Chapter 9 Ofosua
CHAPTER 9 OFOSUA
ADINKRA SAYING: (Mako) All peppers on the same plant don’t ripen at the same time.
HELEN ADDO: Not all husbands ripen the same. Be wise and choose correctly.
As it turned out, it wasn’t that difficult to avoid Cole. Not that I had anything to market yet.
Not that I was avoiding him exactly, merely making it a strategic point to not be in the same room with him for longer than I had to be. Professional. It wasn’t as impossible as I’d thought.
We’d managed to civilly discuss projections, independent booksellers we’d like to target, potentiality for tours, marketing strategy, all that. And although it did seem as if he was surprised that I’d given these things any thought, he also seemed confused that I’d come to him with my own numbers, particularly romance numbers.
I had my eye on a few authors and already had a couple of exciting prospects.
As soon as I’d been put in charge of the new imprint, I’d called every agent I’d ever worked with, asking for anyone who might fit the bill.
I wanted books with “magic,” for lack of a better word.
We were selling fantasy and a story. We were selling escapism. Because for anywhere from three to eight hours of their lives, our readers were going to sit down, pick up these books, and live in someone else’s shoes.
And God help me, but I was not falling into the trap and idea that Black women’s stories had to be pain. I hated that narrative.
It was my biggest pet peeve in publishing. People always looked at Black women as if they were there to save a ho. We weren’t doing that at my imprint. I wanted to publish compelling stories that at their core were full of joy. Though at our first acquisitions meeting, I could already tell that that was not Mr. Drake’s vision.
More than once, I’d had to remind everyone that there was no unilateral Black experience. There was room for Nene Leakes, Kennedy Ryan, Jasmine Guillory, and Michelle Obama. Our readers were looking for genuine stories that made them feel something. And those stories should make them feel something other than pain. I’d even had to explain why we couldn’t call this an African American imprint, that not all Black people fit into that category. Including me.
Of course, I looked around at the sea of white faces, and no one seemed to get it.
My first few weeks, coinciding with the warmer June weather, had gone smoothly. But, like the gorgeous weather, I should have known there was a catch. Just like how June came with allergies, my new job had gnats in the honey.
I knew it couldn’t last.
Mr. Drake’s old friend Greta Maples, an agent, had called last week to pitch me her client Aliza Mann’s new novel, touting its frank portrayal of growing up a Black woman in America. I’d asked about Aliza’s background, and Greta’d danced around the subject, returning again and again to the “rawness” of Aliza’s “language.” That told me something.
I told Greta I’d be happy to see the submission, hung up the phone, and called Emory into my office. Time for some detective work.
Aliza had no immediately obvious social media presence, which, in these days, was odd and would be counterintuitive to our marketing and sales efforts. She barely had a website.
But Emory, being the expert sleuth that she was, eventually found an old Facebook profile for Aliza Mann. Aliza Mann was a white woman. A white woman in her forties, with that whole pseudo-crunchy feminist vibe, which I would have dug if her manuscript wasn’t rife with stereotypes and misrepresentation.
I had put her firmly on my “no” pile. It was my decision. At least it was supposed to be. I was the editorial director. But I’d already gotten an email from Steven that he expected the book in the “yes” pile. This whole thing was a mess. Yes, he was the publisher, but he wasn’t supposed to insert himself. Pushing this book down my throat was a power play.
But I had a plan.
From: [email protected]
Your uncle wanted me to include a book on my list and I’m going to pass for this line. But I reviewed the manuscript and I can see the strong women’s fiction thread. With my attached notes for tightening of the storyline and a slight character adjustment, it would be a great fit for Carol in women’s fiction.
Thoughts?
Ofos
From: [email protected]
I see what you’re doing. Can’t say it’s not smart.
Cole
From: [email protected]
You see that I am passionate about making this book the best book it’s capable of being?
Are you willing to help push this through with Mr. Drake if necessary? I think women’s fiction is the best possible home for the book and would have the booksellers very excited with a few strategic adjustments.
Ofos
From: [email protected]
I find it interesting that you didn’t focus on the part where I called it smart.
Cole
I narrowed my eyes at his email. Then practiced some deep breathing as I read it again… and again. What I was going to say was, I’m not flattered by you telling me some shit I already know . But I couldn’t say that.
From: [email protected]
Yes, it is. I really believe in this book and its potential and want it to have the best opportunities it can. So, do I have your support?
Ofos
From: [email protected]
I would pay a fortune to know what your actual verbal response was before you hit reply. And I’m leaning toward yes, but let’s discuss after our meeting.
Cole
From: [email protected]
You’ll never know. And thank you. It’s great to have such supportive team members.
Ofos
You’re flirting.
No. No, I was not. I was focused on my job. A job I was good at. And this way, Steven would get what he wanted. And I would get her off my list. And surprise, surprise, Cole was willing to help.
The real question was, what was that warm fuzzy feeling in my chest just because he said he’d help me? And how did I get rid of it?
An hour later, I strolled into our biweekly meeting excited about the books I was pitching.
“My first pitch is Adriana Wright,” I said. “She’s got a huge following on social media, and her romance novels have been killing it in the indie market.”
I paused to everyone’s gaze.
“Her latest novel is an empowering story about her mother, defying stereotypes, and living life on her own terms. And it has a steamy love story woven in.”
“I like where this is going,” Mr. Drake said, raising his eyebrows.
“I’m thinking a Black Eat, Pray, Love ,” I continued, sensing that I had everyone’s attention now.
My gaze met Cole’s, and the corner of his lip lifted up. “Clever marketing angle,” he said.
I gave him a beaming smile, a rarity at work. “Exactly!” He blinked at me in surprise, but his lips twitched as if he was holding back a smile.
When I gave Emory a nod, she put Adriana’s file in our “yes” pile.
I eagerly grabbed the next manuscript, written by a trans woman named Sophia Jones. “This next book is my Black trans activist, Sophia Jones. It also has a glue-you-to-the-page love story woven into the plot. The heroine is a trans woman navigating the world of love and dating. Sophia calls it a fictionalized memoir. It’s raw and emotional and hits just the right tone for women’s fiction.”
Nazrin leaned forward. “But why is it a good fit for this line?”
“For starters, the book takes place just outside of Atlanta. She talks about growing up in Atlanta in the early 2000s, her identity struggles and how she was viewed in the Black community. And for our purposes, it focuses on her growth and concludes happily.”
Again, I looked at Cole, who, surprisingly, didn’t object. He just took notes with his stylus. When he caught my eye, he shrugged. “Conservative booksellers in the South might be a struggle, but you let me worry about that.”
Wait, was that another yes?
Keep going. Don’t jinx yourself.
Steven didn’t object to either acquisition. Nazrin had several questions about Adriana and looked displeased about Sophia, but she mostly kept her mouth shut. So far those were my only picks. I’d taken up ten minutes of our meeting.
Derrick Bowls, the senior editor for thrillers, spoke up then. “Those sound excellent, and I can’t wait to read them. And while we’re on the topic of your excellent eye, I’d love your take on this new African American writer, Boi Knowls. He’s written this very smart, exciting thriller set in a gentrifying Harlem. I think you’ll vibe with where he’s coming from. And you can give me a gut check for authenticity.”
I wonder why he thought I’d love it. Funny, he never asked me to weigh in on thrillers by white authors. Instead of asking those questions, though, I said, “I’d love to take a look.”
The anxious flop sweat that had threatened at the beginning of the meeting had just started to dissipate when Mr. Drake said, “I have one more submission I want to discuss. Aliza Mann. Greta told me you passed, Ofosua.”
Oh no. Not a clean getaway! I could do this. I would not die. “Aliza’s manuscript, unfortunately, is not right for the new imprint.”
Steven frowned, and I saw a flash of something that looked like irritation in his eyes.
“Greta is a personal friend. She felt slighted.”
Slighted? What grown-ass agent felt slighted by a pass? Passes were part of the job. But I knew better than to say that out loud.
“I apologize. I’ll take Greta to lunch and soothe any ruffled feathers, but Aliza is all wrong for this imprint. For starters, she’s not Black or even a woman of color, so her writing Black women’s fiction raises concerns for me.”
Nazrin audibly scoffed. “That’s reverse racism.”
It was just on the tip of my tongue to say that wasn’t a thing. But I bit that back. It wasn’t my job to educate the ignorant.
Luckily, Emory jumped right in and leaned forward. “You should know reverse racism doesn’t exist. Marginalized authors have a more difficult time in this industry, and you should check your privilege.”
I winced. Nazrin was Persian. Yes, she had proximity to whiteness, but we were going to be in a whole icky gray spot if Emory kept talking. I put my hand up. “My point is, it’s not a great look. We’re a publishing house that is mostly known for its white male authors. We start a new line to tell Black women’s stories, and we choose a Caucasian woman’s objectively problematic novel as part of our debut list? Readers will notice.”
Steven shook his head. “She stays. I’ve read it. She did her research.”
I leaned back slightly, surprised by his stubbornness. “Her research ? It might be worth asking Black women how they feel about Aliza’s research . She’s in essence taking a character that could be white and changed her race to Black. There are no cultural nods, no authenticity to the perspective she’s writing from. It comes across as phony. Not to mention the side characters. She talks about how her side character, Na’quette’s best friend, can’t pay her hair bill at the salon. And then a fight over food stamps ensues. That’s in chapter three. When did you read it?” Surely, he had to see the problem.
“Greta sent it to me months ago. She wanted me to read it as a personal favor, but I didn’t see it on Drake’s list. But now, for obvious reasons, I do. I told her to specifically submit it for your line.”
I forced myself to take a deep breath and be even and placid. “And while I appreciate the opportunity to consider the novel, I think it’s wrong for our imprint. Aliza Mann is telling the story of a Black woman from a perspective she’s never lived before. Why is this story right for this imprint and not for any other we have at Drake? We said we wanted to highlight marginalized voices. Aliza’s isn’t a marginalized voice. Nor does it appear she’s made the effort to get to know anyone in the community she wishes to represent in more than a two-dimensional aspect. Not to mention, she’s cosplaying, which will be seen as offensive and profiteering. We cannot go to Black media with this book. They won’t touch it.”
I was floundering. I could feel it. But I had a plan B. I just needed to keep my cool long enough to implement it.
“And you’re saying that can’t happen? Don’t Black writers write about white people all the time?”
One. Two. Three. Four. Alas, none of the digits were bringing calm. “Yes, but Caucasian is the assumed primary culture in this country. Aliza’s writing from a perspective that’s pejorative. I’m not saying that no white writer can write Black characters. Of course not. What I am saying is that it must be done with care and nuance.”
“Greta said she’s done all her research.”
“And as a Black woman, I’m telling you readers will have no reason to trust us.”
Steven leaned back, his gaze narrowing on mine. “She’s a yes.”
A voice from my left surprised me. “Actually, Ofosua has a point. This imprint is meant to bring Drake into the twenty-first century. We don’t want any missteps. For starters, I’ll have to tap-dance with the indie booksellers to get them to even consider buying this.”
I suspected I wasn’t going to win, but I hadn’t expected anyone to bother siding with me. Let alone Cole.
But this is exactly what you need. An ally.
Steven shook his head. “No, you won’t. We’re simply not going to talk about the author’s race because, in this instance, it doesn’t matter. I’ve always said everyone should be color-blind. We aren’t in the business of censoring authors. I shouldn’t have to remind anyone at Drake of this foundational principle of our work.”
Not for the first time, I wondered where he’d been these past few years. We all joked that Steven Drake didn’t know what X was, that he’d be lost north of Seventy-Second Street and south of Fourteenth, and that Connecticut was as adventurous as he got, but maybe none of that was a joke at all.
My molars hurt from clamping them so tight. I knew I shouldn’t. I knew how I would be perceived in this room. I knew how much I needed these people, this line, the ability to get the kinds of stories that I wanted to see published.
But I couldn’t hold it in. “So you’re banking on everyone responding to the story of a Black-washed white woman and her ghetto-struggling best friend with no joy in her life. That’s the story you want to lean into and tell with the launch of Drake’s Black imprint? Do you think that’s a good idea? Or even accurate? There are other stories to tell. Stories readers want. Brilliant ones right in front of us.”
Steven put his phone down, steepled his fingers, and leveled a direct gaze at me. “We’re acquiring this. Get on board. Also, in regard to your imprint name. I saw your suggestion for Sankofa Lit. No one will know what that means. Too foreign, so I’m going with Mahogany Prose.”
My world tilted, and it felt like it was being shaken like a snow globe. I’d chosen Sankofa as it was a saying in Twi, one of my languages, meaning look to the past. It was my special tie to the imprint.
But that was personal. I could deal with that at home. Demanding I keep Aliza was something else.
Tears stung my eyes, making me blink rapidly. I had to keep fighting this. This book would hamstring my imprint. We’d be a joke. I would be the joke.
Easy does it. You know you can’t fight this right now.
But I had to.
I held it together and shoved the panic and building rage back down. “How about we table the discussion about Aliza for next week? Emory and I will work together to see what we can do with the first few chapters that we have. We’ll come up with something. If we can make it work, we’ll try. But let’s put her firmly in the ‘maybe’ pile.”
At the moment, it was the best I could do.
“Ms. Addo, are you under the impression that I make mistakes?”
Steven’s voice was quiet and calm, with an ice-cold hint of warning I’d never heard before. I’d crossed a line. Shit. I just wanted this meeting over.
“Sir, all I’m saying is—”
Nazrin chimed in then, her face prim, her brows lifted. “Ofosua, you’re being a little aggressive here. Why don’t you settle down?”
My hands started to tremble, and I had to plant my fingertips down on the glass, pressing them so that nobody would see them shaking. I angled my head toward her. “How am I being aggressive exactly?”
“You’re practically yelling.”
I knew I wasn’t yelling. But I also knew what they were seeing. Or at least what Nazrin was choosing to see… an angry Black woman. As I opened my mouth to give her nothing but a saccharine slice of my silver tongue, Cole interrupted. “Nazrin, question. If I were the one fighting against this acquisition, would you tell me I was being aggressive?”
Nazrin blinked rapidly. “Well, I mean, it’s just that she—”
Cole shook his head, his eyes hard. I don’t think I’d ever seen him actually angry before. Sure, he was annoyed with me often enough, and I’d seen him irritated plenty of times. And he could be pushy when it came to the marketing teams or the major account reps sometimes. But I had never seen him angry .
But why was he angry on my behalf? That didn’t make any sense.
“Answer the question, Nazrin. Would you have called me aggressive just now?”
“Well, no, but Ofosua is—”
He shook his head again. “This is Ofosua’s imprint. She is in charge of it. We are the support team. Mr. Drake has made his opinions clear. But Ofosua is the editorial director . She’ll make the final call as is customary, won’t she?”
Cole stared down his uncle. Steven stared back. “I won’t interfere with your other choices. But Aliza Mann’s book will be published at Drake, so find a way to make it work. And I do appreciate your passion, Ofosua. This is why we gave this line to you.”
I could hear the truth in his voice then. He hadn’t given me my own imprint because he cared about Drake’s diversity problem. Or because he believed in me. He needed this line for his own private reasons. I would surely discover them in time.