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Poem

Black man, do you remember who you are?
Before temples were carved from stone,
before books whispered borrowed truths,
you were already divine.
You walked with spirit, not religion.
You read the stars and the rivers,
you spoke to the wind and it answered,
you heard God in the thunder and
saw His face in the lion’s gaze.

But now—
You kneel before foreign names.
You pray to faces that do not reflect your own.
They gave you their gods and took your land,
gave you a white savior and stole your soul.
How can your liberation come from
those who bound you?

Abraham is not your ancestor.
Jacob never tilled your soil.
David never danced to your drums.
Why then do you chant their names
and forget the names of your grandfathers?
Why do you reject your lineage
and embrace the chains that erased it?

They told you to forget your ancestors—
called your roots evil, your spirits demons.
Yet they revere theirs in books and statues.
What hypocrisy blinds you?

Spiritual suicide—
that is what you commit, daily,
when you abandon the sacred drum,
the sacred tree, the sacred fire.
When you see your oppressor’s god as your own,
you will always kneel beneath him.
How can you rise
while worshiping your captivity?

Wake up, Black man.
You are not lost.
The ancestors are waiting in the wind,
in the waters, in your bones.
They whisper still.
Remember your gods.
Remember the rhythm of your bloodline.
The power is not in Rome or Jerusalem—
it is in the dust of your homeland,
in the echo of your grandmother’s voice,
in the prayers said with bare feet
and a pure heart beneath the baobab tree.

Reclaim your spirit.
Reclaim your throne.
The world rejects you
because you have forgotten
how to speak your original name.
Speak it again.
And rise.

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