Abeng Op-Ed: African Governments Should Honor Black History Month by Jah Rootsman

copyright 2019 Jah Rootsman

What an anomaly that governments in Africa have little or no appetite in honoring nor celebrating Black History Month, which is celebrated in February to honor the black men and women who inspired us, liberated us mentally, spiritually and physically from the yoke of colonial oppression. South Africa has a lot to be thankful for, to stalwarts like Steve Biko, Nelson Mandela, Robert Sobukwe, Albertina Sisulu, Mahatma Gandhi, Desmond Tutu, Fatima Meer, Oliver Tambo, Winnie Madikizela-Mandela and countless others who sacrificed themselves for our freedom and independence in a thankless world.  They left legacies that need to be remembered and fulfilled and unfortunately it is up to conscious cultural groups like us, Rastafari, Kwanzaa and similar entities that are prepared to accept the responsibility and run with it. Regrettably, this reflects the puny minds of African political ‘so-called’ leaders, whose only interests are in self- aggrandizement, political propaganda and selfish agrarians. Their predominant agenda comprises a prevailing addiction to greed and self-enrichment. 

In Africa, #BlackHistoryMonth is supposed to generate a host and hive of cultural activities throughout the continent for the month to inspire communities and kids by edutaining them through music and other cultural and historical perspectives. Inculcating pride, confidence, honor and dignity in themselves as peoples of this great and majestic continent, ravaged and converted by colonials whose legacies have become the norm by which we Africans have shaped, defend and live out our lives today; lives which we call normal. The Bible is the most damaging contribution left by these nefarious colonialists and has usurped our own cultures.

"Africans are in bondage today because they approach spirituality through religion provided by foreign invaders and conquerors." ~ Emperor Haile Selassie I.

Sadly, in Africa, our children still do not have the slightest clue about the importance of #BlackHistoryMonth.  As Africans, it is embarrassing and disconcerting to watch the Diaspora keep the flame burning while we in Africa nonchalantly “carry on” with our lives, whereas our proud African legacies are being disregarded by the same people who see and call themselves ‘freedom fighters’ and ‘struggle heroes’. Jamaica has even elevated this month (February), to “Reggae Month”. As Rastafari in particular, we thank you, our counterparts, for this extended auspicious honor.

RISE UP AFRICA–RISE UP!

Jah Rootsman

Rastaman. South Africa

Rastafari Earthday

And of Zion it shall be said that this man was born there...

Blessed Earthstrong, Jah Rastafari

His Imperial Majesty
Haile Selassie I
Negusi Negast

Blessed Earthday, Rastafari

There is no night in Zion, there is no night there
HalleluJah there is no night there
Rastafari is my light
I&I need no candle light
HalleluJah there is no night there.

"Let Jah arise and let his enemies be scattered: let them that hate him flee before him. As smoke is driven away, so drive them away: as wax melteth before the fire, so let the wicked perish at the presence of Jah. But let the righteous be glad; let them rejoice before Jah: yea, let them exceedingly rejoice. Sing unto Jah, sing praises to his name: extol him that rideth upon the heavens by his name Jah (Rastafari) and rejoice before him."

AS SALAAM ALAIKUM, MOHAMMAD ALI

                                          Letter To The Indomitable, Muhammad Ali

                                                    by K. Omodele .@TheAbeng

As Salaam Alaikum, Ahkee Muhammad,

Been taking in hours of documentaries, interviews, sound bytes and clips of your remarkable life, Champ. Nothing much new, seen most of them before. Seems like your spirit has been with me since I was a child. My Grandfather (Jah Bless) lionized you, my father idolized you; Mommy, Aunties, Uncles, they chanted your name, relayed your stories, with reverence like djeles. Sometimes people chatter gleefully about your rapid-fire hands and gazelle-like feet; but it's your unconquerable, indomitable spirit that my tribe exalts most.

Which is why I was baffled when, in your 60 Minutes interview with Ed Bradley, you retreated off camera stating that you didn't want people feeling sorry for you, that no one should pity you.

Brother, Dada, Baba, Bredren, don't you know...?

One has to have been defeated or shorted in some form or fashion in order to be pitied. Ali, you showed us how to beat back formidable foes like you pummeled Parkinson; you stood toe to toe with Sonny, blow for blow with Smokin' Joe; you rumbled in that jungle and small axed that giant mahogany George. Though you were strapped to the post and whipped like Kunta Kinte by Uncle Sam, you held firm in defiance. "No Viet Cong ever called me nigger." Your head held high, back cocked straight, standing square on principle.

You held your ground knowing your stance was unpopular, unorthodox, many hated you for jabbing from your hip at the war, throwing left hooks weighed with jarring truths and straight rights loaded with human rights.

Haters spat. "How dare he bite the hand that feeds!"

But we, the poor and oppressed of the world, saw David (Dawoud) cock his sling at Goliath; we heard you, we felt you, we cheered as you floated above all rings, like Mandela and Mohandas transcended all courtrooms, like Malcolm and Martin transcended pulpits, like Marley transcended  sound stages and booths, until the whole world thawed in that light that is Muhammad Ali, The Indomitable.

Peace and love be unto you, Honorable.

Never Gone! Never Forgotten!

A LASTING TRIBUTE TO ROBERT NESTA MARLEY

SEVEN BOB MARLEY CHUNE* LYRICS FOR SEVEN DIFFERENT VIBES

Through his Natural Mystic, I've had a personal bredrenship with Robert NestA Marley ever since I was a little youth. And I'm positive there are millions of people all over Jah-World who feel that exact same way 'bout Bob and his music. The man holds many different titles for many different people- prophet, priest, king, philosopher, lecturer, icon, storyteller, just to name a few. Without a doubt, the man has an aura of accessibility.

I grew up with Bob casting me gems, in-song. These lyrical life lessons, stern warnings and guidance are still thought provoking, his tone often imploring, sometimes wailing. He said things I want to say; he's a conscious voice. His words have definitely comforted me through some rough spots in my life and uplifted me. He is like Everyman, flawed, but perfectly human with imperfections. That's's what gives him credibility.

"His fans come fro the music, but it's the message they take away."~ Tom Bradshaw, LA Times

It's said that a man's true worth is measured in the impact he's made on other people's lives-the effect he's had in our hearts and on our minds. Then Bob, no matter what the crisis is, they can't get we outta the race. It's said that a man's true worth is measured in the impact he's made on other people's lives- the effect he's had in our hearts. Then Bob, they truly can't get you outta the race.

                                  Seven Bob Marley Lyrics for Seven Vibes

1. Satisfy My Soul
For when: you need to tell her how you feel
Listen lyrics: Can't you see?/ Why won't you believe me?/ Oh darling, darling/ I'm calling, calling

2. Mellow Mood
For when: you 'bout to put in the wuk***
Listen lyrics: I'll play your favorite song, Dar-ling/ we can rock it all night long, Dar-ling/ 'cause I've got love, Dar-ling/ Love, sweet love, Dar-ling/ Mellow Mood has got me/ so let the music rock me/...qui-et as the night/pleeease, turn out your light/ ... strike the hammer while iron is hot

3. She's Gone
For when: the woman pack up and gone
Listen lyrics: My best friend told me inna reggae riddim/ Don't jump in the water if you can't swim/...Oh Mocking Bird have you ever heard/ words that I never heard?

4. Burning and Looting
For when: you feeling like you just "can't breathe"
Listen lyrics: This morning I woke up in a curfew/ Oh God, I was a prisoner too/ could not recognize the faces standing over me/ they were all dressed in uniforms of brutality/ I say, how many rivers do we have to cross/ before we can talk to the boss?

5. Easy Skanking
For when: you 'bout to light up
Listen lyrics (or feel the vibez): Excuse me while I light my spliff/ oh God, I got to take a lift/ from reality I just can't drift/ that's why I'm staying with this spliff

6. Johnny Was...
For when: you lose your child in the street
Listen lyrics: Woman hold her head and cry/ 'cause her son had been shot down in the street and died/ just because of the system/...wondering how can she work it out/ now she knows the wages of sin is death/ and the gift of Jah is life...

7. Duppy Conqueror
For when: you doing a bid (locked down)
Listen lyrics: Yes me friend/ me deh a street again/ their walls could not hold me/ bars could not control me, now/ thru the power of the Most High/ they had to turn I loose

* Tunes
*** Work (the good loving)

People, Sound di Abeng, nuh, and list some of your favorite Bob Marley lyrics for when you feeling like you...

Prophets Vexed (A Sonnet)

Caribbean Poetry: Prophets Vexed (A Sonnet)

Abeng Caribbean Poetry: Prophets Vexed (A Sonnet)

copyright 2015 K. Omodele

"The price of hating other human beings is loving oneself less."

~ Eldridge Cleaver, Soul On Ice

The Prophets of Paths shudder at voices bawling

from blood-boiled rage unleashed 'pon innocents' shoulders.

In this Reign of Techs compassion's tumbled and fallen

like boots kicked off feet of war-disgusted soldiers.

Prophets shake heads as zealots hurl stones at caskets

Misspoken parables prop up houses 'pon sand

"Knowledge without wisdom is water carried in baskets.

Jah Word shall spread thru bloodshed, with sword in-hand."

Prophets vexed cringe; proverbs bent into gun rhetoric

Trumpeted Truths, now off-key, rankled-ranted sound

slanted words echoed. Bodies bucked, bullets bellowed

Humanity butchered, understanding drowned.

Bare Innocents killed

Ey, Wicked, be still!

Tempting Irie: II

©2007 K. Omodele (Tempting Irie)

 First read Part I

Part II

Irie fluffs the sliced-up ganja. Fingering the ring on the ratchet, in a single, fluid motion, he flicks the blade shut and pockets it. Then he retrieves a challawa from the desk and packs the kutchie with herb. He begins chanting.
“Let Jah arise and let his enemies be scattered; let those that hate him flee before him; as smoke is driven away, so drive dem away; as wax melteth by the fire so let the wicked perish at the presence of Rastafari…Extol H.I.M who reigneth inna Zion by His name OH JAH Rastafari…”
Sukunya quakes like Port Royal just before it crumbled and tumbled into the Caribbean Sea.
He won’t so much as even poop on me, she thinks.

Seducing Ratta had played out much smoother than this. Ratta had yearned for her, longed for her gift. He had done discarded his conscience long, long time-way back when he was a younger youth hustling fi Blacka. Ratta woulda jukked down (stuck up/robbed) Israel and all Twelve Tribes to earn couple stripes. If Blacka ever said, “Mr. Big Mouth fi hold some FAT shot in his FAT rass!;” then, that was no problem.
Ratta was a fiend for notoriety.
So one night, almost a full year ago, Sukunya had offered herself to Ratta at Blacka’s Boxing Day Bashment. Blacka, with Ratta and the whole crew, marched in shining. As they flowed through the crowd like a fighter and his entourage at a prizefight, the crew sang out, “Blacka Knights.” People murmured and nodded and Sukunya pumped through Blacka’s veins, his heart, his brain. She consumed him and he wielded her triumphantly as he waved his eagle-head cane in the air like a scepter in time to The Bruck Out riddim.
As Ratta watched, he brindled with envy. Blacka was king.
Sukunya chuckled and approached Ratta. Few men had ever resisted and she doubted he would be anything special.
“Blacka cyaan (can’t) hold mi, yuh know,” she said matter-of-factly. “He cyaan control me.”
The music wound low and the crowd movement slowed like a trek to perdition. The club scene had fallen catatonic- which was a perfect canvass for Sukunya.
Ratta’s eyes brooded wickedness. He clenched his fists, raising them in front his face. “I want yuh so bad I’da rip out mi own mother heart out her chest. I want this-”he circled his hands around the room and shrugged “- I want all this fi me- RATTA.” He laughed, deep, from within a rotten soul.
“I know. Yuh feel me now, mi Boy? Blacka come like nuttn to you. Imagine, the world is yours.” She winked, and then added. “Drink up. Just accept mi. FEEL me. Taste me. ”
Sukunya giggled uncontrollably as the music and the crowd catapulted back to life.

A few early mornings later, before sunrise, Ratta and his side-kick Tully waylaid Blacka outside his home in Flatlands. Around 5:30 a big, bad, midnight Escalade barreled up the street like a powerful tidal wave. As his driver squeezed back and forth into a tight parking spot, the Boss lit a bighead spliff and took a deep pull.
Ratta and Tully crept silently, low in the valley of shadows between the building and parked cars. As they came up to the Escalade, Ratta raised up two forty-fives and -BLAM.BLAM.BLAM…bust them rapidly through the passenger window while Tullo unloaded six booming shots from a pump shotty around on the driver side. The Escalade’s engine vroomed hard and the SUV lunged forward, plunging into a Lincoln Town car.
The car alarm wailed.
Tullo ran around the SUV, and unloaded one more in the Boss’s head.
In all, twenty-seven shots blared.
The two assassins looked for any movement from the slumped over men.
Satisfied, they sprinted up the block.

Back in the apartment, the clock reads 11:45. Sukunya top lip quivers.
Irie is sealing up his chanting. “…Oh Great and Thunderable I- JAH RASTAFAR I.”
Sukunya shakes. When Irie thumbs a lighter and a single flame spurts up dancing in the dark, she cringes.
He lifts the fire to the kutchie and draws long and deep on the pipe. The flame climbs in, flooding over the herb, igniting it to sizzling orange embers. He holds his breath, letting his meditation ascend to higher heights.

Growing more restless, Sukunya pops up and sashays over to Irie. Leers over his shoulder, anxiously checking the clock.
11:47
She whispers:
“Yeah man, smoke up. I perform best on the unconscious. My ride go take you higher than that Indica, Irie Dread. Trust mi, you see.”
Finally he exhales, a smoke plume flaring from his nostrils.
Sukunya chokes on the congregation of smoke inundating her like judgment ‘pon the land.
“UGH-Ugh-UGGGHH.”
Irie doesn’t even stir. He holds firm.
Sukunya moans. “Taste me once, just once; you never get enough.”
She kisses his neck. OWW. Scalded, she cowers back.
What in di hell-?
Irie beams.
You need me Irie. Relax. Take me and men will tremble when they hear your name. Women will bow-She reaches for him again. But now awakened, he leans away.
No, Harlot. All is vanity
Relax; she repeats and brushes scorching fingertips down his chest. Claw-like fingernails soaked with the blood of martyrs leaves trails on his shirt.
Look at me! Her eyes are drunken, blood-red like her nails. Surely you want what I offer. Behold my fullness. Render your heart, nuh, I’ll bring you ecstasy. Discard your clothes of righteousness and I will give you the world.
Slowly and jerkily, she leans in and presses her lips to his.
Irie twitches and breaks away. The radiator steams, loud and vexed.
Sukunya is dripping wet.
Irie sticks out his chest. I AM-Jah blessed. He smiles and bounces to a song in his heart. Di hungry shall be fed/ Jah know di blind shall be led…
But Irie, you don’t know me yet. Yuh never wonder? I’ve lain with kings. Great men have drunk my wine. Here, thrusting her golden cup at him.
No! He refuses, shaking his head. I DO know you.
She spins around, grabbing a glance at the clock.
11:56.
No. You don’t. You may have seen me around, with Ratta, Blacka…other dons. They’re like grains of sand beneath the Great Pyramids. But you, I want you more intimately. Like Napoleon. Like Julius Caesar.
Her eyes dart back to the clock. It clicks to 11:57. Her heart begins to trot. She continues:
Like Nimrod and Nebuchadnezzar, I’ll lift you high, high, high-like pharaohs. Make you great. People will call your name through the ages. Just kiss me; taste me; SEIZE ME. HURRY Irie!
She’s panting.
But Irie remains rooted, firm, like a tree. Smirking, I know your mystery.
Wha? She snatches the time off the clock.
11:58.
She gasps. Begins pacing back and forth like a penned-up beast.
LISTEN, she snarls, drenched all over. Gulps down the last of her Brunell and flings away the cup. Paces some more. You want a Bentley? Fine silks? Linens? Islands in the sea? Souls of men?
Irie chuckles. Flashes his mane, remembering, "...leaves shall not wither."
She flails her hands in the air. Her pacing quickens to a frantic gallop around the room. She stops. Points a finger. Is about to say something, but presses her lips together. Shakes the finger at him.
What? Tell me wha yuh want!
11:59
Her lips are parched. She gallops around again, circling him. Fast. Faster.
Tell me. Hurry. Quick nuh Irie.
Irie remains still, grinning with the challawa (chalice pipe) in hand.
She brakes suddenly. She opens her arms. IRRIIEEeee!! Come to me nuh? Tell me wha yuh waaaant?
Irie delights. "FIRE! For Purification. Gimmie FIYAH!"

From downstairs, young voices cry out. “TEN, NINE, EIGHT-”
Sukunya falls to her knees and rips away her soaking garments. She kneels desolate and naked.
Irie stands over her and can hear the weeping and moaning and mourning of those who had slept with her. She looked up at him imploringly.
The voices outside sing:
“FIVE, FOUR-”
Sukunya bursts into flames.
“THREE, TWO, ONE.”
Great volleys of gunfire erupt outside around the whole Flatbush, on and on, a thundering salute to the new millennium.
Now Sukunya is a blazing inferno. She crumbles to ashes as Irie watches standing over her, bemused, burning his chalice pipe as gunshots pound outside like falling brimstone.
And now it is done.
Rastafari stands alone.

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• Short Story: Tempting Irie (consciouspen.blogspot.com)

Induction of My Past

I heard, "No man is an island," many times in my life, but only processed the words from one perspective- that as human beings, we all need other people in our lives; i.e., we aren't seperate entities totally independent of others. This is true, of course, but I found out first hand that this guinnep is a "twinnie"-there's more than one seed here. It is bigger than the small i and, through experience, I found a Universal truth that transcends the statement's surface meaning.

Our actions affect those around us. That's it. Every single thing we do in life, in some way, no matter how small, affects someone. Simple; but I never used to really study that. As a result of my oversight, I unintentionally caused a lot of pain and hurt and confusion amongst the people closest to me...innocent people. The results of the choices I've made in life have strained some of my relationships. That's the price...Regret. Jay-Z said you gotta learn to live with them. I have to tek lil time and rebuild bridges and tear down couple fence.  Jah know, I hope its not too late.

Induction of My Past

©K.Omodele 11-07

Society's exiled outcasts

Numbered sheeple, penned to the side

Chattel once more, bounded self-pride

Dignity waves but at half-mast

Can we escape a haunting past

which sew the seeds- our souls' demise?

Pine box, cell blox, our grace denied?

Induction of our ruff neck past.

Is there redemption for sordid souls?

Confined by our pasts, perdition nothing more

Striped with contrition, confusion, neglect

Will bloodstained hands ever grow cold?

Find peace in the robe the Emperor wore

summation of our past-live with regret.

©K.Omodele 11-07