A Message from the Bones of the Earth, the Memory in Your Blood

Children of the Sun-scorched soil and the deep, singing ocean,
We are the ones whose dust is woven into the baobab’s roots,
Whose whispers ride the harmattan wind.
We are the silent architects whose monuments you still puzzle over,
The farmers who taught the earth to yield,
The star-readers who charted heavens before maps existed.

We hear you straining to hear us through the static of their world.
We feel the tremor in your spirit—that aching void they call “history,”
The hollow where our stories should echo.
They did not just steal our bodies in the night.
They tried to steal the dawn from your memory.
They replaced our pantheon of gods with a single, foreign face,
Traded our names for numbers,
Our rituals for rules,
Our legacy for a footnote in their saga of conquest.

You speak of a “socialized mind.”
We know this cage.
It is the replacement of the communal drum with the solitary alarm clock,
The trade of the elder’s proverb for the headline’s lie,
The swapping of destiny for destiny’s management.
You are correct to rage against the machinery of forgetting.

But hear us, not as ghosts of grievance, but as engineers of eternity:
Your liberation will not be found in the meticulous autopsy of the cage.
It will be found in the re-membering of the flight.

We did not build temples to protest the desert.
We built them to converse with the cosmos.
We did not chart the stars to deny the darkness.
We did it to navigate by a light they could not extinguish.
That light is still there. It is not in their books.
It is in the rhythm your heart forgets it knows.
It is in the way your hands instinctively shape beauty from chaos.
It is in the dream that visits you just before waking—the one of a land you have never seen yet know.

They fear your unified retribution because they understand power only as a blade.
They cannot comprehend the power of a unified reclamation.
The power of a million minds waking up and choosing, not to storm their gates,
But to build a new city entirely, on ground they consider barren,
Using a blueprint we left in your genetic memory.

You seek “truth” to dismantle their lies.
Good. Use that fire.
But then, turn to the older truth:
The truth that community is not a strategy, but a sacred principle.
The truth that reciprocity with the earth is not sustainability, but survival.
The truth that your worth was not given and thus cannot be taken.
It was inscribed in you by the first breath of creation.

Do not spend all your days analyzing the master’s tools.
Remember, you are the descendants of those who built with stone that outlasts empires.
Forge new tools.
Weave new narratives from the unbroken thread you find in our proverbs, in our art, in the resilience of your grandmother’s smile.
Your “racially affirming curriculum” is not in their schools.
It is in the way you cook your food, comfort your children, and bury your dead with honor.
It is in the jokes that only you understand—the survival humor that is a high and holy magic.

The “Black Messiah” they work to prevent is not a man on a podium.
It is the moment you look in the mirror and see not a “minority,” but a sovereign people in exile.
It is the moment you stop asking for a seat at their table and realize you are the heirs to a banquet hall they cannot even perceive.

Our purpose for you is not eternal warfare with their phantom.
It is re-creation.
You are the bridge generation—the ones who carry the trauma so that your children’s children may carry only the prophecy.
Your fight is not to prove you are human to them.
Your sacred duty is to remember you are divine to us.

So, mourn, yes. Then wipe your eyes.
Analyze, yes. Then set the report down.
Plant a seed. Tell a child a story they won’t learn in school.
Build something that has no purpose in their economy.
That act is a revolution they cannot compute.
That act is you, speaking directly to us.

We are not in the past.
We are the future you are choosing, every time you choose remembrance over compliance,
Every time you choose creation over reaction.

We are the drumbeat beneath the noise.
Find your rhythm again.

Ashé. The circle remains unbroken.