I like an incense knowing I'm in for the day. An aroma of mahogany and Moroccan spices fills the air. My abundance of supple flesh is stuffed into a maroon bralette and a matching pair of boy shorts. My hair is tied with an Ankara scarf to stay out of my face. I wear a charcoal face mask as I coat my skin will shea butter. My children are in the other room resting. While I am concerned about their lifespan in their current body, I cannot ignore the fact that some self care was needed and well deserved.
My name is Anta and I am the epitome of black girl magic. My children are Fern, Ccino, and Othella. They were once the son and daughters of a half human prince, an entitled little man that charmed me in my youth. I wanted to ignore my curse, but I and they are aging, something I didn't plan on doing.
My magic is fading. I am no longer able to manipulate mortals as I was. I miss the men I used to lure into my home and wipe the memories of. My children act more like cats everyday.
Someday we will regain our glory. Queen Anta, they'll call.
My wings are black. Black as the abyss. I release them every now and then when I relax at home, but they are so big, they make the room seem like the walls are closing in on me.
I washed off my face mask and washed out the bits caught in my wrinkles with African black soap. Sometimes I show my true face to the mirror with my home language tattooed across it.
I made up my mind that afternoon to travel the world in search of people like me. Disgraced angels. A commotion outside roused me. I looked out the window and saw a handsome young man holding a dying child. I went out to save the child. In my youth, reviving a life would have been nothing. But now I old. I ended up expending a lot of power and becoming a beacon to those that were looking for me.