Dreams of Wakanda

by with 2 Comments CultureFeatured

I’ve never been an avid comic book reader. I’ve never participated in cosplay. I’ve never felt a strong sense of Afrocentrism. Nevertheless, although feeling a little sheepish, I found myself in a dashiki joined by three close friends bubbling with excitement to see Black Panther on opening night during “Black History Month.” Similar to how I felt when I bused down to Washington D.C. to witness Barack Obama’s inauguration in 2009, I knew that I wanted to be a part of this monumental moment in cinematic history. Although this was more than just cinematic history, this was history.

I walked into the movie theatre in downtown Brooklyn and immediately saw a group of ladies wearing heels and African print dresses. The theatre was buzzing and it was at that moment where I realized that the excitement that I had read about on the internet was not only palpable but I was apart of the experience as well. I’ve probably seen hundreds of movies in the theatre but I had never experienced this level of excitement within the black community since Obama’s inauguration. Strangers were dapping each other, positively affirming each other’s clothing, staging photoshoots in front of the film’s poster, and for the first time ever there was an anti-bootlegging movement. In other theatres, they began the film by singing the Black National Anthem, Lift Every Voice and Sing.

Over the last ten years, our community has witnessed videos of fatal violence against black bodies in American streets. We’ve seen the bodies of Mike Brown, Eric Garner, Walter Scott, Tamir Rice, Alton Sterling, Philando Castile, and Terrence Crutcher – to name a few – all lifeless in American streets. Something that I must painfully and dangerously admit that our culture has become desensitized to. If you’re like me and you view cinema as an escape from reality, then you know that most Black actors have largely not been portrayed in positions of prestige. Hollywood seems to only cast and awards us for subjugated roles as slaves, gangsters, and maids which only seem to reiterate false narratives of my community. We have and will always be more than the images in which Hollywood portrays us.

Even though I had always been a huge fan of past superhero movies The Meteor Man, Blankman, and Blade as a kid, I knew the importance of seeing a big budget superhero film written, directed, and staring black artists. Seeing the images of people that look like you as superheroes is critically important for the subconscious of little boys and girls. After all, the first time I ever dressed up for Halloween at 24-years-old was as Green Lantern.

In 1975, a relatively unknown 27-year-old Director directed a movie that became a blockbuster hit. Jaws launched the now iconic and wildly lucrative career for famed Director, Steven Spielberg. My hope is that after also directing Fruitvale Station and Creed that this is the road that lies ahead for Black Panther Director Ryan Coogler’s career.

That said, I have always been skeptical of anything that has hype surrounding it. So I won’t lie, I was skeptical of actually how good the storyline of this film would be. Less than an hour into this film, I knew that this was on the way to being my favorite movie ever. Not kidding, Hitch has been my favorite movie for over a decade and I remember seeing that film in theatres too. For those that know me well, know that this is a big deal. A positive black film that portrays African and American black people displaying power, love, happiness, fatherhood, national pride, loyalty, intellect, innovators of technology, a dope dap and a tribal monarchy that is founded on physical strength delighted my soul and aligned with who I am. In a lot of ways, that narrative is what the Soulful Silverback blog is all about. So you could imagine that I almost leaped out of my seat when I saw M’Baku, leader of the Jabari Tribe, on screen!

After the excitement and love of the post-film photoshoot subsided, I left the film saddened that the streets of Brooklyn weren’t the streets of Wakanda. I was even more saddened that as a result of colonization, revisionist history, the genocide of the slave trade, and corruption – Wakanda was just a figment of Stan Lee’s imagination and not a real place. My mind began to soar with the idea that what if Wakanda could have been real? What if Erik Killmonger’s idea of black liberation came true and the continent of Africa united to become a military and economic world power? What if our African brothers and sisters had come to rescue us? What if those of us across the diaspora all across the Americas engaged in the healing process with our dear African brothers and sisters to restore the years that the locusts have eaten to make the dream of Wakanda a reality? What if…?.What if…? What if…? ..but until our liberation is a reality then Wakanda Forever!

This article was originally published on 1 March 2018. 

Similar Read(s): LCR Perspectives on Black Panther

Black Panther Is Our Solar Eclipse

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“The representation of black people in Hollywood, from actors to writers to directors to cameramen, pales in comparison to white representation. However, as when given the right path the Moon can eclipse the Sun, black talent can loom just as large as their white colleagues.” 

Back on August 21, 2017, a lot of folks, mostly white folks, woke up giddy as schoolgirls for what was going to be a very special day. What was all the excitement about? Well for the first time in 100 years the entire contiguous United States would experience a full solar eclipse. [A solar eclipse occurs when the Moon passes between the Sun and Earth, and by doing so the Moon fully or partially blocks the Sun.] In the words of Jay Z, it’s “lights out ladies” for about two minutes, and then its back to the regularly scheduled program. Millions of people brought special glasses because you can’t look directly into the Sun (cough Donald Trump), thousands traveled hundreds of miles to certain areas in the country to catch a glimpse of the total blockage of the Sun as opposed to a partial blockage – all of that for two minutes of joy. Granted the next eclipse expected to cover the entire US again won’t come until 2024 and then not until 2045, so one can understand why all the activity. And speaking of Trump, isn’t it really embarrassing our idiot president was out there looking at the eclipse holding his hands above his eyes and painfully squinting looking directly at the sun! With his wife beside him with the proper solar eclipse glasses on!

While the buildup for the solar eclipse was taking place, most didn’t understand the hype around it. A lot of black folk didn’t understand why white folk were getting so excited. The excitement should have been across racial lines; but this is America and there’s always a race factor. An eclipse is not only something to experience because of the rarity of the event, but it’s also the amazement that the Moon being 400 times smaller than the Sun can block the Sun and cause a total blackout – even if only for a few moments.

So now for what’s been a trending topic for some time and will continue to be, and no I’m not talking about that terrible rendition of the National Anthem Fergie did during the NBA All-Star game. I’m talking about the release of the movie “Black Panther.” By now you’ve probably read dozens of articles regarding the movie that have quite the range of topics and intent. Most have been lighthearted and fun like comparing “Black Panther” characters to Black Greek organizations, or to the Spike Lee heavy-handed styled articles in which folk are caught in their feelings about moviegoers wearing African garb and not fully knowing their history and purpose of said garb. [Side note, Killmonger would have supposedly pledged my frat, given his Black Panther suit was the flyest outfit in the movie, makes sense.]

For those who have a problem with people wearing African attire to see “Black Panther,” stop it! I can bet dollars to donuts the same people upset about African attire being worn are the same people who only bring that one bag of half-melted ice to the cookout, talks about how overcooked the food is”; yet, walks away with the most plates. So, let’s not mind them.

“Black Panther,” its success, and the celebratory feeling around it got me thinking it was akin to last summer’s eclipse. For months there’s been a buildup of excitement and eagerness for the release of the movie, much like there was for the solar eclipse. “Black Panther,” with a majority black cast filled with subliminal messages as well overt black issues, has already broken many box office records. The representation of black people in Hollywood, from actors to writers to directors to cameraman, pales in comparison to white people. However, like the Moon, when given the right path, black people can loom just as large as their white colleagues. Like the rarity of a solar eclipse in a specific location around the world, in the United States, the rarity for black people to circle around a positive event is sporadic.

Many Black people did not understand the jubilance around the solar eclipse just like many non-Black people will not understand the excitement our community felt when “Black Panther” was released, not to mention the rush to discuss every scene and cultural nuances in detail. Nuances and issues from the division between Black people in the Americas vs Native Africans, to African nations historically having agendas rooted in rarely wanting to mettle in affairs outside their own borders. Many non-Black people and even some Black people will say, “It’s just a movie, it’s not that serious,” and how can all of that be derived from a movie? This is true, inevitably it’s just a Hollywood movie about fictional characters and a fictional place – only so much should be taken from it. In comparison, a solar eclipse has been documented to have little or no impact over the area it passes. Granted, it’s how one judges impact. Impact doesn’t have to be permanent. Impact is equally about the attention and resonation something gives. A solar eclipse quickly happens, and if not timed right one can easily miss it. The celebratory feel for “Black Panther” will promptly leave as well and some will miss it. It will be up to those who traveled far and away, brought special glasses, and wore event T-shirts and saw the spectacle to tell others what they missed out on and why it’s vital to not miss it again. But as history has shown us with the solar eclipse, it usually takes a while for something that special to happen again.

This article was originally published on 22 February 2018. 

An Imposter at the Homegoing

by with 4 Comments CultureFeaturedPolitics

Perseverance in the face of tragedy is a staple of the Black community. Surviving devastation has become so engrained in the Black psyche, it’s hard to separate the two. Events that appear insurmountable for many are often anticipated, a literal rite of passage. “How old were you the first time you experienced . . . (insert horrific event)?”

The Black “Homegoing” is a microcosm of that same Black experience in America. Early in the African Slave Trade, slaves were much more closely tied to their ancestral roots. Traditions were carried with human cargo during the Middle Passage. The newly-enslaved Africans believed death signified a return of the soul to the Homeland with the ancestors. Considering the horror they now faced, death was easily a much better existence. It mandated a celebration.

True to its DNA, the Black community persevered through centuries of the worst treatment of human beings in documented history. Relegated to the status of permanent livestock, hope for a life free from bondage sustained generations. That freedom could be in the physical form on Earth, living life as a “freedman” or it could mean a symbolic freedom with the soul released to a better place.

Forced cultural assimilation could never extinguish the will of the Black community to hold on to its humanity. The Black community now practiced a corrupted and modified version of Christianity. This form of population control sought to subjugate Blacks to permanent subordinate status by coupling their physical bondage with a far more insidious form of domination, mental servility.

Despite the clear objective of mental castration, the Black community still held traditions as sacred. Full forms of music, methods of cooking, story-telling, and manner of style/dress survived centuries of extensive efforts to sever any tie to the Black ancestral home(s). The Black community took this corrupted form of Christianity imposed upon them to further white supremacy and turned it on its head. The same Bible that was only presented to them in an abridged form (though never allowed in their exclusive possession) still provided hope to Blacks living a literal hell on Earth.

It is upon this backdrop that the Black Homegoing must be analyzed. One cannot overstate just how sacred the tradition is. After generations, Blacks in America replaced the African ancestral homeland with the heaven they heard preached in the Bible. They became synonymous and after generations, the Black community knew more of slavery than their actual bloodline. Sadly, slavery became the entire existence of the overwhelming majority of Black people in America.

Hope for something greater was all many had. Survival required them to hold on to the hope of reaching the “Promised Land,” lest they only exist to be subjected to daily torture. Whether that land be physical or spiritual, it was a blessing many sang of and sought daily. It sustained them. So one can only imagine the literal joy many felt to see another subjected to the same nightmarish existence, finally free. The celebration that “sent” that human being “home” was a recognition of them finally at peace. It was simultaneously providing hope for others. One day they too would no longer have to toil in the abyss of bondage.

The means of the Black Homegoing has evolved over generations, but the end is always the same. It is mandatory to celebrate that person’s life and the reality that the Black oppression in America can no longer harm them. While it is true that slavery in its original form has ended, it is still very much practiced in every state of the Union. Oppression and denial of the Equal Protection of the Law is likewise denied the remainder of the Black community that is not currently incarcerated.

The Black Homegoing is a celebration of those realities no longer controlling the life of the person currently celebrated. This is true of any Black American, be it the homeless man that remains nameless or a Civil Rights ICON. So with this context in mind, the passing of the arguably the greatest remaining vestige of the Civil Rights Movement necessitated the greatest Black Homegoing imaginable in the world of COVID-19.

John Lewis fought his entire life for the Black community. Literally penning a letter of instructions to the people from his deathbed, Lewis always sought to advance the Black community from the tortuous reality he endured for 80 years. The path was slow and arduous and unfortunately too long for Lewis to see it to fruition. With this reality in mind, Lewis’s Homegoing was planned. It involved multiple locations and services on multiple days, one last crossing over the Edmund Pettus Bridge, and his being honored by a who’s who of both the Black community and the world of social justice. Lewis was to be eulogized by the last President this country has seen, the first Black President of the United States, Barack Obama. It must be noted that the Obama Presidency likely never occurs without John Lewis and all he fought for, a reality that was never lost on neither Obama, nor the Black community.

However, before that sacred event could be concluded, America had to have one “last laugh.” In total, three former Presidents spoke at Lewis’s final service of his Homegoing. Ironically, the Republican former President knew full well what was and was not appropriate. George W. Bush’s words were eloquent and gracious, a far cry from his Presidency. His dialogue actually made many ponder on how far he had come, almost wishing the current occupant of the Oval Office could be more like him.

But true to form, White America had to make its indelible mark of despotism on the life of John Lewis one final time. Bill Clinton, a man that once joked he was the first Black President, is perpetually too comfortable in exclusively Black spaces. Indicative of his nature, Clinton would not waver during the sacred Black Homegoing for a sacred icon of the Black community. His words, reminiscent of the Willie Lynchism tactics imposed during slavery, sought to illuminate a perceived division in the struggle for Black liberation.

It was an underhanded and veiled slight, spoken quickly in a manner that would lead the passive listener to believe that John Lewis openly disagreed and clashed with another icon in the struggle for Black equity. While praising Lewis, Clinton referenced a division HE remembers in the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC). SNCC was an organization of student protestors and freedom fighters who sought nonviolent means to protest and resist segregationist practices in the South. SNCC was founded by 126 student delegates from various institutions. Among them were John Lewis and Stokely Carmichael. Their goal was uniform, direct-action challenges to civic segregation and the political exclusion of the Black community. SNCC sought to eradicate both with all deliberate speed.

Lewis and Carmichael may have personally favored different means of achieving their goal at times, but not to the point of pitting one against the other as an adversary. Put simply, they were fighting the same beast at the same time, seeking the same outcome. But, leave it to Clinton to impose revisionist history during the Homegoing for John Lewis. “Thankfully, Lewis prevailed…” were the words of Clinton, hinting that there was some struggle to “liberate” SNCC from the oppression of Carmichael. It was shameful and uncalled for.

Stokely Carmichael was a freedom fighter and not an oppressor. His contributions to the Civil Rights Movement cannot be quantified any more than those of John Lewis. Carmichael coined the phrase Black Power. A phrase many take for granted today, was unheard of when he first said it. One of the most revered alumni of Howard University, Carmichael set the world on fire with his powerful rhetoric. One cannot speak of the struggle for Black liberation without mentioning the name Stokely Carmichael (or Kwame Ture the name Carmichael took in later years). 

Much like John Lewis, Carmichael is a sacred icon. To speak negatively of Carmichael invites passionate debate or worse. It is an insult to the Black community to degrade its icons. Clinton did exactly that while on invite to an exclusively Black space, a sacred Black Homegoing for a sacred Civil Rights icon. He pitted one icon against the other without either of them alive to refute his subversive tactic. It was horrific.

However, the Black community will always survive. It will always endure. True to its character, the Black community brushed off this nasty tactic, which could have easily placed a stain on such a sacred moment. After all, those in attendance (either physically or virtually) were waiting for someone greater. While he is an imperfect human (a trait he wears on his sleeve openly), Barack Hussein Obama is a master of understanding the moment. Obama delivered one of his best speeches of recent memory, eulogizing the great John Lewis appropriately. By the conclusion of his speech, Clinton was a distant memory, as he should have been. John Lewis was appropriately sent “home.” He was finally at peace, no longer burdened by the cancerous disease that plagued his life. Racism could no longer harm him. He was finally free and no form of oppression, be it overt or the “wolf in sheep’s clothing” from Arkansas, could ever touch him again.

Long live John Robert Lewis, an icon and personification of the Black experience in America.

Similar Read: Until the Revolution of 1776 is Complete

Reflections from a First-Generation African

by with No Comment CultureFeaturedGen Z

Immediately when I stepped foot in Ghana-it changed me. The air was dry and dusty, the pace immediately slower, relaxed, and the people busy but conversational and friendly. Ghana was different but surprisingly familiar. Nothing like I thought it would be, but not distant from what I’d experienced growing up. I didn’t grow up entirely like the Africans I knew—in a two-parent household with children running around and rice and stew being served for dinner three times a week. I grew up in a home that was rooted in African ideals but preoccupied with the American pressure to “make it.” Our family friends were Ghanaian, Jamaican, and Nigerian, yet with the demand of my parents’ work, they dwindled in how frequently I saw them and size. I remember when I was younger attending loud Nigerian parties where the music boomed and shook the house. My dad played his old man hits of Nigeria and welcomed the friendly atmosphere of like-minded Africa. This faded as my father grew older and farther apart from my mother. They eventually separated then divorced, only leaving the authoritarian ideals intact.

Divorce is not talked about in African families—at least not in mine. African families are supposed to be strong with formidable ideals and the strive to create a more prosperous future for children. But every African family is different. Some may engage fully with their African cultures, others may be “Americanized.” Yet, we all bond through similar cultures. I could claim to be African but knew it was not valid until a native African confirmed my claim. I could claim to be Black but knew I could be invalidated at any time, leaving me to choose what was convenient. I was Black when defending myself against White classmates, but African when it served me and suited my ego.  I fluidly navigated different social identities but knew I wanted to explore my African roots when I was forced to engage a Black world that didn’t fully accept me.

These intersecting identities drove me to travel abroad to Accra, Ghana. Where I knew family resided. Family, I had not met, and my mother spoke little of. Family brings worth, memories, and a perspective of your parents that you never would have gathered from them themselves. But families also expose truths that shock you and may even harm the interpretation you have of your identity. My family greeted me with warmth when they visited me at the University of Ghana. They brought laughter, wisdom, and tenderness. I learned about my mother and pieced together the missing puzzle piece to complete the mosaic of who my family was. Yet, upon leaving I realized that it was only one piece of the puzzle and there was a multitude of other insights and knowledge, I’ve yet to discover.

From my experience aboard, I learned I am a lot like Ghanaian and African people—despite the continental divide. The way I look, my expressions, and the foods I love to eat relate. However, I also learned I am different than many Africans as well. I am not religious enough. I do not know the local language and my bargaining skills are subpar. I am a coalition of identities. We must acknowledge that Africans have relatively different experiences and ancestry. Ghana is a heterogeneous state made up of people from various ethnic groups, religions, and ancestral stories. The journey to America to achieve the American dream may be presented as the same but is not—an obvious observation but something that is not quite explored. Identities are not linear. They are multilateral and even though I had the privilege of visiting a country where my parents were from, African identities and culture are not far from any of our descendants. I write this piece to give thanks to those who granted me the opportunity to study abroad, but also to acknowledge that a person is not simply a result of their parents, but created by experience, exploration, and aspiration to compose their own identity. 

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A REUNION IN LAGOS

by with One Comment CultureFeatured

You know that scene from Back to the Future? The one where Marty McFly, the main character, delivers a thrilling rendition of the song “Johnny B. Goode” on that red guitar?

It’s one of my favorites.

During that scene, Marty is on stage with a band called “Marvin Berry and the Starlighters.” As Marty continues to rip on the strings, Marvin can’t believe his ears. He runs to call his cousin, Chuck Berry, the famous musician who actually sang the original song in real life:

“Chuck, Chuck! It’s Marvin,” he said. “You know that new sound you were looking for? Well, listen to THIS!”

Listen to this….

In 2015, I received a similar phone call from my friend Ian who’s like family to me. At the time, he was working for an American multinational corporation while on rotation in Lagos, Nigeria.

Ian was so excited. He was telling me all about this new sound he’d encountered one night in Lagos. He described the sound as a combination of Jamaican Dancehall and American Pop music.

Now I knew I could trust Ian’s musical taste. Ever since I met the guy twenty-five years ago, we’ve spent countless nights dancing to Reggae music well into the early hours of the morning. While I tend to rumble around like a fool, Ian is actually a good dancer. He smoothly glides around the floor and he never seems to get tired. The guy can also pick up just about any dance move within seconds.

So when he sent me a few Afrobeat songs, I wasn’t surprised that I got hooked and couldn’t get enough of this new delightful rhythm.

Ian, who had been stationed in Nigeria for four months, quickly fell head over heels in love. I’ll never forget when he came back because he couldn’t stop talking about his life there. The people, the food, the accents, the clothing. He was gushing. So I promised him I would visit Lagos one day.

Then I met his friend, Chukwudubem (or “Dubem” for short). The instant you meet Dubem you just get a good vibe from him. He’s a salt of the earth kind of guy. A cool, laid-back, soft-spoken gentleman who quietly makes his presence known in whatever room he’s in. I met Dubem in 2016 when I was partying with Ian near his new rotation in Dubai. Dubem was born and raised in Nigeria and the more I talked to him, the more curious I got about Lagos.

Over the course of my stay in Dubai, we talked for what felt like for hours and when I returned home we continued to message one another on WhatsApp. I’d ask him questions like: What did he think of Black Lives Matter? Who’s better: Patoranking or Gyptian? What did he think of Black Panther?

Sometimes I wanted to get his perspective on a certain topic. And other times (I have to admit) I wanted him to validate a point that I had been debating with my American friends on the African diaspora.

With every exchange, my curiosity continued to grow. Then one day he mentioned he was getting married to a beautiful Nigerian woman whom he had met in Dubai. He shared that he may not be able to extend an official wedding invite but that I was welcome to tag along with Ian. If the stars aligned I may even be able to attend the after party.

“So you’re saying I can crash your wedding?!” I replied.

He said “yes”! Soon after that, I bought a ticket to Lagos. I’d take off in December.

A few months before we left, I had received an email from 23andMe informing me that they had been able to drill deeper to clarify my ancestry results. Previously, my results showed that I was generally 58% African, 33% European, and 6% Native American. I opened the app on my phone and was pleasantly surprised to learn that the highest percentage of my African ancestry is from—you guessed it—Nigeria!

I am typically never one to get excited about trips abroad until a few days before I leave. However, I had been excited about this trip for months. Between constantly listening to Afrobeat music, to meeting Dubem, and the recent discovery of my Nigerian ancestry, the anticipation for this trip had surpassed any feeling that I had ever had stepping onto an airplane.

But beneath the excitement there was a bit of unease. Here I was onboard a midnight ten-hour direct flight across the Atlantic Ocean to return to a continent that I had never physically been. My mind was racing with questions like:

What if the Nigerians weren’t friendly towards me?

I never go anywhere for eleven days … What if I get bored while I am there for so long?

What if being an American Afro-Latino kid from Brooklyn is not welcome by the people I encounter?

What the hell am I going to wear to this wedding?

Do I know enough dance moves to keep up with Ian?

What if my ancestors were never stolen off the continent to begin with?

When I arrived in Nigeria, I was quickly taken aback by all of the commotion. Apparently, Christmas time in Nigeria is the busiest season of the year. Many Nigerians return from abroad to visit family for the holidays so the streets are jammed with traffic. The humid air is filled with the melodic percussions of Afrobeat music pouring out of every car and bar. Sometimes even today I hear that symphony in my head — the ruckus of the cars, the horns and irresistible beat of “Able God” — and I can’t help but break out my finest Shaku Shaku dance.

All of the top Nigerian musicians are in town. Their concert billboards were plastered everywhere. For me, it’s like a Who’s Who of all the artists I had come to love over the years. I can only imagine that this is what Detroit must have been like during the Motown era in the 60s or the Bronx during the birth of hip-hop in the early 80s.

The club scene is electric. Filled wall to wall with joyous dancing Black bodies. It’s a beautiful sight to behold.

One night, I was doing my usual rumble on the dancefloor when Ian taps me on the shoulder to leave. But I was feeling the vibe and it was only 1 a.m. I wanted more.

“Why are we leaving?” I asked. “The music is so good here!”

A sly smile creeped across Ian’s face, “The music is good everywhere in Lagos!” he replied.

Ian wasn’t exaggerating. Every club we went to had amazing music. Every now and then the DJ would play two or three American songs but that’s it.

After a week of clubbing every night I had taken on the moniker, “Chike from BK.” A nod to my roots but still a label of my difference. We had debated if I might be of the Hausa or Igbo tribe. And ultimately settled on Igbo because of my stature and regal demeanor (kidding).

But alas we were nearing the end of our voyage. The day had arrived for the first of two wedding ceremonies. First, the traditional wedding which was a beautiful tribal ceremony that joined the two families as one and felt more “African.” Then two days later, the “White” wedding which was a more Western style ceremony with a lavish reception. I was ready to immerse myself into these rich cultural experiences.

I’ve been a groomsmen in an inordinate amount of weddings back home. Just off the top of my head I can count about ten, so I understand the jitters of a wedding day. Regardless of my involvement, I always try my best to stay in the periphery and be as helpful as I can to keep the day flowing smoothly. Sometimes I throw in a joke or two to keep the mood light.

Dubem had reached out to get my clothing measurements before I arrived in Lagos so I wouldn’t feel left out. To my surprise, on the morning of the traditional wedding ceremony, I learned that I would be dressed exactly like the groomsmen. I felt a strong sense of belonging as I put on my brown hat, white top, and what can only be described as a pink wrap skirt.

I was ready to attend this meaningful cultural ceremony but still wanted to add a little Brooklyn flavor to my outfit so I slightly tilted my hat to the side.

Before the ceremony, the wedding party began to take pictures and I watched observantly on the sidelines. Then suddenly, Dubem invited me to join them as if I were a member of his family. Stunned, I initially declined as I felt out of place. Most of the members of the wedding party were lifelong friends of the bride and groom.

I don’t know about you, but my parents and I have gone through their wedding photos many times over years and I have asked about every single person represented in those photographs. I was honored that this Afro-Latino kid from Brooklyn by way of Grenada, Puerto Rico, and Cape Verde would forever be documented in Dubem and Ore’s wedding photos.

Maybe one day when their children point to me in their wedding photos they can tell my story.

Maybe they can tell their children about our collective story as we across the African diaspora continue to reconnect with our roots.

Maybe they can share with their children that love — the love of music, the love amongst friends, and the romantic love between partners — has always brought us together.

As I stood there with the sound of cameras flashing, I began to reflect on my ancestors. Their son was back home for the first time. They’d be happy to know this son of theirs was welcomed back by one of his best friends Ian, embraced by his new friend Chukwudubem, and moved to dance by Afrobeats into the wee morning hours. As I envision our ancestor’s benediction upon us, I see our reunion bringing a smile to their faces.

…That’s the new sound I was looking for. The sound of belonging. 

Cape Town Water Crisis

by with 3 Comments InternationalNews

An entire country is about to run out of water, and no one’s talking about it.

Cape Town, South Africa, is predicted to run out of water on April 15th. The drought in South Africa began in 2015 and is now reaching a critical point, highlighting the severity of the water situation, as well as the lasting effects of the apartheid and the inequality resulting from it.

Cape Town, the nation’s tourist destination, is the most noted area affected because of the decrease in tourism and the clear divide in response between the rich and the poor. While the shortage will affect everyone in the city, the differences in approach are worth noting; the one million residents who live in the informal settlements only make up 4.5% of the water usage (USATODAY) and as water becomes increasingly scarce and restrictions tighten, these people make a tangible change to their consumption. While the notion of the suburban to high-income areas is “we’ll buy it.”

It’s important to note that the poorest group, the smallest group, who is using the least amount of water between Cape Town’s demographic groups, is also being blamed for worsening the shortage and wasting water, while 70% of water is used in formal homes- highlighting the divide. (USATODAY)

When the water runs out, the rich will not be able to “buy” more and blaming the poor will not bring it back. As South Africa prepares to run out of water, will they also prepare to come to grips with the influence inequality has had on their water supply? 

What Frederica Wilson SHOULD’VE DONE

by with One Comment Media

“He knew what he signed up for… but when it happens it hurts anyway.” – Trump’s remarks according to Congresswoman Frederica Wilson and the family of La David Johnson.

[Prior to Chief of Staff John Kelly’s remarks about Frederica Wilson] After talking to people on both sides of the aisle, I’m convinced that most Democrats think that the politicization of this “private call” is President Trump and his administration’s fault, and most Republicans think it’s Rep. Frederica Wilson’s fault. Attempting to remove politics, and considering President Trump lacks tact and compassion in the most obvious situations, I still think it’s safe to assume that he did not call this gold star widow with malicious intent.

Unless you’ve chosen to ignore this story, by now you know that Congresswoman Frederica Wilson is a close family friend of Sgt. La David Johnson’s family. She’s known the family for quite some time… La David Johnson and his brothers were alum of her 5000 Role Models of Excellence Project, a mentoring program she started in 1993 geared to help “minority male students graduate high school, go to college, vocational school or the military, and be positioned to become contributing and self-sustaining members of society.” She was also the principal of a school that La David Johnson’s father attended.

I don’t think anyone would blame the Congresswoman for “defending” the Johnson family, or speaking up if she felt they were slighted or disrespected in such a time of grief and anguish. But, the family should be her #1 priority. Considering Trump’s inability to take the high road in any situation, considering Trump blatantly disrespected a gold star family during his campaign, did the Congresswoman really think that publicly expressing her frustration with Trump’s remarks would render an immediate apology from him?

More importantly, did she think the inevitable media attention it would create would be in the best interest of the family or help them heal? If you believe so, then maybe she made the right decision. But if you don’t believe her immediate response of going to the media would be in the best interest of the family or help them heal, then maybe a different plan of action would’ve been better.

What should she have done? 

She should’ve reached out to the President and the White House in private expressing her frustration, as well as relaying the pain his words caused the widow. It’s a snowball’s chance in hell it would’ve rendered a positive reaction or an apology; but, it wouldn’t have appeared to be political, and most importantly it would’ve allowed the family to mourn and grieve in peace without the media frenzy. If the President or a White House Offical chose to ignore her or not render a positive reaction or an apology, then going public with a statement would’ve probably been better received as less political, and truly genuine regarding her concern for the family.

It’s hard to give the Congresswoman the benefit of the doubt when it feels like she’s capitalizing on the moment especially when she’s calling herself a “rockstar” in the process.

With that being said, in such situations, we’d hope the president could take the high road and just render an apology. By doing so, he proves that he can show empathy, it makes the Congresswoman’s point irrelevant, and most importantly, it preserves the privacy of a family forced to mourn the loss of their hero.

Unlike the other 3 U.S. soldiers who were killed and retrieved when the other soldiers were rescued, La David Johnson was left behind and his body was retrieved a mile away and 48 hours later. The family was not allowed to I.D. the body and they had to have a closed casket funeral, which suggests that La David Johnson’s body was mutilated or in extremely bad condition when they found him.

They deserve answers… not sure receiving an apology or the current back and forth between a Democratic Congresswoman and the White House supersedes those answers and the speed in which they receive them.