Exodus

We didn’t walk — we ran. We didn’t leave — we were pushed. And still, we rise. Grandma spoke in psalms, feet calloused from the fields, Whippin’ sweet potato pies while her trauma stayed sealed. Great-granddaddy marched with a Bible and a blade, Wore his pain in Sunday suits, never let it fade. Chains ain’t just metal — they memories and law, Passed from plantation to prison, still clawin’ at the jaw. They took our names, so we sang ‘em into rhythm, Made Exodus with rhythm, ‘cause we never had a system. “Walk with me, Lord — through the fire, through the flood… Let my people go… let my people love.” I was born in Babylon, raised on BET, Fed trauma on a screen ‘til it tasted like me. Grew up post-Civil Rights, still duckin’ civil spite, Watchin’ hashtags fly while they die every night. History a weapon when the victors write the page, But we tattooed survival in our skin and in our rage. I see Moses in my uncle, Harriet in my niece, Every verse I spit a Red Sea — tryin’ to part the beast. This ain’t just about leavin’… it’s about reclaimin’. Not just runnin’ from Pharaoh — but rememberin’ we kings. Before ships. Before chains. Before whip cracks named hymns. Black ain't just pain. Black is planets, drums, galaxies in skin tone. Black is the Exodus, but also the throne. What if we all left? Left the system, left the frame? Built Wakandas on the ashes, let the fire cleanse the name? What if Black joy wasn’t radical, just natural breath? What if survival ain’t the goal — what if life means more than death? This for the lost sons, daughters, buried in soil, This for the coded tongues we still speak when they spoil. This for the mirror that don’t lie — just multiply: We not leavin’ to escape — we leavin’ to fly. Where we goin’? Home. Even if we gotta build it ourselves.