Fake: an ode to ISIS

They so fake,
Them lies they create
Chip away slowly at the things
We hold holy

Like O'Reilly and Hannity
Losing their sanity,
Lacking lucidity
On some FoxNews stupidity
Misreading the Quran and misquoting the Prophet

Trading the Deen for mayhem and profit

They so fake

Like foolish fatwas coming
From faulty shaikhs

Like those 40 thieves on 7 seas
Hijacking religion like a plane in the 70s

They so fake

Their ignorance and terror
Feeds this war on error
But, murder and discrimination
aint actually condoned in the religion
They forgot even the Prophet
Married a Jew and a Christian

They so fake.

Calling everybody else an infidel
But they're the ones acting like Jezebels
Show-n-tell show-offs with AKs and molotovs
These aint Believers
These are Deceivers and Underachievers

Yo, akhi, blowing yourself up
Doesn't make you a martyr
Those 72 wenches you're chasing
are Shaitan's daughters

They so fake.

Them and their pseudo-caliphate
They act real goonish
targeting insolent cartoonists -
Brothers and Sisters, let me make this real clear
That drawing aint Muhammad
It's just a stick figure with a beard

Not Muhammad...

And here's another secret
Jihad is not global, it's internal
And suicide's not noble
But it does lead to Hell
Hot and eternal

They so fake.

They making grave mistakes
Thinking there's no sin shooting little girls
Or selling heroin to the world

They so fake.

Don't let the wool fool you
That they pull over your eyes
Like turban of urban legend and lies
While real Muslims get vilified and villianized


They so fake.

And we're so horrified
And mystified and hypnotized
Giving way to much power
To certified cowards



But me
I'll love this religion to the day of my death
Hoping the shahada is on my very last breath
And I worship with brothas - hyenas and wolves
And we run in the same pack
And that day is coming real soon
When we snatch these lames by the neck
And take our religion back

StoneCutter (for my Sistas)

Like Pygmalion – who carved and shaped his love from stone

And wished it alive to love him back

I made you.

I Remember… when

I made you make the first hard decision

As a consequence of chasing golden empires and trying to touch Heaven with pyramids

When we had to seize power by seizing others –

And we sold them – and ourselves to them and to US

And, there was US stacked high and wide like warehouse products

Cushioned by screams and disease

In the dark...

And on the ship deck, weighing a future of plantations and ghetto fabulousness, you threw yourself and our children overboard

Rather be embraced by sharks than by sugar cane…

When after eons of oppression where I lost you-

Torn from my arms in East African slave ports and raped by a thousand Tom Jeffersons,

Left to be maids and factories for bodies to fill the cotton fields...

I continued to chip you out of stone, my chisel lubricated by tears whips and chains force me to cry

I created you and named you Isabel  and Araminta

And you were beaten and taken daily

Hewn out of granite by steel tools of hate

Until Cupid breathed life – and love into you

And so then you learned to name yourself –

Called yourself Sojourner and Harriet 

And you questioned if u were actually a woman and yet you led reluctant men to freedom,

Daring to kill anyone who turned back

But then I defined my newly found liberty by equating…

…Success by imitating…

…The people who could steal my own manhood and change my very name

So I took to Windsor knots and hair conks

Wanted my skin to look the hue of a brown paper bag and my hair like Clark Gable

And you?

You became typecast – Beulah and Jemimah

…and Mammy after Mammy

So I embraced dejection and anger and rejection

And I…became a pimp, player – and a hustler

My new name became Dolemite and Pootie Tang

And you became Cleopatra and Foxy

Tricking and tricked by Mister Charlie - 

Til you shot him of course with a gun pulled out of your afro

Yeah, but it was all bell-bottomed bullshit that had to be redeemed

By Angela/Assata/Maya

Oh, and Shirley, who ran for president long before the brothas did.

But damn she was ugly –

But they were all “ugly” – strong, angry and scowling back at all us brothas…

So... I had to smash that image,

Fill back in what I had etched out

So I gave it hips like Pam

calves like Tina

a voice like Eartha

Moves like Josephine 

Thighs like Mary J Blige

Later for that movement shit-

Gimme those thick black hips

Fuck that burnt bra and upraised fist

My chisel creates glistening sensual full black lips

No more afros, locks and twists

Drop a few bucks now on Indian weaves and 

Fake asses sewn into jeans

Before you know it I’m not a father any more –

I gotta settle for “Baby Daddy” cuz I got convinced

that a quest card is my adequate replacement

Here: hug on this block of govt cheese, Sister

Let it melt and keep you warm at night

While I’m away in prison with a million of my brothers

It’s okay, our kids will play ball for money

Or become rap stars

And eventually buy you houses

And you can star in their videos

And make your own money

Writing books on what celebrity you fucked

Stay in shape though – make that ass clap and

Drop it down low

Right down there with your credit score

My image has finally come to life

but me and it aint close no more

Our embrace is a formality 

cuz you can’t stand to let me go

And I have no idea how to stay

And the platinum and black diamonds 

are more important than your black arms around my neck

We don’t even make love

Because we haven’t even manufactured respect

I can’t touch your weave

And risk messin up your tracks

And you can’t risk scratching my back –

Cuz your nails might pop off

I am mad at the realization that
Nothing belongs to me so I don’t want you

And for some reason, you love me

And I want to hate you

But I can’t stop loving you back

I want to kiss you forever – and strangle you at the same time

I’m not really an artist am I?
I am a contradiction -

A sculptor with a blunt chisel and broken hammer

I’m a villain

A mad scientist

I’ve created you, a monster

You burnt my village and ran off with BET

You are a testament to my flawed plan:

I made you – and you turned out to be a cold and hard reflection of the sculptor himself

I made you…All without knowing what I myself am made of ..

I made you, and in so doing, all I ended up doing was unmaking myself

copright 2009, 2019 - Taj Ashaheed

Video: Cast, a ballad...

Cast, A Ballad

I do this for the ghosts,
That swim the Middle Passage ocean floor
For the backs stiffened by scars borne
As the consequence of plantation whippings

For fingers blunted and blistered
By cotton pickin' below Mason Dixon
For the echo of fractured families,
And forgotten surnames

I do this for the missing 2/5ths
Of constitutional existence
For assassinated adolescents
Forgotten in Baptist basements

For those martyred activists
Whose names sounded like a law firm
And for voices coming from poplar trees
Whispering, "won't you ever remember me?"

For the smoked out Colfax, Louisiana courthouse
And the tear-stains in the middle
Of the Evers' family driveway

For obstinate organizers and
Long summer bus rides
For the swollen ankles of ancestors
That marched over the bridges of bigots

Past snarling dogs and rigid water hoses
Past all the obstacles orchestrated by
James Crow:
Reading tests and burning crosses,
Meant to stymy freedom's flow

I do this for 1000 cities called "Ferguson",
Where complacency and shoulder shrugs
Have been an invitation to racial subjugation

And for mothers and fathers trading their lives
to save sons and daughters,
Who, in the face of AK47s, don't blink
Who point their way to a new history
With fingers dipped in blue ink

For so many reasons found in between
Heaven and Earth below
I duck into the booth
And pull the curtain closed,

Courting claustrophobia
Alone - but standing on the shoulders
Of unknown unappreciated uncelebrated souls

I put X's in boxes with hands that are not just mine
And I swear I hear the poplar trees whisper
That I'm doing "just fine"
As I cast into the winds of the future
My wish for absolution, revolution, and Hope

Because I can...
Because they couldn't...
Because they tried to break them...
Because they just wouldn't...

 

So, at every chance...
I VOTE.

i asked this teacher a question...

I asked this teacher a question

She told me “I don’t know”
And her answer cuts me deep
Like a mineshaft sunk too deep into the earth

Stripping it bare
Leaving a scar you can see from the atmosphere

I mean, she was a teacher...

The fountain of answers to the mysteries of the world
My personal statue of liberty lighting the way out of ignorance
My Harriet Tubman, who defiantly, desperately leads to knowledge even among the din of protest and fear

This teacher I’ve known all my life
From the old school – raised in the chocolate land of Virginia
Where secrets run deep like the south that it is
Secrets that are blacker than the skin of its inhabitants

And from there rose this giant ofwoman – all of 4 foot 11

Not a product of the environment but like a diamond pried
From the mines,
Said, "I’m gonna be a teacher" and did it
As a Clark Atlanta HBCU graduate
And took all she had and all she gained
And gave it back – time and time again

To the children.

See, to her they too were diamonds
To be cut and shaped and faceted
To shine – to be BRILLIANT

Couldn’t have kids of her own but
Kept the mantle of motherhood firmly around her shoulders
And in time took in 5 children who used to belong to someone else

She was a mother a teacher
A teacher - a mother
And at times the lines
Were often blurred - for, she taught her children
And mothered her students

She wielded epiphanies and ah-ha’s like weapons

And turned-on light bulbs for multitudes
Like Jesus with extra fish

She was an emancipated blacksmith who gave away keys to
Break out of shackles and handcuffs

 Her love was homemade pineapple ice cream for the whole class after her worst student Aced an exam

Her discipline was making her oldest son transcribe the dictionary at 9 years old for shoplifting candy bars

She planted the seed by making my class read
Encyclopedia Brown when the other class was struggling with Dick and Jane

She taught us why Indians aint Indian and how
Columbus sailed with faulty compass and
While we celebrate his blunder
A whole people went missing via genocide and ethnocentric plunder

She read us Langston Hughes and ee cummings
She ran us thru literary gauntlets with Pippi Longstocking and Frederick Douglass

Taught us spelling and spelling and more spelling and conjugation and more conjugation
How to keep decimals in line and using reciprocals in fraction multiplication

At recess she would play with the kids and I remember every time we played dodgeball she would be last one left 

She could move so fast and nimble

Nobody I mean nobody seemed to be able to hit her out –

This teacher polished every child that she taught, made them brilliant,

Shiny and
Faceted

And they twinkled and rose in value in every setting they settled into a future

This teacher, She had all the answers

Except for one
To the question I asked her,
She said, “I don’t know”

I was blind-sided – I knew no one was perfect
But there's exception to every rule, right?
A part of me died, killed – no, murdered- by that “I don’t know”

I was her bad student at times
Never late but always delinquent
Always-fighting-in-class
Who’d talk back, and get smacked and still talk back 
I was surely ultimately, disappointing to her

And the question I asked,
That solicited that soul rendering, soul destroying, “I don’t know”?
I asked it-

After a particularly troublesome day
Where, for some now unremembered reason
We sat in s child and parent confrontation

See, this teacher was my mother
And I, her adopted and oldest son
The one who had to copy that dictionary
Fingers cramping for 11 days straight

And the teacher – my mother – my teacher- said “I don’t know”
A soul shattering admission of ignorance-

When all I did was ask her:

“Do you love me?”

1999: A Hip Hop Poem

Prince was a prophet with 1999
The year before hip hop flatlined
Ok, maybe not as dead as Nas said
But definitely catatonic and comatose

Lying there like a ghost,
Waiting to be kissed back into out-loud
Ever since the Y2K letdown
My ears and mind have had to travel back in time

Because the boom-bap of the present
Sounds more and more like a death rattle

So I'm going to where she used to be
Back to Jamaica where the hills and halls first gave her birth

On portable turntables, speakers on steroids
Whatchu really know about the Herculoids?

When we stole juice from streetlamps
Like we stole the cool
From hydrants on hot afternoons

Back to Russ and Run--Public-Enemy-Number-KRS-One

Back to where she grew up and blew up
Spread out and bled out
Over east and west coast
Beef bullets and beats

Where all we could do is celebrate
Bad Boys making it to Death Row with little to no limits

Me and Hip-hop rocked international
Like cross colors
And there was nowhere she didn't go
Underground, gangsta and commercial

But as the decade approached a close
Things began to go
Really really wrong
Like when killing off Bigs and Pac
Was the only way they could get along

Dichotomy bred and spread with animosity
Soon crack sales shook hands with record deals
And the hood got Versace, platinum chains and spinner wheels

And we could finally afford to take H.E.R. out on expensive dates
But if I spend, she better give up skins
Or get her named dragged thru the streets
Like Dee Barnes got treated by Dre Beats

Watch me crank-dat on her back and throw on a bed sheet,
Superman that ho ‘til she don't want me no mo'
We party and bullshit
She stays sad and silent 

While tiny-talent rappers 

pop fake bottles in even faker videos

These niggas aint really sayin shit
Except nigga-that and nigga-this
But I guess there aint much left to rap about
After you get a 6-figure bank account

Today the voices of rage have turned into drones
Suffocated by skinny jeans and implanted silicone,

Purple syrup and molly
Make us forget about things like poverty
Or treatin our girl properly
Now me and hip-hop are estranged with a legacy of pain...

So I think I am going to leave...
Catch a midnight train back to Bronx-borough
Going back to where she used to be
And dig in crates and listen to mixtapes

That are actual tapes.

You know, the ones re-recorded over
with that piece of tape covering the corner;

Back to crews and posses speaking in native tongues
Back to shell toes, Pumas and Air Force ones
African medallions and and hi-top fades
Back to when I first fell in love with a young Mary J,

Back to illmatic-dungeon-fam-g-funk-X-Clan

Back to when the message and the music
Were synonymous and congruent
When the beats rhyme and life were real
And we all felt and knew it

Right now SHE don't got no life -
Any intellectual impact is unnoticeable
Can't even recall a contemporary hip hop quotable
Hell, for that I gotta go back to an Eazy E lyric
Cuz today, these softbatch boys still aint really sayin shit...

So, now you know where to find me:
Lampin back in he 90s
Stacks of WordUp!, Source and Vibe right beside me

I'ma find my old Motorola startac
To call up to heaven and ask J-Dilla for a remix
Of a Prince track
Laced with a break-beat
Guaranteed to move any crowd...

So I can put it on the lips of Hip Hop
And kiss her back to out loud -

And it'll be okay, if she doesn't wake up right away...
I'll be partying while I wait,

Like it was 1992...
...To 1998

Banners

I remember
About a week after
September 11th...

I was in a local drugstore,
And at the counter
Was a display
Of American flags...

The kind that by that day
Everyone had affixed to their cars -
As wind-flapped proclamations of 
Patriotism,

Like that guy in his Big Black Truck
Who rolled down his window when
He saw my Muslim wife
In her pretty-patterned headscarf

And yelled at her:
"Hey you sand-nigger terrorist - 
Go back to your own fuckin' country!"

She did not get the chance to yell back -
As he sped off - flag flapping fast in the wind -
That she was born in Dallas

And there, at the local drugstore,
Emblazoned on that Red, White, and Blue
Display

Right under where it said,
"US Flags! $1 Each!",

Was the caption that read:

"MADE IN PAKISTAN"...

AfricanaStore

Walking by the Africana Art Store in the strip mall -

Looking through the window at the masques,

And spears,

And cowrie shells,

And the statues carved of ebony hung on the wall,

I can smell the shea butter and I have the faintest taste of sweet potato on my tongue.

As my heart begins to vibrate

To the beat of Djembe drums sitting

On the shelves inside -

My heart is reminded by the inventory,
Of what it feels like
to be

an IMPORT.

B-More: For Freddy Gray

When you’re poor

You’re most likely born to a poor parent

That parent most likely lives in Baltimore and with addiction

So, it’s more likely you were born premature

So you’ll live in the hospital and you won’t go home

Until you weigh at least 5 pounds

And home is most likely the projects

Where the paint is peeling off the walls

When you’re poor and a baby born in Baltimore, you learn real fast

How to pick things up off the floor to put into your mouth

Like binkies, cheerios, pennies

And paint chips...

More than likely that paint peeling off your walls -

Was put there a long time ago,

So it’s mostly likely leaded like old gasoline -

So that by the time you’re 3, you most likely have more

Than 30 milligrams per of poison metal in your blood

And by age 6, you suffer from all the acronyms -

That get you put into special Ed.

And they all begin with the letter "A"...

A letter that you never actually get to see on your report card.

So, more than likely, you drop out of school -

But when you’re poor and from Baltimore...

 - and a dropout,

“Drug dealer” and “car thief” are the only jobs in the classified...

So more than likely, you go to jail...

A lot.

And in there, you get plenty of time to philosophize

Over just what it means to be poisoned

Then you get out and it’s back

To the streets with all its angels and demons.

Until one day you actually meet one in the flesh -

Who on your behalf, sues the State over its paint.

And you win and get a check as compensation,

For what you carry in your blood

Now, more than likely, you’re going to get the hell out of B-more.. 

Maybe go to Art School...

But first you gonna hit the corner store to buy you some food.

When you’re poor and from Baltimore -and you got poisoned blood -

Well, those are the very reasons the cops pull you over.

This time though, you got a check in your pocket

But more than likely the police,

Don’t appreciate your newfound attitude

So, when you talk back, they tackle you

Into a bicycle rack, cuff you and throw you in the back

Now you’re just a can of soda pop in a paddy wagon

That’s waiting to be shaken -

As they laugh and drive more fast

When you’re poor and from Baltimore

More than likely you didn’t pay attention in Science class -

But now Newton and his 3 laws of motion are rattling around

Inside of your head as you bounce around inside the back of the van

And soon your spinal cord snaps, giving away

To a very heavy truth:

That when you’re poor and from Baltimore

Lead is most likely the thing that’s going to kill you.

As you’re wheeled away with your body strapped onto the gurney -

Your lead check falls heavily out of your pocket

Floating away down Fulton Street

Down to where nobody can really know

Because when you’re poor and from a place like Baltimore,

Nobody Can Really Know

Is exactly where your dreams go…

did you know that lead poisoning is a leading health issue among low-income people of color living in old neighborhoods where lead based paint was used because it was cheap? This was the case throughout Baltimore - Freddy himself suffered from lead poisoning - and subsequent behavior problems. This explains his run-ins with police and their propensity to harass him (and others)...leading to his tragic demise - Taj

All Black Everything

Gimme that all black everything / that black-on-black /that afro black/that "Good Jesus!" black/ that Jesus with an afro black/that anise black / like licorice jelly beans that make you pee green / black so black that you hafta use another color to describe it  / like scary alleys and punches to the eyeball  / Black like Grace Jones' obsidian collar bones and shoulders the color of cacao beans / Black like Cicely Tyson, Alex Wek and Roshumba / Black like Jimmy Walker dating Anne Coulter

NOT Uncle Remus black but that Harriet Tubman packin a pistol black / Prosser, Turner, DeSalinas black / even that John Brown was down black / that Sunshine in Harlem Knights black / that Yaphet Koto, you know - the kind of black that makes your eyes bloodshot red / that black that was the color of original skinheads/that blue black and Purple Rain/ boot black and Soul Train/ like black power and black pain

Don’t gimme that “blackisbeautiful”  clichéd kind of black /  gimme that black that makes you clutch your purse tighter on elevators  /  the kinda black that you bring home purposely to piss your parents off / 

That black that’s the background at the end of every movie / you know, what the white credits roll over… / that black like double dutch / black like the skillet handed down from my grandmother

I don’t want that black that killed Malcolm / or the meltdown of the Panthers black /not the fathers who didn’t whup R.Kelly’s ass black / Naw, gimme that Black like Samir and Aja Black / black like Ester Rolle’s cheek bones /  black like the music that Elvis stole  /  Black like rappers got beef / Black like the food in the belly of the beast 

Black like Stacy Adams gators / black Like Now&Laters / like Red is a color AND a Koolaid flavor /  That black that’ll make you wanna slap you mama / Black like she’ll beat that ass if you even think about tryin it / Black like we’ll rent it before we think to buy it

give me that black-love black/that Barack and Michelle-love black/ that I kicked you out set your s*** on fire and I still took you back black/that Michael Jackson with the big nose black /that grease-popping food cooked at home black/give me that FUBU and phat farm black/that flip flops and house shoes black/that spit on the broom if it touches you black/that coat hangar antenna, back of the remote broke and missing black/

Gimme that black that some colors run from / and other colors wanna be 

Close your eyes – gimme that black that you can’t help but see

That All Black Everything / The Black you find everywhere

Black like a sun collapsed by gravity

Black like we tryna get free
Like the black I will always see in you

Like the black that'll always lives in me...

That
All
Black
Everything

Protestation

We haven't always had February

But now we have CNN 

And Comcast and Xfinity

Isn’t technology grand?

Isn’t modernity great?

Yes indeed!

The revolution will get televised

So that you don’t have to participate...

Pushbutton activism

Point and click protests

Facebook a cause and email a petition

I wonder if fiber optics can carry winds of patriotic sedition?

Hmmmm… might be...

Chasing: a poem

I wrote the perfect poem in my sleep

And woke up sweating

Arms crossed over my chest: coffin position

I dreamt I prayed the perfect prayer

And when I opened my eyes, I forgot what I asked for

I remember I was reciting Quran in REM sleep

Until - 

Interrupted by the hip-hop song on my clock radio alarm

I come to, head boppin'...

boppin'boppin'boppin'boppin'boppin'

In between bli/nks I sometimes spy angels

Who vanish as soon as I squint

I swear their wings brush my shoulder

Making me turn around to confront thin air

I daydream of sitting with Jesus and Muhammad

Until they look over at me wondering how I found their cypher

Their greetings of “Peace be upon you”,  are the only thing they leave behind

As they shimmer into a wisp of smoke

Peace that                         air like a butterfly

                  dances in the 

That I cannot run fast     enough 

To catch

I want to see God so bad, 

I think that’s why I am nearsighted

So I close my eyes and hope to bump into Him in the dark

Maybe –

Just maybe, if I keep chasing shadows…

Somehow, I will find the things that cast them…

Eff Kwanza

The only thing that remains is knowledge…and God

We try to create a new life

Resurrecting a dead language,

Retracing a lost heritage

Whose steps have been lost by the spreading

Of the sands of Sahara

Footsteps lost –

At the foot of the pyramids

No, they don’t speak Egyptian any more

But we toss around words in impotent reclamation

All of a sudden we are the children of Osiris

Citizens not of Africa or Egypt –

Instead we say we’re from Kemet

All ‘cuz the word means black

But our cursory knowledge forgets

Or we don’t know-

That the word also means the ending of things

Symbolized by charcoal that burns bright and then out

Like we did…

The only thing that remains is Knowledge and God

We say that we…

Were kings and queens

But somebody has to be the subject,

Somebody has the be ruled

Starved and whipped

And quarantined in the hood

Somebody had to drag the blocks that built Giza and Timbuktu

Go ask Shaka, he knows about that…

Strong black Zulu hero was he…

Better yet, go ask Ntombazi, his rival’s mama

Locked up by a vengeful Shaka with man-eating hyenas

One can imagine her testimony of Black sanctimony as dogs ate her alive

Leaving bones…

That tell the story of Yoruba and Ashanti

Tribes we’ve reclaimed in new Black 70s Pride

With convenient amnesia – blotting out their Uncle Tom history:

Them selling their own kind to fair skinned invaders and traders

We proud Mandinka and Masai warrior descendants

Weighed down with manacles that severed our connection to Motherland

So Nat Turner died a death not mourned or known by the people he wanted to save

‘Cuz we were absent, at the theater clapping with glee

At Bojangles dancing with Shirley Temple

We blink more now than we did then

At black bodies swinging from trees

‘Cuz didn’t they simply look like our newly adopted God?

Our savior Jesus Christ

Both our lots in life being sacrifice?

In the new millennium,

We reject the whips and plantations and cotton gins

But somehow shit-carrying chitlins are still a delicacy

Cuts of pork “Massa” wouldn’t even want to feed his dog

Have become a tightfisted legacy,

Like King…

We finally got our holiday to celebrate his life

Nevermind his plagiarism and fucking sistas that aint his wife

Malcolm was right – 

he seen the hypocrisy of Elijah fathering kids with secretaries

He seen the hatred of Jews lead to black handshakes with White Nazis

He knew King was soft, warm and fuzzy and harmless and impotent

Until he (and ironically - Malcolm)

Fulfilled the shit that Biggie said:

You don’t come to mind until somebody blows off your head

The only thing that remains is Knowledge and God

Long after …

We blow the dust off of Public Enemy tapes and faded Africa medallions nestled in the closet with our Kente cloth scarves

That we only take down at Kwanza

Fuck Kwanza

Why did we fall for this fake ass “de-whiting” of Christmas?

Do we really celebrate muhindi when corn aint even from Africa?

In Tanzania Ujima is not celebrated, it’s malinged

Defined by the enslavement of Blacks on socialist farms

And how do we forget the real Ron Karenga, the santa claus of Kwanza celebration?

Do Deborah Jones and Gail Davis pour out libations

To commemorate their torture under his direction?

Long after our expanded history gets lost

And compacted into the shortest month of the year

Long after our memory of Tupac finally accepts

That brotha is dead

Killed by our unfounded expectations

So, Brenda:

Remember to keep your head up

And we'll forget why they call you bitch

Long after the bullshit of dichotomy,

That has become our anatomy

Is washed away by rejecting the affliction

Of reversed reverse psychology -

Where we won’t need to confront the mental rape of oppression

Via slick headed ministers and their fake Tawanas

Where we see Willie Lynch’s letter for what it is:

Bullshit forged by a Negro to try prove a moot point.

Then we can trade in our rims and Jordan collections for

Stocks and bonds and corporate board seats

Buy gold and sell gold buys instead of lynching it around our necks;

Invest in the legacy of Africa instead

Of colored diamonds, hued by the blood of ebony miners

For wars against others with the same skin color

Where we understand finally the folly of pursuing

Consciousness and wisdom in the smoky haze of cannabis

Just cuz it’s from the earth

Negro, that’s the same place we put coffins

Freedom will be born when contradiction dies

The death of fake pride

etched in fully in pages like Alex Haley’s Roots

Was full of self-admitted lies

The only thing that remains is Knowledge and God

Go ask Mansa Musa…Mali king who built Timbuktu

Whose wealth invited the envy of Europe

that in turn led to generations taking on the name of their master

There aint nothing left of his empire

No gold;

No palace;

No crown;

But in Timbuktu

There remains (only) 2 things he built:

A mosque…

And a school…

The only thing left is knowledge and God

The only thing greater than yourself -

Is Truth

And we have run so far from it-

It is now the only place we have left to go