People look out for their own affairs first", is often used as a warning: it warns us against nepotism, ego-centrism, and the ways of users, emotional anglers, offloaders, freeloaders, etc. - usually in the form of family or friends - who are conveniently absent whenever help or favour is to be returned, yet they are the ones often in need.

However, if viewed positively, this proverb should serve as a reminder that we have the greatest responsibility to ourselves: to take care of our own needs, be they physical or emotional.

Therefore, if in 2022 you find me less available, or that I have set boundaries, understand that I'm christening the child within.

Selah,

Mario

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Beats

For black love

To be carried by black feet

Up, up, up into the folly of lust

And the divine

My black heart

Sings

For black love

For uncovered touches, glances

Kisses from white teeth

And warm breath like licorice

My black heart

Prays

That your black heart

Stays

Gentle, vulnerable

Anchored in the enduring expressions of ancestral love

Mario Davis

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By February, said list gets pushed to the side. Replacing it will be the more “pressing” short-term goals, and to-do lists, of a daily or weekly nature: grocery shopping, school and professional deadlines, or - as in years past - reminders to call the bank to negotiate credit card fees for the previous December’s overspending.

By April, January’s impassioned paper resolution is a near-distant memory; for with the new season, I will have moved on to digital lists - bookmarking Internet style pages and book recommendations, and creating spring-summer fashion wish lists in the process. 

These fashion lists are even more ardent than the first; for with the warmer clime comes a newfound resolve to do it all. And sometimes a list gets done: like buying the pair of checkered Stella McCartney trousers I’d been eyeing for some time, or the Calvin Klein button-up - both of which I got for half-off. 

Most times, however, lists remain unfinished, which seem to set the tone for the rest of the year. Around May, when hunting for a birthday gift for myself - a photo book no doubt - I’ll have noticed that in my tiny, 250-square-foot apartment, books piled high, and mostly unread, tell the story of a list-maker gone mad. Where on Earth would I put another book, anyway? By the end of June, embarrassment turns to lassitude, and I’ll have conceded that despite the languor of summer, my lists are far too many and far too long; that it’s humanly impossible to do, read or acquire all that I’d written - not in a week, month, year or lifetime. 

By September, defeat is abetted by two other negative emotions - anxiety and overwhelm. I’ll have counted the year as almost ended, and once again I’d been a flake: my January list was still undone and but a forlorn memory.

I know exactly how my list-making fascination began. When it became an obsession, though, is another story. When I was younger my mother had the habit of making lists. A little spiral-bound notebook recorded all the big-spend items she wanted for our home. “The little things that made a house a home, and to which every child should become accustomed,” she’d say.

For us kids, this little book, its pages worn beige by the passage of time, was like a talisman. For each item written within, in the careful cursive that was my mother’s, eventually made its way into our tiny bungalow home, as if by magic. As a nearing middle-aged adult, however, I’ve realised that my mom writing down her wishes, and achieving them, was more than mere manifestation. It took discipline and diligence. Certainly, years of failed resolutions have taught me that impressive promises are only as good as the work we put into action.

For 2021, I’ve made no ten-point plan. Instead, I’ve written a plan of action, measured by dates, to be audited by a few friends, who I’ve asked to be my accountability partners. Will I achieve the goals I set out for myself this year? Only time will tell. But I think I’m on my way.

Bonne année,

Mario

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My plan had been hatched a few weeks earlier after reflecting on how fortunate I’d been to have had friends ever since my arrival in Paris. I wanted therefore to see what it was like for those who had no one, especially at this time of year. It seemed a noble enough idea and I tried to convince everyone of this; how being alone would allow me to “empathise” with others.

This, I must admit, was scarier said out loud, as I’ve never been alone at Christmas (coming from a family of 7 that was next to impossible). But I was dead serious in following through with my plans - regardless of how self-flagellating and sacrificial they sounded.

Next to summer, Christmastime is my favourite holiday season. Growing up in Jamaica, on account of us not celebrating Thanksgiving, the season starts mid to late November and is marked by the first streams of Christmas carols played on the radio. A cool, crisp, ‘mountain breeze’ descending onto the plains of Jamaica’s Corporate Area is also an indicator of the nearing celebrations, and everyone gets into a state of busyness matched only by the back-to-school preparations of the previous August. 

Sure it also signalled arduous year-end work - such as the bushing of hedges and lawns, rearranging heavy furniture and giving the house a fresh coat of paint - but it also meant more meaningful affairs like spending time with family, church, outings, and gifts. 

In my large family, it was customary for us to all gather at my father’s sister, who we simply called “Auntie”, for the annual family dinner. We would be about 20-30 at a time: each of her brothers, their spouses, child - or children - friends of the family, and their friends....the list goes on. And oh we would have such fun. There’d be music, banter, games, kids playing about, lots to drink and eat. And we always started with prayer. We’d pray to thank God for his mercies on us as a family, and for bringing us together yet another year. 

The unspoken rule was that each person, or household, prepare a dish in accordance with his/her culinary strengths. Somehow though, being from the household that had the most people and the better cooks, most of the cooking eventually became my mom and dad’s domain. There was one year, however,  when my parents cried stop and went on “strike”. That year the curry mutton had too much ginger (Uncle David), the rice and peas too much garlic (Uncle David again), and the baked barbecue chicken, on account of their well-done-ness were more like burnt quail than grade A meat (Uncle David again....sigh poor Uncle David). The only saving grace that year, if I remember correctly, was the juice (thanks Uncle Raymond)

Although funny, that isn’t my fondest Christmas memory. That honour belongs to the year when we were still young enough to receive gifts but old enough to know who they were really from: It was late at night and we surprised our father coming home, his hands laden with presents. We screamed at the sight of the bags and boxes all wrapped in colourful red, green and white wrapping paper and bows. Our squeals of delight soon turned to disappointment, however. “These aren’t yours,” he said. “I didn’t get paid, so I didn’t get the chance to buy you all presents. But I’ll get you guys something next week.” 

We were dejected. “The neighbour asked me to hide them here until his kids go off to bed”, he continued. “By the way, Mario, go see if he’s there.” Being the oldest I was the envoy charged with going to the neighbour’s to tell him he could come to collect his kids’ gifts. My feet and heart were heavy during the walk and I remember thinking about how lucky his children were to be getting all those presents. When I arrived at the given address, the house was in total darkness. I knocked, and knocked, and knocked. No one answered. I went home to tell my dad who told me to go to bed, that he’d take care of it. 

The following morning we woke up to the bags and boxes in colourful red, green and white wrapping paper and bows still there. This time though they were placed under our tree. When I asked my dad why hadn’t the neighbour retrieved his presents, and why they were under the tree, he and my mom burst out laughing. They admitted that the presents were indeed ours and that they lied the night before.  

Christmas in Paris is cold. And I’m not talking about the weather. There’s something different - almost eerie - about the season here. Outside of the invitations and cards from friends, what I’ve experienced here is devoid of the communal conviction, joy and mirth of which I’m accustomed to back home. The “Joyeux Noëls” are formulaic, and save the big shopping centres there are definitely no strains of carols in the streets. 

Perhaps my great Christmas experiment of last year was a cry for the familiar and a longing for the olden days where I didn’t feel like an intruder at yet another Christmas dinner table, where “Merry Christmas” was a thing people said with real smiles and a twinkle in their eyes. It did serve its noble endeavour though, by allowing me to empty myself completely and reconnect with the real reason for the season - God and family. I also realised that no one should spend Christmas alone and that I was indeed lucky that each year someone - somewhere - invites me to be their guest at dinner.

This Christmas season I’ve not been alone. And I’ve made a conscious effort to be present in that blessing. At the invitation of two friends, I’ve travelled outside of Paris to their new beachside residence in Dieppe. It’s an honour too to be their first guest.  

During this holiday season let us especially remember those who are shut-in or alone. Many of these people are closer to us than we think, and simply refuse to be a bother. Despite their protests, let’s force ourselves to include them as much as we possibly can, and extend to them our most earnest wishes - or a plate. You never know how you might change someone’s countenance for the next year with just a simple thought. 

Happy holidays and much love, 

Mario

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- Unknown

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After the passing of Karl Lagerfeld last winter, Chanel announced the "Kaiser’s" right hand, Virginie Viard, as the brand's new creative director. Outside of fashion’s inner circle, not much is known of Viard – a Frenchwoman by way of Dijon, who had been a part of Lagerfeld’s inner circle for the last thirty years. The appointment, nonetheless, was met with a positive reaction – especially in this charged #METOO era for its unmistakable nod to diversity and continuity of Lagerfeld’s brilliant legacy.

Photos: Alessandro Lucioni / Vogue.com

For her debut, Viard and Co. transformed the mythic Grand Palais into a picturesque railway terminal, complete with train tracks, ballast, signposts, passenger platforms, and benches to boot. There was no locomotive, however, which is perhaps summative of the collection she showed. Satisfactory, albeit low on steam.

To wit, a succession of tiered dresses, which were more Oscar de la Renta in their styling than Rue Cambon. Tapered trousers – topped by oversized blazers – recalled the routine play of Olivier Rousteing’s Balmain, and an A-line coatdress was more evocative of Miuccia than Coco – not to mention a few odd colour and styling combinations.

“Satisfactory, albeit low on steam”

And although the house’s signature (tweed) was present, alongside bags and jewellery, which were quite interesting, the glaring difference between this collection and those before was hard to ignore. This collection had a rote countedness – as if the clothes were decided via an abacus, or by ticking items off a grocery checklist: A dress here. A pair of shorts there…leggings…safari jacket, coats, skirts…

Viard’s debut, I thought, keeled in a similar fashion to the debuts of two other famous women designers of recent times: Maria Grazia Chiuri for Dior, and before that, Sarah Burton for Alexander McQueen. (Clare Waight Keller’s Givenchy debut thankfully did not suffer that fate). In that, while the collection was tidy (and varied, if I am to be honest), it lacked bite, balladry and individuality. Which begs the question: is routine, nondescript, quotidianness what women (truly) want?

The beauty of Lagerfeld’s collections was in their thoroughness, poetry and the interest he was also able to create around the clothes by way of his polymathic mind and (completed) set designs. The set was integral to the story. It gave us an idea who the girl – or woman – was for that season, what she liked, who she read, her current passions and her protests. It also gave us an insight into the mind of Lagerfeld himself. His "Chanel" was feminine and feline in her stride and wit, yet masculine in her resolve and independence. Karl proposed; here, Viard schelps.

“is routine, nondescript, quotidianness what women (truly) want?”

It is still early days yet. Perhaps Cruise 2020, à la Viard, was simply a palate cleanser; an appetizer meant to whet as many tastes as possible while the company gleans through sales (and social media feedback) what women want from Chanel, sans Lagerfeld, sans theatrics. Let's hope though that after the numbers are crunched, Viard will offer us more than tidy separates. For it would be a crying shame for this now beautiful Aurora to return to her sleepy past.

05/05/2019

Talking Fashion is monthly series that attempts to dissect the inner workings of fashion from an outlier - yet culturally astute - lens.

Today, I was reminded of this pithy truth, and of the thinness of time with the news of James Ingram’s passing. “Oh no, not James!”, I thought.

 American celebrity fangirl-dom was never a part of my Jamaican experience growing up - a fact I’m quick to boast to my French and American friends. Yet, for some, we Jamaicans are quick to make an exception: Kenny Rogers, Dolly Parton and Steven Seagal, for example. There’s also James Ingram, the quiet, genteel, can-do-no-wrong, R&B crooner of ‘80s and ‘90s fame with the voice as clear as glass. He was the ‘R&B king’ who never once had to remind anyone of his king-ness. He just was.

 I don’t remember when James came into our (mine and my sister’s) lives, or who introduced him to us, but he never quite left. Even if time (and the charts) tried to make us forget. My sister and I, while we rarely agreed on music, we 100% agreed on James. My favourite song of his was the one he did with Dolly, ‘The Day I Fall in Love’. Hers was, ‘One Hundred Ways’. ‘Just Once’ was the one we liked together.

Approaching my mid-thirties, listening to James takes me back to boyhood territory: My sister and I are in the kitchen, singing. I’m doing my weird version of the Charleston and she’s clutching her chest, doing her famous ‘Terri head bop’. That’s our ‘kitchen dance’. 

 With tears streaming down my face I send her a silly text about our childhood icons leaving us. It’s, in part, an acknowledgement of the fact that we’re getting older. Our youth and days of childlike insouciance seem long behind us. Behind me…

‘Life is short’. My mother’s warnings return me to the present. The lesson that adulthood is as much about ageing as it is accepting that we lose friends and loved ones is a hard one to accept. Still, and perhaps naively, I hope life will be kind to me. That I’ll have the appropriate strength and grace to deal with these ‘growing pains’ as they come my way.

Today, though, I want no part of grace - or composure. I wish to mourn James, and my youth. I want to cry, and dance. And pray. So I do.

I pray for the soul of the man who gave my family so much, without even knowing. I pray for his family; that they be comforted. Finally, I pray that the Lord accept his majestic voice into His choir of heavenly angels. 

And as the tears fall, I do one more kitchen dance for James.

With love,

Mario

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As a proud contributing member of the millennial cohort, a generation of doers and game-changers whose resolve not to let our destinies be determined by fate, but by our wilful creativeness, the future looks encouraging.

With ‘discipline’ as my motivational word for last year, I was able to prove that what the heart wants, the mind helps to achieve through healthy, focused and inspired thoughts. So while some are eager to see the back of 2018 - like Black folks running away in a scary movie - I’ll look back at it fondly as a year of profound clarity, and of growth – a year in which I learnt a great deal about myself by testing my limits and pushing past fear.

I started a blog. I bought ‘art’. I travelled. I stayed home (a lot!). I participated in a workers’ strike. I gained 3 kg. I had money; then I was broke. I gave gifts. I received gifts. I made friendships; conversely, I also lost a few. But, and perhaps most importantly, I gained an enormous degree of self-awareness and perceptiveness that comes from devotion, reflection and spending time alone.

I went Afro Punk-ing, I also went Toulouse-ing. I horsed around. I laughed out loud. I cried. I’ve seen sights and places that, as a then 11-year-old boy in Jamaica, I only dreamt of and read about in atlases. I hosted friends. I changed jobs. I did the unthinkable and wore shorts outdoors. Yes, I found my light!

2018 was a watershed year for me, and not all by my own doing. I was also reinvigorated by the goodness of people.  All these lessons, along with the tried and true principles of daily gratitude and stoicism - going forward - are the stepping stones I’ll use to take me one step closer to my dreams and the human being I wish to become.

Therefore, to 2019, I say this, “I’m ready!”

Ryo

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Goodas!

Good Gyal.

Excerpt from ”The Holy Trinity of Jamaican Goodup-liness-ful: A Dialectal Study” 1st ed., Vol. 1. Kingston, Jamaica: SOTAS University Press, 2018.

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Paris, like a few other cities around the world, is currently experiencing a heatwave. So this is me trying every trick in the book to fool my mind - and body - into thinking temperatures are way cooler than they are. I’ve also begun stuffing rolled up toilet paper under my armpits. It gets the job done - for now. But I was quite ready to try feminine maxi pads. I’m not kidding. Anything is game to survive this heat!

Another, more radical, alternative would’ve been biblical justice. As in, if your right hand offends you, cut it off. But that’s a bit too gung-ho, even for uncooperative armpits. Since I’ve been here, this is perhaps the fourth consecutive year of extreme summer temperatures. Two years ago, the mercury climbed to a record 40 degrees. I remember begging my mother via WhatsApp message to send me a care package of cool breeze. It was a half jest, half serious request to which she responded, “Who’s fighting this time?”. I didn’t understand her question, so she explained: “The last time you asked for 'cool breeze' Janet* and Chico* were fighting. You were about three years old, and I asked you, ‘Mario, you want some water?' You said, 'No Mommy. Mi only want cool breeze!' And you planted yourself by the front window.”

I don’t remember the episode. But it makes me chuckle at the thought of my then three-year-old self, declining the glass of ice-cold water for a bit of cool breeze. I think about this story from time to time - especially on days like today, where despite Europe’s fake sweet pepper sun, it gets sweltering. In built-up Paris, outside of parks, there aren’t many mature, shade-providing trees - and surely not the kind I’m used to back home, which served the dual purpose of food and cover. Here, the few that exist in comparison are purely decorative, lining the kerbs of avenues, though sometimes they act as a respite for dogs to do their business. 

But back to the present: the weather office predicts the hot spell will last well into next week. Honestly, at this rate, I will soon be out of tissue paper. As the last of Monica’s, ‘Grown-Up Christmas List’ strains though my earphones, my thoughts return to Jamaica, my family, and my own urgent grown-up needs, which for right now, are the same as my three-year-old self. I just want cool breeze.

*Names changed to protect the privacy and identity of the individuals.

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I found myself asking this question after listening to Teyana Taylor’s latest release, K.T.S.E. It’s a solid album, and perhaps the revelation of the year in terms of a good R&B album. It possesses all the ingredients of  a classic: novelty and familiarity, grit and vulnerability, plus a more than competent voice in the form of Taylor.

It also makes shrewd use of some forgotten classics. But I fear in the glut of all this other stuff - Kanyé, bigger A&R budgets, short attention spans and no visuals (plus her supposed displeasure with the released project) the album may not get the support - or the longevity - it deserves.

Initially, I criticized the album's paucity, its lack of 'completeness' and that all-important crossover or mainstream song. But it’s been three days now of me listening to the album, non-stop; each time discovering a new melody, or being enraptured anew by Taylor’s husky, velvety tone.

With acts like Sza, Ella Mai and H.E.R already sitting pretty atop the charts, it’s safe to say that female-driven R&B is in safe hands. So why should we care about K.T.S.E. or Taylor? Because of the slick-talking, risk-taking, polymath that she is. And the fact that she - unlike the others - is the superior vocal talent.

No Manners (Track 1)

The truncated No Manners, is perhaps the best example of what many people decry about K.T.S.E. Yet it’s also what’s genius about it! At only ninety-nine seconds long, it’s more like an interlude - an overture in this case. Nevertheless, the production and Taylor’s vocal performance are so sterling that you forgive its lack of a verse, or fade-out.

A mounting, hip-rock opera, it is brash and unapologetic - with a message somewhat reminiscent of Taylor’s first hit, Google Me. Except that here, Taylor isn’t a mollycoddled 16-year-old, rapping over bland, vain lyrics. She’s (now) 27, grown, married and a mother; singing about more mature themes, like being unbothered by her haters, independent willfulness, and loving up on her man, husband Iman Shumpert, who she’s quick to extol in the Petunia-like lyrics, “My hubby, my hubby so handsome!”

Gonna Love Me (Track 2)

Gonna Love Me, is my personal favourite. A classic, soul record, Taylor and team took inspiration from a 1970 Delfonics song, The Love I Gave To You.

Like Usher before her on Throwback (a Dionne Warwick sample), or Moby’s One Of These Mornings, Taylor and Co. magnificently revive a dusty, obscure track for a whole new generation. Taking cues from the heartfelt original, her feathery vocals reveal a sense and sensibility older than her natural 27 years. Redefining the R&B torch song, she quavers about acknowledgement and penitence, and about being utterly in love despite the struggles of maintaining a relationship.

Issues/Hold On (Track 3)

Arguably the second best track from the album, Issues/Hold On is a soul-wop record over faint reggae bursts. Here, Taylor’s smoky timbre recalls the raw ingenue of Jazmine Sullivan and the fervent faithfulness of Lauryn Hill. In fact, Issues/Hold On could’ve been a hit collab by these two contemporaries. But what makes this song entirely Teyana is her rapid talking swagger, as well as some seemingly real-life references to ‘daddy issues’ and past failed relationships.

“And the fact that she - unlike the others - is the superior vocal talent.”

3Way (Track 5)

3Way isn’t a song for the priggish, or the sexually unadventurous. On the risqué track, Taylor details about participating in - and maybe even initiating - a threesome with her husband and another woman because she knows it’s something he wants to do. Personal biases aside, the song is sexy AF. And if you thought this was a Brandy Norwood track, Taylor soon removes all doubt by proffering a few libertine lyrics like, ‘Time to get up in them ribs tonight,’ or ‘Two heads are better than one’, which seems to be innuendo for oral sex.

Never Would Have Made It (Track 7)

Perhaps the most complete (production-wise) of the eight, Never Would Have Made It reinterprets the Marvin Sapp gospel hit of the same name. Hit records are routinely ballads for a reason. They are soaring, honest - but most important, cathartic. In adding an 80’s dance beat to the sombre original, Taylor’s takes the listener on a journey from earnest gratitude to superabundant joy.

Keep That Same Energy - Final Thoughts

Love, maturity, willfulness and reflectiveness are the central themes on K.T.S.E. Sure, a few of Taylor’s contemporaries like Brandy, Alicia Keys, Jazmine Sullivan and Lauryn Hill make spectral appearances on the 8-track oeuvre by way of their comparable tones, riffs and runs, yet this doesn’t make the album any less special - or less Teyana’s. If anything, it shows her as a woman of her era - influenced no doubt by those before her but whose ears are attuned to the streets (Rose in Harlem, Track 6). Plus she has the temerity and raw grit to go where her predecessors refused sonically (Hurry, Track 4) or lyrically (WTP, Track 8).

Taylor is a cool girl (from her voice to her tomboy swag), she knows her lane and she’s faithful to it. And while I do believe that some songs (like Gonna Love Me) could have profitted from her being more unhinged, her glorious runs and honeyed texture make up for any want for effusiveness. In fact, much of what is dismissed as faults on K.T.S.E., is essentially what makes it unique - like the lack of fade-outs, which melts the tracks into each other like scenes in a film or the days in our lives.

The album winds up after just 22 minutes. And that's fine. For in all honesty, who has the attention span for 4-minute songs on 15-track albums anymore?

13/07/2018

ECHO* is an irregularly occurring series offering commentary and insight on noteworthy, sometimes obscure, music.

Whe Macaroni a go?!

Whe di bumboclaat wrang wid Macaroni?!

Macaroni a madman?!

A few months ago, a video went viral of a man in Jamaica, identified only by the name of Macaroni, trying to navigate a dollar bus over a flooded roadway. He wasn’t successful. The bus overturned, which elicited the incredulous - albeit amusing - monologue above from an onlooker. Translated into English, it renders as:

Where’s Macaroni going?

Where’s Macaroni going?!

What the fuck is wrong with Macaroni?!

Is Macaroni crazy?!

I too had my ‘Macaroni Moment’ recently (it sure feels that way) in the form of a now-cancelled, Premium VISA Gold bank card. Luckily, mine was away from the din of social media commentary and grainy telephone cameras.

After receiving a few signs (and gentle nudges) from the universe that I was overspending - the most premonitory of which being the cancellation of said bank card, closure of its attractive 1600€ per month revolving overdraft limit, two very stern overdraft reminders and a real fear that I could become a serial debtor - I’ve decided on a no spending challenge for the next twelve months.

This means, outside of expenses, like bills, food or debt repayment, I will not be spending on non-necessitous items - or worse, on impulse. Alas, goodbye, online newspaper subscriptions; au revoir, Amazon; and sayonara my dear Sushi Shop. There are a few other things I shall be saying ‘peace’ to as well, but these will be decided as the months progress. For now, though, it’s the strategy of - as we say back home - ‘one, one coco’.

To say that I’ve been living paycheck to paycheck, for the last few months, is a gross understatement. In reality, I feel like I have been robbing Peter blind to pay Paul. I’m as the meme says: Poor (and) having too much month at the end of my money. As once I cover the essential standing orders of rent, utilities, food and monthly debt repayment, I barely have much to dine out, or do the odd discretionary spending. But I do anyway. Why? Because I know, legally, the banks have to honour the card charges. And so, the cycle of deficit continues, month after month, after month.

Easy money is expensive money

How did I get to this stage, you ask? Simple, overconsumption. But I’m also inclined to blame this snowball into the land of entailment, wholly at the feet of the first credit card I took out. I say this because, before that, I lived a frugal, self-subsisting lifestyle. I needed a new TV, plus some other appliances, as I had a guest over for a few days. At the time, I justified these purchases by telling myself, ‘It’s not a lot, you’ll pay it back. Plus, it’s lonely coming home to a silent and bare apartment. The TV will keep you company.’

Or maybe it was the second card, which was even more attractive than the first. “Mr Davis,” said the IKEA representative, “are you aware that you can pay for your purchase over the course of several months?” “No,” was my earnest reply. She then explained the advantages of the IKEA members' card, which came with a commercial offer of a delayed 30-day first repayment. There was also a 2000€ limit. I didn’t hesitate. That day, along with the mattress I initially went in to buy, I went home with a mirror, an armchair, some plants a wall clock. I even splurged on a new shaggy rug (the white kind everyone has in their Instagram photos) and some refreshments from the downstairs food court.

No, I think it was the third, which by this time I was a pro and the chief instigator. I had learnt the rules of what to say during the pre-approval interview, and especially how not to ask for too much. “Hello, I just saw your offer on the internet for credit cards and revolving loans. How does one apply?” It was that easy. In the next few days, I had another card on the way with yet another 2000€ limit. Now here’s the real doozie. I can’t remember what I bought with that card.

Financial Goals

Usually, at the start of a new year, I have a buzzword that is meant to motivate me and define the year ahead. For 2018, that word was discipline. Discipline embodies many forms: physical, mental, spiritual, etc. But for me, the most urgent is financial discipline. What are my goals where financial discipline is concerned? The first is complete debt repayment. The second is to save and invest at least 20% of my income. The third - and the one I’m looking most forward to - is financial freedom.

I freed up some headspace recently, and via an Excel worksheet, I was able to calculate my spending habits. I realised that a little more than 1/3 of my budget is going to credit card and debt repayment. The worst part is, most of it is toward interest. I definitely can’t afford to be throwing away money like that.

Financial freedom - by those who have mastered it - is described as feeling unencumbered by the emotional anxiety of looming debt, the liberty of discretionary spending, and most importantly, having a healthy relationship with money. Now, isn’t that a beautiful goal? I know it will be a difficult 12 months ahead, but I’m willing to succeed at this challenge, which will hopefully see me resetting some unhealthy spending habits.

Oh là là!

Mario

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In Jamaica, this gruff cry inside a public passenger vehicle means two things: it signals to the driver he's been at a particular stop for too long, hence it’s time to go. But more importantly, that his passengers’ patience is wearing thin. As sweat beaded my forehead, rushing ever so discreetly (or so I thought) down my back and into my underwear, I yell - albeit inaudibly - the all too familiar refrain, “Driver! Come, man!” But in Paris, an 8000 plus km journey from the bedlam of Kingston and its mercenary bus drivers, my half-spoken demand lacks both brawn and context, sounding more like the strangled plea of a moribund man. 

Driver, come man!

Underground, the 27-degree heat feels more like 40, and in thin, grey gym clothes, every bead of sweat becomes more apparent, more embarrassing. Even those I believed discreetly hidden now bear witness to my body’s betrayal. “But, I never sweat!” I tell myself, in an attempt to will my treacherous body into obedience. It's a futile endeavour. The beads of sweat are now streams; my chest, underarms and crotch entirely drenched.

Driver....come man. 

I pray silently for him to close the door, thinking briefly back to Jamaica, and the power of coterie, how - in spite of the chaos - I'd find clemency. There, a stern, “Driver! Come, man!” from a disapproving passenger, or two, is enough to persuade any loafing bus driver. But my ‘driver’ - in this case, an RATP subway conductor - could neither understand me nor could he really do anything, to be honest. His commands come from a system of timed, complex mechanics, not human whim. The trains are two minutes apart, with an automatic thirty-second halt per stop. And so it would remain. Sweaty, putrid passengers or not.

Driver!

Finally, the doors close. My discomfort is more visible now, which makes the other passengers stare. I look up at the route marker. It blinks to show the approaching station - Stalingrad. I roll my eyes, annoyed and utterly defeated. Belleville, my stop, is still six minutes away. 

Desperately yours,

Mario

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