***Black***
***People***
***Never***
***Leave***

Or they rarely do, especially in concerns to those that grew up on the dirt roads of the south. The same southern towns that had one package store where you purchased your gas, groceries, and fried chicken from, in one stop. Shit some times you could buy your clothes there as well.

I used to hide the fact that I’m Southern born.

Lets be honest, most humans of the world, think it to be the throw away landmass of fools, red necks, and cousin fuckers. Hahaha and it do be that. Lets keep it a buck!

However the South is where the first bits of genius happened for the U.S. (Well…after they stole all of the Africans from Africa to build an entire nation for free and then left us to die….but lets not go there. I digress). The genius of the south is that everything that the world holds so dear. Originated with us. Rock, Country, Blues, all of the alphas of American culture are southern. And by default the South is also the creator of the Hip Hop culture as well.

The biggest culture. That this world loves so very much.

The thing, is being the key holder of a black body is complex for numerous reasons. Colorism for starters, I grew up Nigerian black, with “nappy”/kinky hair. Into a family of black Americans half mixed with Native American blood. So my siblings hold hostage 360 waves on their skulls and bronze skin. And I…..I was and am my mothers chocolate baby

You get picked on, for this.

You get shit on, for this.

You try to wash your skin off, for this.

At 5 or so my mother began to prep me for a racist world. At 5 I was learning how not to be killed by a random white male on those dirt roads, or a random white male Sheriff on those dirt roads. Both were/and are equally dangerous, in the eyes of black culture. This was my life. Learning how to negotiate war, while still figuring out how walk properly. I was and am my mothers chocolate baby.

The darker the baby, the more dangerous.

However, I digress, the complexities of my continued trauma also stem from my ability to see spirits. This has always been a thing in my life. A well hidden aspect of my life. As not to be lumped in the facebook groups of the Urban Outfitter crystal buyers, I simply never tell a soul. No competition at all, to be “more spiritual than the next” but we aint the same.

”I AINT ONE OF THEMMMMMM”

Hahahaha ok ok….focus Resse

Ghosts have always been part of my existence; when I rest, on romantic dates, hanging with friends. I see the energy they bring with them and that energy that surrounds them….and I just will and deal, I accept it.

My guy, I grew up in Alabama and nobody wants to here about some lil chocolateboymanwitch, that dances with poltergeist. That equates to beatings. To the bible. A preacher that “heals and exercises you” but also steals the rest of yo momma’s money for his services. No thanks.

Black people never leave…..

And I left. Frolicking now through these streets of Europe for the better part of 10 years now. Even with all of my artistic and creative accomplishments that I bring my family, my bloodline. There are members in my family that still question my blackness.

The last I was challenged, it was with the question “why Europe, why not Atlanta”?

Well in quick, the answer is, why not?

The loaded response, the crafty, sassy, well pondered and reflected upon answer is…I need to speak to the man that holds the keys to this very white owned and imbalanced plain of existence. And that NIGGA dont live in Georgia. The Earth must be unearth at the source of Ancestral trauma, and this AINT in Georgia neither! In Europe I’m making black SOUTHERN art. Speaking for the lives stolen from many on the council of the millionaire art dealers. Telling and talking truth to them that they thought I forgot when I signed these contracts.

This. Ain’t. In. GEORGIA.

Le sigh…truly it is enough to just be an esteemed creator in black form, and clout is cute, but Im going for BROKE; for Basquiat, Saul Williams, Mos Def, I want a Bracy-Toscani Estate. FUCK the nonsense. And I want it where I want to fucking have it! I want it in the face of her majesty that broke my ancestor’s backs and forgot why she’s able to live to “upscale”.

The first man through the door. I am the first man through the door in my family. A body amassed with arrows, riddled with bullets. My hands hold my own blood. So that those who share the blood that runs in me, will never have to unlearn the things I learned on those Alabama dirt roads.

SOMETIME BLACK PEOPLE LEAVE