Ace of Spades

I stop myself from apologizing-because what would I even be sorry for? Existing too loud?

Growing up, I realized quite quickly that people hate being called racist more than they hate racism itself.

They say love and hate are the same, just at different ends of the blade

I hate how they have the power to kill my future, kill me. They treat my Black skin like a gun or a grenade or a knife that is dangerous and lethal, when really it’s them. The guys at the top powering everything.

I don’t straighten my hair because I hate it; I straighten it because everyone else hates it for me.

The smell of bitch-ass liar is nauseating.

But I know dreams are dangerous; they give me too much false hope.

I didn’t invent this twisted system that pits us against each other and makes us do crappy things for status—but I do know how to play it.

Even though I know I shouldn’t care, it annoys me that when girls know what they want and how they’re going to get it, they’re seen as cocky. But guys who know what they want? They’re confident or strong.

I’m Chiamaka fucking Adebayo—I don’t need some prick telling me who I am and who I should be.

And I won’t roll over and let someone else take my crown. Not in a million years.

I don’t trust white people like you do. I obviously don’t think they are all murderers, but I think they are all racist.” “All?” I say, eyebrows raised. “It sounds wild, I know, but racism is a spectrum and they all participate in it in some way. They don’t all have white hoods or call us mean things; I know that. But racism isn’t just about that—it’s not about being nice or mean. Or good versus bad. It’s bigger than that. We’re all in this bubble being affected by the past. The moment they decided they got to be white and have all the power and we got to be Black and be at the bottom, everything changed. If we can’t talk about it honestly, and I mean really talk about it, then what’s the point? I read some Malcom X last year, and I agree with him. Some might even treat you good, like an owner might treat a pet.” “That’s wild,” I say. “Yeah, it is. I think anyone can be nice, but it’s not about being nice. You can’t escape a history like that and not be affected. Us Blacks, we start hating ourselves, and them whites start thinking they’re all better than us. Even if they aren’t thinking it constantly, it’s in there somewhere.

When you grow up like this, whether it’s in your nature or not, sometimes survival overpowers doing the right thing.

I can ‘fix' the kinks in my hair, but not the kinks in this whole system that hates me and Devon and everyone that looks like us.

Note to self: Don’t delete numbers of the people you hate. They might come in handy someday.

No matter what I do, no matter how much I iron down the hair that springs from my scalp, or work as hard as I can, I’m always going to be other to them. Not good enough for this place I’ve tried to call home all my life.

Sometimes I feel like I'm so lost in my own world, I don't notice the things that seem obvious to everyone else.

We’ve all had f—cking hard lives — doesn’t mean I’m gonna be an asshole about it.

Money can only get you so far; you need power and influence to go with it.

I’m no longer Chi, but Chiamaka, daughter of a Nigerian mother who loves the hair on my head more than I ever could.

They say life is full of surprises. That our dreams really can come true. Then again, so can our nightmares ...

But something I've realized is that very few things in this world are good.

Whispers are like snakes; they slither into your ears and threaten to poison your sanity with their venom.

but I learned early on that it’s either kill or be killed

I was sure that saying no to Belle’s The Notebook invite would dampen our new friendship, but she’s here, in front of me, making me all flustered and nervous. It’s almost as if I like her or something, in a more than friends way. But that’s absurd. Is it?

There are moments when something happens, and puzzle pieces that didn’t connect before now fit together

Jamie thinks the world is his to control. That he can tell me, convince me, how to think and how to feel, like I’m some puppet. I used to believe it—get swept up in it. But it’s getting harder and harder not to see past his lies; that he’s anything other than selfish; that he cares.

I’m here to divide and conquer. Like all great tyrants do.—Aces