Praise for Annaka
“Reading ANNAKA allowed my beliefs about what it means to be a young woman of African descent living in Nova Scotia to relax. Although parts of Annaka’s speech were unfamiliar, her imagination of and love for Clay was a comforting escape. The themes of confronting one’s self, working through inter-generational conflicts and secrets, and learning to trust and lean on friendships were very relatable. Annaka offers hope to the misfits of the world. Annaka’s relationship with Tia confirms that two women can rely on each other in difficult times, without malice. The pain that Annaka’s grandfather held onto speaks volumes of what it means to be the rock of the family, despite what one may have experienced. He did all of this with love and goodwill, which is a true reflection of many real-life grandparents. I was happy to see these nurturing dynamics. A huge thank you to Andre for this work of art that offers a pleasant escape with real-life takeaways.”
–Jade H. Brooks, author of The Teen Sex Trade: My Story
“ANNAKA has a fantastic hook (what if your imaginary friend from childhood came back just when you needed them the most?) but quickly evolves into a multi-layered exploration of what it means to seek belonging when you straddle many boundaries. Andre Fenton has crafted a wonderful and heartfelt love letter to childhood, memory, and the people and places that mean home.”
–Tom Ryan, author of Keep This to Yourself
“ANNAKA tackles two of life’s biggest challenges: death and adolescence. Fenton weaves together joy, grief, and discovery through the eyes of Annaka Brooks, a sixteen-year-old African Nova Scotian woman. The story brings to the forefront the achingly familiar feel of loss through a world tinged with magic. With characters and perspectives often left out of YA fiction, Fenton not only centres his characters’ community and history, he does it with both humour and heart.”
–Rebecca Thomas, former Halifax Poet Laureate (2016–18)
and author of I’m Finding My Talk
Copyright © 2020, Andre Fenton
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission from the publisher, or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, permission from Access Copyright, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5.
Nimbus Publishing Limited
3660 Strawberry Hill St, Halifax, NS, B3K 5A9
(902) 455-4286 nimbus.ca
Printed and bound in Canada
NB1430
Cover design: Jenn Embree
Interior design: Heather Bryan
Editor: Emily MacKinnon
This story is a work of fiction. Names characters, incidents, and places, including organizations and institutions, either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Annaka / Andre Fenton.
Names: Fenton, Andre, 1995- author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200160206 | Canadiana (ebook) 20200160257 | ISBN 9781771088923 (softcover) |
ISBN 9781771088930 (HTML)
Classification: LCC PS8611.E57 A76 2020 | DDC C813/.6—dc23
Nimbus Publishing acknowledges the financial support for its publishing activities from the Government of Canada, the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of Nova Scotia. We are pleased to work in partnership with the Province of Nova Scotia to develop and promote our creative industries for the benefit of all Nova Scotians.
For those who feel grief
For those accompanied by loss
For those trying to heal
This is for you.
Chapter 1
They say the first stage of grief is denial, and I speak from experience when I say that’s true. When I heard the news, I felt numb. Like someone unexpectedly hit the pause button on my feelings. I guess we always carry the expectation that the people we look up to will never die, but when they do you begin to realize how mortal the rest of us really are. When I heard about my grandfather, I was in the main office of my school. There had been a call waiting for me. It was Mom, and her voice was cracking but it was strong. It’s blurry, but I remember not being able to answer when she told me. I just sat there. Frozen.
“Anna? Anna, can you hear me?” I heard Mom’s voice. She was in her minivan, on the way to pick me up.
“I hear you,” I said quietly. “But I don’t want to believe it.”
“Me neither, babe. I’m coming to get you. We have to head home.”
Home. That’s a tough one.
A couple of days later, Mom and I packed her minivan. We were heading to our hometown: Yarmouth. When we turned on to the highway I sunk into the passenger seat with earphones in both ears, trying to erase the fact that my grandfather’s funeral was the next day. You would think losing someone I shared some of my earliest memories with would cut deep, would make me want to cry or slam my fists on the van’s dashboard, but I still felt more numb than anything else. I felt anywhere but present, and being on that highway felt like existing in between fiction and reality, between Halifax and Yarmouth. I knew when we made it to Yarmouth, everything would hit. I had to face the fact that grief had made it home before I ever did. It had been ten years, and we were finally going home. I wanted to soak in that highway of ignorance for just a little longer. This was new territory for Mom and me; we let silence fill the air, not really knowing what to say or how to translate our feelings. I had never lost anyone before, but I guess that’s because I never really had too many people to lose.
When I was a kid, my mom and I lived with my grandparents until I was seven, my Mom moved to Halifax and brought me along with her. Even though I’ve lived there for half my life, Halifax never really felt like home to me. Home was where the magic was, and Yarmouth
