Nommo Books — The First Visit
I remember the first time I stepped into Nommo Books. The air was warm, thick with the smell of paper and cardamom tea. Rain had followed me all the way from the corner, and when I closed the door behind me, the city seemed to exhale and go quiet.
Inside, the light was soft and amber. A record player somewhere in the back was spinning a Coltrane ballad that wrapped itself around the room–I could tell it was a record because of the distinct crackling sound! I love hearing the sax and the crackling. I stood for a moment just to listen. Otherwise, the store was silent. But it wasn't a silence that told you to whisper or walk softly — it was a silence that said, safe.
The shelves were tall and full, but nothing about them felt still. The names on the spines — Morrison, Baldwin, Sanchez, Butler — seemed to hum together, low and steady, like a choir warming up. I ran my hand along the wooden shelves, and my anticipation jumped with the thought of having access to so much brilliance at my fingertips.
Then something familiar but not experienced for a long time grabbed my attention.
Off to my left, there was a small circle of elders gathered around a wide wooden table near the front window. Newspapers were spread out beside mugs of coffee, and the conversation moved easily between laughter and low debate — about politics, about the neighborhood, about what the grandkids were up to. It felt like home, like the kind of talk that keeps a community connected thru generations..
Farther back, through a half-open doorway, I glimpsed the Story Room. Bright pillows scattered across the floor, children sitting cross-legged while someone read aloud from a picture book. Their voices rose and fell with the rhythm of the tale, and their laughter spilled into the hallway like sunlight.
Near the center of the shop stood the Book-of-the-Month table. A notebook lay open beside a stack of novels wrapped with twine, filled with handwritten notes from readers — "This line broke me open." "Read this one slow." "Reminded me of my mama."
And by the door, a cork bulletin board overflowed with flyers: a poetry reading, a rent-strike meeting, a drumming class, a healing circle. Nommo Books wasn't just a store; it was the town's bulletin of living, breathing connection.
That's when I saw her.
Ms. Geneva Carter, behind the counter, wearing a deep purple scarf and glasses that caught the lamplight. She didn't rush to greet me. She looked up, smiled like she already knew me, and her eyes said,
"You're welcome.. Take your time. The story you need will call your name when it's ready."
I nodded, understanding that I didn't need to speak my thoughts outloud.
There was a kettle steaming somewhere, and the sound of pages turning, and the faint click of someone typing notes on a keyboard.. I found a seat near the window, beside a stack of used paperbacks bound with twine. Outside, the rain kept time against the glass.
For a while, I just sat there. I read a little, then looked up, then read again. A woman laughed softly in the next aisle. Someone hummed a hymn I half-remembered from childhood. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was part of the sound — not intruding, not surviving, just belonging.
Before I left, Ms. Carter slipped a small bookmark into my hand. On it, she'd written, You are never alone in a Black bookstore. I keep it with me still — a reminder that our stories are waiting, and that home can be found in the turning of a page.
You're never alone in a Black bookstore.
