Eki Shola is a keyboardist/vocalist from the San Francisco Bay area who recently transitioned from a career in medicine to music. In both cases, her mission is the same: to heal however many people she can. Over the last few years, she’s released two albums: 2016’s Final Beginning and this year’s Possible, which is set to the first in a trilogy of LPs. Around those projects, she’s been compared to Flying Lotus, Gold Panda, and Nina Simone while also winning a NorBay Music Award for best Electronica Artist and performing in NPR’s Tiny Desk series in 2018.
In this episode of Cover to Cover with . . ., Editor-in-Chief Jordan Blum chats with Shola about her style and inspirations, her transition from medicine to music, the ways in which hardships can lead to hopefulness, and more!…
In the socket of a one-eyed skull, I face the inner wall and weep, for water is my only memory. Inside the lake of fire gathering close behind me and eclipsing the socket with red light, is gomorrah’s flame- hissing and lisping threats of salt and silence. In front of me is my shadow, the half-echo of god’s image- my eyeless contemporary who’s always leaned into the other side. I still face the wall and weep, for memory is my water. Idle from the red light ……………glowing in this one-eyed skull, I only ………….. lean into the thick darkness where god is
My grandmother’s refrigerator door was my first experience
with a social media page. She’s had a few refrigerators before and since the
one I remember best, but they are all the same. While they are intended to keep
food cold, their (only barely) secondary function is to hold the most recent
photos of our current family members and a couple old favorites of some who are
gone. Six Degrees is an easy game to play on her fridge, and I played it often
as a child.
Grandma tends to her page regularly. Sometimes individual
pictures stay for years, but then sometimes they switch out in just a couple of
weeks. It all depends on how quickly others are sharing their photos with her.
Add to that, the fact that only certain kinds of photos make it on the fridge.…
I am blue, five pounds. I fit in my father’s palm.
My mother brags that I am small. My mouth does not open except to eat; my lungs
do not push out loud sounds. This is good, she says. I am quiet. She holds my
body to hers at all times.
**********
My thighs are on fire; the polyester burns my skin
with long, red scratchy patches. My mouth cries sounds that come from inside
me. My eyes burn from the light bulb in the kitchen and the hot dish feels like
pebbles on my tongue. Pebbles and dirt.
I stand on the living room table while mother
pulls a brush through my blonde snarls. My mouth makes no sounds but my sister
sees my tears and she cries through her mouth.…
Would you like to go to dinner? Is your pasta good? Do you want my coat? Can I kiss you goodnight? Will you be my girlfriend? Can we make long distance work? Did you have a good first day? Can I see pictures of your new place? Why aren’t you wearing the necklace I got you? Don’t you know how good it looks? Can I do anything to make your day better? Do you know how great you are?…
With one glance, you knew
we were
people deficient in everything—gunpowder and gold,
naked as newborns. And it was true,
we were lacking
……………in dysentery and paranoia,
and we were terribly unadvanced
……………when it came to killing other humans. But we aren’t anymore.
So quickly you claimed us
like terra firma,
like the Earth that carries you, repaid only in boot-marks.
We saved you,
……………gave you
our corn and told you our names.
Mine is Samoet. You called me Isabella.
– Angelica Esquivel
…
