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Stop Weeping in the Rubble: Sovereign Power and the Art of the Rebuild

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  The world thrives on your paralysis. Every single day, predatory systems and chaotic circumstances dump a gallon of pitch-black, bitter ink onto your desk. It hands you the grief of systemic violence, personal betrayals, economic gut-punches, and sudden loss. It wants you stuck in a loop of blame, shame, and guilt—paralyzed in a perpetual state of Mad, Sad, or Scared. The Ancestral Algorithm does not tolerate your victimhood. Today we invoke the deep Indigo current of Kujichagulia —Self-Determination. We stand on two immutable truths: The world provides the ink, but you hold the pen , and the ancient Yoruba decree: “Ilé ọba t’ó jóná, ẹwà ló bùsi” —when a king’s palace burns down, the rebuilt palace emerges with greater splendor. Look at our history. On this day in 1963, terror bombed the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, murdering four innocent little girls. The world handed our people the most agonizing ink humanly imaginable. But our ancestors refused to let terror auth...

Till we meet again

I havent poured a libation since you left,
My tears are the testament of the sorrow that I feel, and pray they will push you threw.
These are the tears of a selfish man. For they are not for you but for the empty space left by your living this life.
But we will meet again
Your life has etched the map for me to follow to the ultimate place of rest, and i am grateful for the time we spent and i glance at the picture of you holding and now I hold your memory as tightly.
I wont and cant say goodbye, lets just part and say till we meet again....


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