Draft II: Of Her and Her Bridge She wasn’t famous, not really. At least, not in the way the world uses that word. She didn’t win any...

I remember a girl once, Nyiramaso, I think her name was. She had a tiny, upturned nose, a laugh like river water, and the audacity of happiness. One day, a teacher measured her. The next week she was reassigned to a different dormitory. A month later, she disappeared from school entirely. Years later, I saw her name printed on a memorial wall. Not for what she did. But for what her nose refused to be.

This essay offers a reflective exploration of exile as both a lived condition and a critical framework, drawing on personal experience, aesthetic transformation, and intellectual formation following migration from Malawi to Canada. It traces how displacement reoriented modes of listening, reading, and critical thought, catalyzing a shift from hip-hop toward jazz, punk, and Black radical traditions.

You call me petty, as though you expect that to wound me. Petty power, Mr. Keller, is still power. And here is the truth you seem unwilling to admit. You obey it. Every night, you show up. Every night, you submit to it. Every night, you prove me right. So go ahead. Write another letter if you like. This time, send it. Or better yet, say what you have to say to my face, if you have the courage.

Forgive the intrusion of yet another letter, though why I say “forgive” when I know you will not is beyond me. The truth is I could not sleep. That often happens to men who think too much and clean too little.