#west african myths

[saltycollectornerdme]

Oshunmare, the Orisha Of Rainbow

[overwatchfanskinarchive]

Ifrit Ramattra by eweeppy (twitter)

[allmythologies]

a-z myths: na ngutu (west african mythology)

na ngutu is the guardian deity of warriors slain in battle.

[caito-does-stuff]

i love combining so much mythology and history into my books lore because it creates such an interesting historical dynamic and character interactions ❤️❤️

[jewishpangolin]

I made my own version of the xkcd everyone is posting in their reblogs.

Also, I made a meme of which mythologies are normie and which are obscure. How deep does your knowledge go?

I think the most unintentionally pretentious part of me is I genuinely forget that most people do not have a near-encyclopedic knowledge of mythology and folklore. I literally just assume most people know at least the name of every Greek god. My mom and I were watching the Banshees of Inisherin and at the start, she asked "Do you know what a banshee is?" and I was so stunned because it would never occur to me to ask that question because I would never assume the average person doesn't know what a banshee is. The average person knows what a banshee is right. You know what a banshee is right. You know the names of the greek gods right. You know that norse myth where loki fucked the horse right. Right. RIGHT

[regretroulette]

It is important to remember that as far as art history goes, that it is patently untrue that realism only became humanly possible with the development of linear perspective in Europe thanks to Brunelleschi (a commonly repeated myth in lower division art education), and that examples of artistic realism as we know it today has long existed in many, much older art traditions. West African arts cultures are a great example to work off of. (i.e. Yoruba)

This Yoruba bust (or Ife Head) is dated to the 12th-14th centuries.

This misunderstanding also deeply, unfortunately, and inaccurately mischaracterizes traditional arts in African cultures as being “less developed” for being more stylized, as if they cannot figure out realism due to difficulty (lmao?), which simply is not the case.

I don’t often make original posts like this, but I’ve rarely seen this addressed outside of art history land, and it really bothers me!!!

[fem-lit]

In the current epidemic of rich Western women who cannot “choose” to eat, we see the continuation of an older, poorer tradition of women’s relation to food. Modern Western female dieting descends from a long history. Women have always had to eat differently from men: less and worse. In Hellenistic Rome, reports classicist Sarah B. Pomeroy, boys were rationed sixteen measures of meal to twelve measures allotted to girls. In medieval France, according to historian John Boswell, women received two thirds of the grain allocated to men. Throughout history, when there is only so much to eat, women get little, or none: A common explanation among anthropologists for female infanticide is that food shortage provokes it. According to UN publications, where hunger goes, women meet it first: In Bangladesh and Botswana, female infants die more frequently than male, and girls are more often malnourished, because they are given smaller portions. In Turkey, India, Pakistan, North Africa, and the Middle East, men get the lion’s share of what food there is, regardless of women’s caloric needs. “It is not the caloric value of work which is represented in the patterns of food consumption” of men in relation to women in North Africa, “nor is it a question of physiological needs…. Rather these patterns tend to guarantee priority rights to the ‘important’ members of society, that is, adult men.” In Morocco, if women are guests, “they will swear they have eaten already” or that they are not hungry. “Small girls soon learn to offer their share to visitors, to refuse meat and deny hunger.” A North African woman described by anthropologist Vanessa Mahler assured her fellow diners that “she preferred bones to meat.” Men, however, Mahler reports, “are supposed to be exempt from facing scarcity which is shared out among women and children.”

“Third World countries provide examples of undernourished female and well-nourished male children, where what food there is goes to the boys of the family,” a UN report testifies. Two thirds of women in Asia, half of all women in Africa, and a sixth of Latin American women are anemic—through lack of food. Fifty percent more Nepali women than men go blind from lack of food. Cross-culturally, men receive hot meals, more protein, and the first helpings of a dish, while women eat the cooling leftovers, often having to use deceit and cunning to get enough to eat. “Moreover, what food they do receive is consistently less nutritious.”

This pattern is not restricted to the Third World: Most Western women alive today can recall versions of it at their mothers’ or grandmothers’ table: British miners’ wives eating the grease-soaked bread left over after their husbands had eaten the meat; Italian and Jewish wives taking the part of the bird no one else would want.

These patterns of behavior are standard in the affluent West today, perpetuated by the culture of female caloric self-deprivation. A generation ago, the justification for this traditional apportioning shifted: Women still went without, ate leftovers, hoarded food, used deceit to get it—but blamed themselves. Our mothers still exiled themselves from the family circle that was eating cake with silver cutlery off Wedgwood china, and we would come upon them in the kitchen, furtively devouring the remains. The traditional pattern was cloaked in modern shame, but otherwise changed little. Weight control became its rationale once natural inferiority went out of fashion.

— Naomi Wolf (1990) The Beauty Myth

[pocketsizedowls]

My Conspiracy Theory about Natlan's Pale Characters

I started playing Genshin Impact around the 3.7 update, right after the Interdarshan Championship. While I wasn't around during the initial spark of outrage against Sumeru due to the characters' overall lack of melanin, I eventually learned a lot about Sumeru's cultural inspirations through the SWANA and South Asian creators in the fandom. I think it's beautiful how we learn about each other's cultures through Genshin, and I believe the designers at Hoyoverse do lots of research to facilitate these conversations. This is why I think it's a shame that Natlan, which features rich Indigenous cultures in the Americas, Africa, and Pacific Islands, features primarily pale characters AGAIN.

While it's possible that through the art, story, and fashion of Natlan we will once again learn about the diverse cultures of Indigenous Americas, West Africa, and the Pacific Islands, I don't think it's enough. Considering a lot of these cultures take pride in their skin color and bodies through tattoos, body paint, and other markings/piercings, Hoyoverse is doing a disservice to today's Latin American, African, and Pacific islander fan base by making the majority of Natlan characters pale. To insensitively cherry-pick what traits of each culture to represent and what to discard is the definition of cultural appropriation and racism, which is such a shame because of how many discussions about culture that Genshin has started since 2020. As a Chinese American player, I'm especially disappointed that the company who educated so many people about my culture is failing my brown and Black friends to such a spectacular degree.

Many people have come up with excuses such as it's just skin, it's just a game, Hoyoverse is a Chinese company so what do you expect, Latin America also has white people, etc. I won't bother debunking these myths because there are plenty of people doing this labor already, but what I do want to bring people's attention to is the fact that many Natlan characters were most likely designed with darker skin in mind. Through fanmade recolorings (here's an example), I noticed that Mualani and Kachina's tan lines and skin details look more pronounced with darker skin, while Xilonen looks more mature and Kinich looks more brooding. Having studied studio art during undergrad, I cannot unsee these intentional artistic decisions and cannot shake the possibility that the researchers and character designers of Hoyoverse were forced by higherups to whitewash everyone at the very last minute. If this is true, I hope Hoyoverse will find some way to reverse their decision or turn a new leaf in the future. Considering many other Chinese games like Reverse: 1999 and Dislyte already have diverse representation and melanated characters, Hoyoverse should find no problem following their lead.

As of right now (i.e. 4.8 update), Genshin players from all over the world are expressing their dissatisfaction with Hoyoverse through boycotts, review bombing, and posting on social media. The Chinese fanbase - Hoyoverse's primary audience - is especially vocal and organized about their efforts, which means if Hoyoverse doesn't notice now, they will notice soon. Despite how much we like using Genshin as an escape from real life, it's important to recognize how insidious the consequences of erasing melanated characters can be. Anti-Blackness and colorism harm people on the daily, which is why we must speak up when a company as big and influential as Hoyoverse is doing the harming.

Thanks for reading! Here are some related threads from X, formally known as Twitter:

Petition to "Stop Cultural Appropriation and Whitewashing in MiHoYo Games"

Valeria Rodriguez, i.e. Surcrose's English VA's thoughts on Natlan

Natlan Characters Look Better with a Dark Skintone

Kaveh rerunning in 4.8 is a ploy for WHAT!?!?!?

We Should All Email Hoyoverse

Official Account for HYV Boycott

[haggishlyhagging]

Male traditions of thievery are found among many peoples. In some South American tribes, the men describe suddenly raiding the women's part of a village and stealing "their things," including string and a flattened stick with which the men made a noisy instrument, a bull-roarer, which they then used to frighten the women. A global mythic tradition of men or boys stealing women's clothing, especially the clothing women leave on the river bank while they bathe, has been suggested by folklorist Martha Beckwith as the theft of menstrual garments. Unless the women gave some of theirs, menstrual blood for sorcery, healing, or magic could be acquired only by stealing. In the West, we might see a fragment of this tradition in college dormitory panty raids!

The male theft of fire, and the sun, is another theme common to myths across a variety of cultures. In a northern Asiatic tradition, Old Grandmother's grandson stole fire from her and burned down the world. Prometheus stole fire from the sun in Greece—from the protomoon, men got the red fire, like blood. In one African myth, the culture hero Mokele "steals" the sun when he goes up a river and discovers the place where the sun lives in a cave. This act of differentiation of the sun surely means he "stole" it from the original protomoon of the female tradition. . . .

Raiding and stealing, always under specific rules, have primarily been men's work, part of men's story. In myths from China to South America, some male characters are thieves who take, not only the paraphernalia of women, but women themselves, queens renowned for their beauty and slaves from other tribes. In addition, they make off with fire, the sun, livestock, treasures, technologies. One effect of this was the accumulation of materials and ideas from many different places, combining and recombining to form mechanical arts and complex trades. Another was the dispersal of "women's stuff" and tribal arts, scattered out from the sacred huts into the secular world. Men, more often than women, have widely dispersed and recombined knowledge, craft, trade, and story.

-Judy Grahn, Blood, Bread, and Roses: How Menstruation Created the World

[blackhistorystoryteller]

Africa has been very rich even before colonialism

The truth you should know about African

Blacks know your history and divinity

They gave us the Bible and stole our natural resources

Community and Social Cohesion: Traditional African religions often emphasized communal values, fostering a sense of belonging and mutual support within the community. Rituals and ceremonies were communal events that strengthened social ties.

Respect for Nature: Many African traditional religions were deeply connected to nature, promoting a harmonious relationship with the environment. This connection often led to sustainable practices and a respect for the natural world.

Ethical Guidelines: These religions often included moral and ethical guidelines that governed interpersonal relationships. Concepts such as honesty, hospitality, and respect for elders were commonly emphasized.

Cultural Identity: Traditional African religions played a crucial role in shaping cultural identity. They provided a framework for understanding the world, explaining origins, and passing down cultural practices through rituals, myths, and oral traditions.

Islam reached Nigeria through a combination of trade, migration, and cultural interactions. The trans-Saharan trade routes were crucial in bringing Islam to the region. Muslim traders from North Africa and the Middle East ventured into West Africa, establishing economic ties and introducing Islam to local communities.

The city-states along the trade routes, such as Kano and Katsina, became significant centers for Islamic influence. Merchants not only engaged in commercial activities but also played a role in spreading Islamic teachings. Over time, rulers and elites in these city-states embraced Islam, contributing to its gradual acceptance.

Additionally, the spread of Islam in Nigeria was facilitated by the activities of Islamic scholars and missionaries. Scholars known as clerics or Mallams played a key role in teaching Islamic principles and converting people to Islam. They often established Quranic schools and engaged in educational activities that promoted the understanding of Islamic teachings.

Military conquests also played a part in the expansion of Islam in Nigeria. Islamic empires, such as the Sokoto Caliphate in the 19th century, emerged through conquest and warfare, bringing Islam to new territories. The Sokoto Caliphate, led by Usman dan Fodio, sought to establish a strict Islamic state based on Sharia law.

Overall, the spread of Islam in Nigeria was a gradual process influenced by trade networks, migration, the activities of scholars, and, at times, military expansion. The interplay of these factors contributed to the integration of Islam into Nigerian society, shaping its cultural and religious landscape.

In the vast tapestry of Africa's rich cultural heritage, herbal traditional healing stands out as a profound and time-honored practice. African herbal traditional healers, often known as traditional or indigenous healers, play a vital role in the healthcare systems of many communities across the continent. Their practices are deeply rooted in the natural world, drawing on centuries-old wisdom and an intimate understanding of local flora.

African herbal traditional healers are custodians of ancient knowledge, passing down their expertise through generations. They serve as primary healthcare providers in many communities, addressing a wide range of physical, mental, and spiritual ailments. The healing process involves a holistic approach, considering the interconnectedness of the individual with their community and environment.

One of the hallmark features of African herbal traditional healers is their profound knowledge of medicinal plants. These healers have an intricate understanding of the properties, uses, and combinations of various herbs. Passed down through oral traditions, this knowledge is often a well-guarded family secret or shared within the apprentice-master relationship.

The methods employed by herbal traditional healers encompass diverse approaches. Herbal remedies, administered as infusions, decoctions, or ointments, form a significant part of their treatment. These remedies are carefully crafted based on the healer's understanding of the patient's symptoms, lifestyle, and spiritual condition. Additionally, rituals, ceremonies, and prayers are often incorporated into the healing process, acknowledging the interconnectedness of physical and spiritual well-being.

African herbal traditional healers frequently integrate spiritual elements into their practice. They believe that illness can be a manifestation of spiritual imbalances or disharmony. Through rituals and consultations with ancestors or spirits, healers seek to restore balance and harmony within the individual and the community.

Herbal traditional healers are integral to the social fabric of their communities. They often serve not only as healers but also as counselors, mediators, and keepers of cultural traditions. Their practices are deeply intertwined with community life, contributing to the resilience and cohesion of African societies.

While herbal traditional healing holds immense value, it faces challenges in the modern era. The encroachment of Western medicine, issues related to regulation and standardization, and the potential exploitation of traditional knowledge pose threats to this practice. However, there is also a growing recognition of the importance of integrating traditional healing into mainstream healthcare systems, leading to collaborative efforts to preserve and promote this valuable heritage.

African herbal traditional healers are bearers of an ancient legacy, embodying a profound connection between humanity and the natural world. Their healing practices, rooted in herbal wisdom and spiritual insights, offer a unique perspective on healthcare that complements modern medical approaches. Preserving and respecting the knowledge of these healers is not only crucial for the well-being of local communities but also for the broader appreciation of the diverse cultural tapestry that defines Africa.

[apocalypse-shuffle]

ERIK | THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA (multi interaction)

—

“The Roll and Revolve” (Erik | The Phantom of the Opera x Fem!Reader)

| While attending the masquerade ball the Red Death asks for your hand to dance.

| SFW, at most canon typical violence is mentioned, dancing -dancer!reader & african!reader

| Reader’s 18+ and one of the older girls in the dance line along with Sorelli. (Pic source: left•Juan Navarro/Saulo Vasconcelos’s Phantom from the POTO Mexican production [1999-2000], middle•Emilie Kouatchou’s run as Christine from the POTO Broadway production, right•John Owen-Jones’s Phantom from the POTO West End production [2011].)

| 3k+ words

Fluttering from group to group at a masquerade ball was apparently not all everyone cracked it up to be.

You stop, standing off to the side of the entirely too unappealing table of food assortments. Some of the food even appeared to have gone bad to you, speckled in powdered sugar only for show; to mask the rotten truths underneath.

You’ve steered clear of dining at all throughout the night for that very reason. The truths they hid were clearly of the stomach pain and extended time on the loo type, and looks always had the chance of stowing deceit.

The opera house was full tonight, the date a prelude to the new year, with its high ceilings and garnished walls host to all manner of primed woman and man dressed in a bid to garner the most envy in their best furs and feathers, masks and fedoras. The only thing consistent amongst you all being your efforts to hide your identities from one another; crowd after crowd of people decked out in masks of all kinds that hid their faces from the world.

Where you stand a voice rises to greet you, managing to be heard even over the echoing sounds of the opera’s orchestra.

“Y/n, y/n! Did you hear the news?”

The bottom of your crisp white gown, a gift from your mother, kisses the floor as you shift your feet to intercept the few girls from the dance line coming to speak with you. To your surprise Christine is amongst them.

“Clearly not,” you respond to Jammes.

The brunette bounces, near manic smile on her face and Sorelli beside her rolls her eyes.

“It’s not nearly as entertaining as she’s making it.”

“More like terrifying,” Meg pipes up.

Your eyebrows raise, “Was there another death?”

It’s Christine who answers your weary inquiry, bright hair bouncing as she shakes her head.

“It’s not nearly as serious,” she shrugs. “More like a ghost story than anything-”

Jammes cuts her off with an excited squeal.

“The Opera Ghost is rumored to show up tonight!”

Oh.

There was a good second there where your eyes were starting to widen but they drop back to half mast behind the white swan-like pantalone mask you’re wearing, the feathers of which tickle your face as you sigh. You wave the girl's excitement away.

“You’re so overdramatic, Jammes, everyone knows the OG is just a rumor the stagehands made up to scare us.”

“And that the police is sustaining so they can get out of properly catching a murderer,” Sorelli scoffs.

You nod at her and your other friend just pouts.

“You all have such little whimsy.”

From where she’s got her arms wrapped around herself Meg laughs, a nearly startled noise of contempt.

“Maybe we just don’t want to make a myth out of an actual killer,” she says.

Now it’s Jammes’s turn to roll her eyes.

“I say it’s just you guys being boring,” she flips her hair over her shoulder. “But whatever, I've got a violinist to dance with so I’ll see you all later.”

She’s gone just like that. Meg frowns after her and you and Sorelli make kissy noises that cause Jammes to giggle as she walks off.

“Which one of them do you think it is?”

“Come on Sorelli, you know it’s Eugène. She misses all her steps during his solos,” you say.

“Actually I think it’s Ahsan, we are getting more Persians lately. He might like to have a change of pace since no one ever really talks to him.”

Your lips purse. You're pretty sure Jammes hasn’t even noticed the Populaire’s newest members.

“Just because you’re interested in Ahsan doesn’t mean she is, Sorelli. What do you think Christine?”

From where she’s just about completely checked out from the conversation making heart eyes at the Vicomte from across the room, Christine startles. You’d joke but the navel man is staring back at her just as intently. Her eyes flutter up to meet yours eventually though.

“Um- I don’t know? I think maybe you’re right about Eugène, Y/n, but would you all mind if I excused myself?”

You all give some manner of affirmation but Christine is already moving anyway so it wouldn’t have mattered much if you hadn’t.

“I wonder what it’s like to hold a man’s attention like that,” Meg sighs.

You shrug, “Well, it’s not always as nice as it seems.”

Her head bobbles as she nods before she’s curtsying and leaving as well, head bowed. Not long after that Sorelli bids you goodbye and goes in search of someone to dance with in front of Madame Giry. She wants lead in the next production since Christine seems set on being Primadonna. You don’t have the heart to tell her that showboating won’t get her any points with the Madame.

All danced and socialized out, but knowing you can’t leave your appearance obligations for the opera house lacking, you content yourself with staying in your tucked away haven by the most unappealing refreshment table at the party.

Your feet tap and you hum along to the orchestra playing as people pass you by. Young couples rushing to someplace private and friends, old and young alike, moving about as they make gossip. Body swaying in place to the music you bask in the fact that you’ve made it, even partially, and soon enough you’d be dancing front on this opera’s stage and stages even beyond it. You’ve seen plenty of other black artists make it, there’s no reason to think that outside of the Americas you couldn’t fight your way to the top too.

You’ve gotten as far as a dance line already.

A poised shadow appears to your left but you do not bother giving anything short of the person’s silhouette a glance. You were in borrowed time at the Palais Garnier. It was best if you didn’t attract any attention and ruin your chances.

Instinctively your hands clasp in front of your body and you rock back onto your heels, humming and tapping ceasing. Stay unheard and you’ll be fine; your dreams of artistry and fame were yet to be dashed.

“Why so solemn?”

You feel your eyes widen, your attention quickly shifting to the shadow. You glance around, but seeing no one else close enough for him to have been talking to instead your gaze fully settles on more than just the man’s silhouette.

The masked man in front of you is completely shadowed in shades of red and fine jewels. The mask masquerading his face, the grimmest sign of the end: an ivory skull. And atop his head bloomed a crown of feathers on a wide brimmed fedora; all the colors of death and decay.

Your heart quickens at his procured visage.

“Me?”

A deep timber falls past lips you can’t see when he chuckles.

“Who else, Mademoiselle?”

“There is no shortage of beautiful women on the dance floor.”

“By why would Erik bother with them when the most beautiful is over here? Tucked in darkness’s warm embrace?”

Your head ducks and your face warms.

“You’re too kind.”

The wide shouldered shadow seems to shake his head, hard to tell with such an elaborate headpiece.

“Oh no! I fantom I have failed to be kind enough.” He sweeps forward, a cape previously bathed in his shadows trailing out behind him, everything lined with jewels shimmering like blood in moonlight. You find yourself ensnared as you look into the great eyes of death.

“When one such as yourself makes a swan’s grace look lacking with her prowess she should expect nothing less than to be bathed in gifts.” Death holds out his gloved hand, and still looking into those dark depths, still looking for the sign of the man underneath, you take it. “Precious flowers: lilacs and lilies…”

A mimicry of a kiss is pressed into your knuckles and you shiver. The hardness of something you’re becoming convinced may have once been an alive man’s touching ever so softly to your ebony skin.

“…roses.” he murmurs finally. “Painstakingly, devotedly, clipped of their thorns so as to not tarnish perfection.”

Your breath comes short as you finally find it. Only a flash, blink and you miss it, but you couldn’t blink. Citrine eyes; ill colored. It makes something in you want to flee, cause a scene in an effort to not be dragged out of the light by this man’s wrongness. Then his words finally reach you.

Words said in that burning liqueur tone that carry your mind away with their unique melody. You find yourself smiling, mouth stretching wide, alabaster teeth gleaming against the contrast of your dark skin.

“I’m not perfect,” you find the urge to argue.

If only to hear his praise some more.

“My Dear, you are my everything. How could you not be perfect?”

“I’m only a chorus dancer.”

“Which is a shame,” he admits.

His tone is solemn like he feels your own disappointment at never being given the chances of the other girls despite dancing with twice their merit.

“It is a shame,” you nod, spine straightening as you grip his hand tighter. The man before you seems to gasp at your assured touch. “To whom do I owe my thanks for such lovely compliments?”

The shadow appears to shrink in on himself for a moment before his grip in turn strengthens and guides you closer together. As he comes more into the light his onsemble sparkles mesmerizingly.

“The Red Death,” he bows, “at your service.”

You laugh. “I admire your dedication to the ball’s theme.”

He makes a humored sound of his own at your acknowledgment of his dramatics.

“It’s for the best I assure you, my dear. Now,” he runs the soft fabric over his thumbs along your bare knuckles, “would you do me the honor of a dance?”

You incline your head, smiling in appraisal as you nod.

“It would be my pleasure, Monsieur Death.”

He leads you from your not-so-hidden corner with a swish of his cape.

You seem to nearly teleport down the stairs with the way he whisks you away so soundly to the ballroom floor. Marble meets the bottoms of your heels as he finds you a good starting position towards the center of the room and, as is in your nature by now, you stand tall in a dancer's carry. He does not let the conversation end as you begin moving.

“Do other things outside of dancing capture your attention?”

“Should there be anything else?”

He laughs as he spins you around, “I suppose not. Dancing is your craft after all.”

“Yes,” you settle into his lead. “Yes it is, but um, I don’t just do ballroom and ballet dancing.”

“No?”

“No. I also dance things far older than my knowledge of ballet, from my people.”

“Amazing,” he says. “You’ll have to show me some day.”

“I’d be happy to,” you give him a small smile.

So near to him as you elegantly weave in between other couples on the floor you can see his eyes very clearly. They are sick looking but they do not lack awareness. The man takes in your every move so intently it makes you breathless. You notice though that he does not meet anyone else’s eyes and uses the wide brim of his hat to block others from seeing him. But not you.

“Penny for your thoughts, Mademoiselle L/n?”

You glance away from his eyes, instead looking at the way whatever mechanism he created allows the mouth of the skull to move with his speech. He must be very rich and worldly if he can acquire or make something like it.

You tilt your head in interest.

“How do you know so much about me and yet I can’t recall ever having seen you before?”

“Technically you are not seeing me now,” he responds easily.

A quiet scoff escapes you as you nod.

“Well then how come I’ve never heard you? A voice as poignant as yours I’m sure I’d remember.”

He does not answer your question.

“Is that what I sound like to you?”

And you do not notice.

“Yes,” you look back into his eyes as your right foot steps back, his left pushing forward. “You have a strong tone but behind it you sound…weary.”

His eyes narrow. Then your dress and his cape are flowing to a still as he stops moving. You look down at your hand on his shoulder, swallowing.

“I do not mean to offend you Monsieur, I apologize.”

You step away, hands sliding from him as embarrassment buzzes up your spine. He probably thinks you called him weak or something, men hated-

“No, please!”

He moves faster than you’re expecting, barely making a noise despite his extravagant costume, and grasps your right hand with his left. You gasp as he settles his other hand on your waist and tugs you closer with strength that didn’t fit him.

“Don’t leave,” he whispers. Your left hand he still has in his he shifts to settle back onto his right arm, and you try to relax.

There is no bone in your body fit to argue with him, nor a ligament that desires to do so.

“Alright, I won’t.” A soft smile pulls at your lips. “I enjoy dancing with you.”

“Thank you. Just know you did not upset me.” For the first time during the whole time you’ve danced he looks past you, gaze far away. “No, you could never upset Erik.”

You marvel at his soft tone and the glossy shine to his eyes as he urges you in motion. He begins swaying to the new song playing and you do the same.

“So your name is Erik then? I wasn’t sure before.”

You take on an affable tone when you speak this time around, glancing away for reprieve from the emotion in his eyes. How you’ve had that effect on him with one dance is beyond you, but you’re remiss to say it doesn’t feel kind of…nice.

Erik nods and those deceptive hands hold your waist just a little tighter. He looks at you again.

“May I ask you a question?”

You nod and he pulls you even closer, his swaying finally turning into steps, and you intuitively follow his lead. The song playing is one you’ve never heard before but it’s haunting. Erik takes to it even better than the last piece; the way he leads you feels like you’re dancing on clouds.

“Have you ever felt lost?”

“I imagine not in the ways you might’ve. “

His eyes crinkle briefly at your words.

“You said earlier that I sound weary, and never doubt I have reason to be so, but it has long begun to get tiring—”

Horns blare, cutting him off. A gasp falls past your lips and, as if on instinct, Erik pulls you closer. Heart pounding and near threatening to clog your throat, you don’t think before you’re splaying your hands over his chest either.

The way you both glance around mirrors each other, but his voice grumbles illegibly once the most likely reason for the cacophony captures the entire crowd’s attention.

The boisterous new leaders of the opera house stand tall behind the railing nearest the staircase that curls down to the ballroom floor, their paper masks in their hands and dressed in their finest costumes.

“Oh,” you laugh, “It’s just Monsieur Moncharmin and Monsieur Richard. They can be so dramatic sometimes, no?”

Your dance partner glances at you narrowly, his irritation for the opera’s new owners heavy in his tone, “‘Dramatic’ is certainly one way to summarize Armand and Firmin alike. Personally, I’d say they both more resemble wallowing buffoons with clothes on.”

Silently, you blink up at him, mouth dropping open in surprise.

Very quickly Erik’s tune changes and his strong hold on you loosens.

“I apologize. The Opera’s new owners have become a point of…vexation for me recently. I did not mean to take it out on you.”

“It’s alright,” you say softly, “I can see how I’ve touched a nerve.”

“I must say you are wrong there, my Dear, you have done no such thing, ” he croons, reaching up to hover a gloved hand over the subtle plump of your cheek. “You have managed to truly make my night, do not discount that.”

He keeps his hand near your face, outlines the side of it with hardly a whisper of a touch while his gaze roves over you as if he’s starved for your very image.

Looking him over you feel much the same, the absence of his touch molding to your dark skin hitting like an unfitting taunt.

“Won’t you touch me?” you whisper, watching the way Erik’s eyes drop to your two-toned lips and take on a sheen of agony all their own.

Fingers ghost feather-light over the plush of them, more of that unfitting mockery. It is a pale substitute for a kiss.

“No,” he answers, voice just as unsteady as his gaze would have you assume. “I fear what might happen if I indulge myself anymore of this…illusion.”

“If you are so tortured as you claim, why not allow yourself a seconds reprieve when it is being offered?” you rush out. Your voice is far firmer than it ought to be around anyone above your stature, but no hint of a reminder to not forget yourself leaves Erik’s mouth. Nor any scoff or harsh glance.

You bring your hand up, desperate to urge him into action. Press your fingers lightly into the back of his hand in a barren plea, and wish for his palm cradling your cheek and for his arm around you to tighten once more.

Wish for his skin against yours. This stranger who has been kinder to you than any Frenchmen before him.

Though you do not push, Erik’s hand freezes beneath your touch and a harsh noise climbs up the back of his throat.

“Erik—”

He jerks his hand from you. Knocks yours aside with a low, pained sound.

In quick succession he steps back too, releasing you from his grip near entirely, the hand you kept on his arm dropping to your side as he continues only to hold the hand he’d grasped. After a moment’s consideration you make a point to squeeze at his hold before stepping back yourself and finally breaking your contact as a whole, struggling to keep the set of your shoulders high.

Erik startles more surely than a horse and you are not sure you’re equipped to handle it.

“I- I must be leaving now,” he rushes out, his pupils are smaller now. His back straighter in compensation.

“Of course,” you reassure him, no small amount of disappointment lingering in your voice despite your best efforts. “Thank you for such a wonderful dance, Erik.”

He nods his agreement, lowering his head as his hand comes up to tamper to some unseen degree at the jaw of his skull. “And I you, Y/n,” he says softly. Your name curling so delicately on his tongue your mind immediately starts running his delivery on repeat.

“In the meantime you will stay on my mind, my dear, and I hope that you will keep me on yours,” he begins once more, swooping into a bow after swinging his cape behind him.

This time when he raises your hand to press a kiss to your knuckles it’s lips that meet your skin. You shiver, gaze snapping upward. He pulls away and when you glance up he’s just slipping the skull mask back over his mouth. Your wide inquiring eyes only catch the barest glimmer of pale skin with just the hint of gaunt features and thin lips.

“Until we meet again, my dear Y/n. Just know that I will be enjoying your dazzling performances from afar as I lay in wait,” Death says, sickly eyes glowing with satisfaction.

In turn you take the time to send him off with a curtsey; legs crossed, crisp white of your dress bloomed, but when you bow your head you take care not to lose eye contact with him. His swallow after that is audible, and your answering smile might as well be with how clearly it sings of your appraisal. Then there goes your morose Death disappearing into the shadows; a specter bathed in mystique.

He makes a grande spectacle later that night. Reappears in a plume of smoke making an impassioned demand for an opera. His Opera. And you live everyday more convinced than the other that Death personified had truly visited the Populare that night.

Gaunt pale skin and sickly eyes drawn to the murders in your corner of France in a flash of winsome words and red and feathers.

Death had showered you with praise, looked you in the eyes and taken you hand in glorious hand across the ballroom floor, had decried the gall of the upper caste’s frivolous celebrating over the graves of those lost, and Death’s name was Erik.

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed!!! I don’t…apologize for the melodrama, but I do understand if it wasn’t for you.

The reader-insert is ambiguously African here since it seemed fitting, but I didn’t want to overemphasize anything and shoot myself in the foot. Just imagine the reader-insert is from one of the countries France still takes exuberant colonial taxes from in order for those countries to stay independent from them.

Now, as far as canon influences go for this story: there’s some og book canon, some ALW musical canon, and a not insignificant amount of MazM canon for good measure. Also, by all means the last name ‘Destler’ is only canon to Poto 1989, but I’m really in love with that specific Erik so I tend to add the last name to my more generalized depictions of The Phantom; at least beside the fic title.

I had a wonderful time writing this and cannot wait for what the new year has to offer for my writing endeavors in the future. Happy New Year (except kind of not really, but we’ll deal)! 🥳🎉

btw: if you’d like to leave a comment I’d very much appreciate it!

[alpaca-clouds]

Let me talk Sekhmet

Okay, I wanted to talk about Elohim today, but fuck it, no, I am going to talk Sekhmet, because Castlevania Nocturne is out and if you know, you know!

And I wanted to talk Egyptian gods sooner or later either way. Also, if you have not read my other mythology thingies: I talk about mythology a lot and about comparative mythology. Which is where we go and learn about history and specifically history of religion by finding motifs and their spread in myths.

So let me talk Sekhmet.

 𓌂𓐍𓏏𓁐 Sekhmet is a solar deity. And if you are confused about the female sun goddess: Yeah, there are actually a ton of female sun gods. (Again: Apollo and Artemis are kinda the exception for when there is a male/female sun/moon pairing. Usually in those cases there is a female sun and a male moon.)

She is the daughter of the (male) sun god Ra. And while he is associated with the good things coming from the sun (like it making plants grow and such), she is very much the Wrath of Ra. The scorching sun, that kills you when you keep in it too long. As the Eye of Ra she is a war goddess, who brings distruction and drinks the blood of men.

Now, once again it should be said: The Egyptian culture lasted for 3000 years. So Sekhmet and her meaning have shifted. At times Hathor was an aspect of Sekhmet, at times Hathor was her sister or her daughter. The same goes with Bastet, who usually gets depicted as an aspect of Sekhmet - but more often is her sister.

The defining myth of Sekhmet though comes from the myths that a long time ago the gods lived among the humans. But there was a conflict between gods and the humans (or in some versions between Egypt and other gods). So Sekhmet as the goddess of war went out to fight. But she got so cruel that after a while she did not care anymore about friend or foe and just lay waste to all the lands. She would not even listen to her father when he called her back.

So the other gods divised a plan: They filled a lake with beer and colored it red, so that Sekhmet thought it was blood. She went to the lake and drank it all, so she became drunk and peaceful. In some versions of the myths she then returned to her father Ra, in other versions she left Egypt with a groll against the other gods.

The common believe is that she as a goddess has probably the same Indo-European roots as Kali in Hindu mythology. Though there are other sources that attribute a West African origin to her. It should be said, though, that both can be right at the same time. (At some point I gotta talk about the entire Black Athena thing, don't I?)

Personally, reading through the oldest stuff we have about Japanese mythology, I find it interesting that some really old stuff about Amaterasu also mirrors her.

But yeah. Interesting goddess. And I am kinda psyched that this confirms that for the Castlevania canon the old gods ARE REAL. Fuck yeah!

[probablyasocialecologist]

As used, the term ‘precolonial’ Africa and the distortions it represents cannot illuminate our understanding of Africa and its history. More importantly, it is wrong to think of colonialism as a non-African phenomenon that was only brought in from elsewhere and imposed on the continent. Africa has given rise to a rich tapestry of diverse colonialisms originating in different parts of the continent. How are we to understand them? For example, if ‘precolonial Morocco’ refers to the time before France colonised Morocco, it must deny that the 800-year Moorish colonisation of the Iberian Peninsula, much of present-day France and much of North Africa was a colonialism. For, if it were, then ‘colonial Morocco’ must predate ‘precolonial Morocco’. I do not know how any of this helps us understand the history of Morocco. Similarly, a ‘precolonial’ Egypt that refers to Egypt before modern European imperialism would also deny Mohammed Ali’s colonial adventures at the head of Egypt in southern Europe and Asia Minor. Was ancient Egypt part of some precolonial formation? That strains credulity. To conceive of the history of Africa and Africans in terms only, or primarily, of their relation to modern European empires disappears the history of Africans as colonisers of realms beyond the continent’s land borders, especially in Europe and Asia. It is bad enough that the term distorts the history of African states’ involvement in overseas provinces. It is worse that it misdescribes the evolution of different African polities over time. The deployment of ‘precolonial Africa’ is undergirded by a few implausible assumptions. We assume either that there were no previous forms of colonialism in the continent, or that they do not matter. We talk as if colonialism was brought to Africa by Europe, after the 1884-85 Berlin West Africa Conference. But it takes only a pause to discover that this is false. African history is replete with accounts of empires and kingdoms. By their nature, empires incorporate elements of colonisation in them. If this be granted, Africa must have had its fair share of colonisers and colonialists in its history. When, according to the mythohistory (the founding myth of the empire) of Mali, Sundiata gathered different nations, cultures, political leaders and others to form the empire in the mid-13th century, he did not first seek the consent of his subjects. It was in the aftermath of their being subdued by his superior force that he did what Jean-Jacques Rousseau in the 18th century insisted all rulers should do if their rule is to escape repeated challenges and last for an appreciable length of time: turn might into right. Ethiopia, another veritable empire, is a multinational, multilingual, multicultural state whose members were not willing parties to their original incorporation into the polity. Whether you think of the Oromo or the Somali, many of their successor states within Ethiopia are, as I write this, still conducting anticolonial struggles against the Ethiopian state.

[symeona]

It's common knowledge by now that West Asian and African ppl made up a sizable chunk of the population of ancient Hellas. This can be found in the texts of Herodotus, Homer, Heraclitus and in few surviving pieces of art; like the Minoan frescoes, bronze statues and vase paintings. And the one surviving bust of Memnon.

It's also common knowledge by now that churches tried to erase all traces of a "mixed" population by destroying most of the statues that depicted these ppl. Especially black Greek ppl. In a similar way Northwestern Europeans took our statues and bleached them. Why I am certain of that? Let's take Delos as an example. Delos was a religious centre, but it wasn't exclusively pandering to those who believed in the Pantheon.

In fact, what we see there is that both Eastern and Southern cultures celebrated similar or parallel forms of gods. Delos was specifically known for the worship of moon and sun gods. Those who worshipped Artemis could do so next to someone who worshipped Isis and someone who worshipped Tanit. Please feel free to Google this, I grew up there.

"Stop perpetuating the myth that we were black" gurl who hurt you. The existence of people with darker skin than yours doesn't erase you. Please calm down. We're not here to hurt you.

With sources cause 凸(¬‿¬)

[orchres]

The more time goes by the less I like Wakanda as a concept. I've said this before but how I see it the central idea of this fictional place is 1 part hotep "we was kangz!!" wishful thinking and 3 parts the awful, ahistorical and antiblack myth that any Africans who weren't kidnapped and sold into slavery in the west were just chilling and having a good fucking time and counting their coins from having sold their kin. like the latter in particular makes me sick to my stomach because how on earth could that EVER be true given that Africa has some of thee poorest countries in the world despite having 60% of all resources used on this planet to make things. like, please think critically. who benefits from this lie. antiblackness is a global project of extraction, slavery and disenfranchisement. Anyway my point is the wakanda narrative is at its core antiblack and it shows up in certain choices they make in the movie for instance, why would wakandans who famously have never experienced a single hardship in their blessed negro lives be wearing lip plates? when they emerged as a way of identifying kin and deterring slavers from kidnapping and selling you off to the Arabs? like it's not just some random inexplicable thing that primitives, sorry, East Africans do. but of course who gives a shit right? as long as it's a narrative that can make sense to those who would rather we resent each other and imagine the other had/has it better when at the end if the day it actually doesn't fucking matter at all because nobody cares to distinguish is unless it is to pit us against each other so we can stay distracted by racism. i despise the continued assertion that our culture can only be aesthetic and there's no thought whatsoever behind it because everyone knows that natives don't be thinking they just commune with the trees and soil because they're basically animals. fuck that movie.

[azspot]

Even when sister Harris said that the greatest story ever told is the American story, that’s idolatry. That’s a lie. When she said the greatest privilege is being an American, that’s idolatry. That’s a lie. It’s the same idolatry as Trump, even though it’s a multicultural militaristic idolatry, and he’s got a neofascist one, but it’s still idolatry. And the same is true in terms of the innocence, you know, that you’ve got to tell the truth about the violence that is hidden and concealed by American innocence. It is the frontier myth. As the U.S. expands, we’re engaging in genocide. It’s based on the barbaric slavery of Africans and working peoples, and on patriarchal households, and so forth. And so, in that sense, it does complicate our understanding of why people voted for Trump. Because the only alternatives are these very low-level options of this neofascist gangster and this deeply multicultural militarist who’s been driven by careerism and opportunism.

Cornel West