Fire

I rose this morning smelling like smoke.

But last night, I’d been cleansed.

It was the fire, you see.

Brothers around the flame.

Our ancestors—Yoruba, Igbo, Fulani, and many others—shining through our lit faces.

Kings. Noblemen. Scholars. Griots.
Their blood in our rhythm. Their light in our eyes.

Black.

Baptized by the light.

Baptized by fire.

Black Thought spitting embers of knowledge from the pit.

The fire. The light. Enlightenment.

The ritual.

We spoke in wise council by the fire.

We sought counsel by the fire.

We moved to the rhythm in the background—our ancestors on the drum.

Stories of the hunt—not for wild game, but for birdies and eagles.

The weapons now clubs—precision over power, finesse over force.

Wisdom evoked by the spirits—in this case, Weller’s white label.

Collectively speaking things into existence—incantations by the fire.

Libations poured for our newest ancestors—into the fire.

Basking in Blackness, around the fire.

Men united and reunited at the fire.

Fire can cauterize.

Fire can burn.

Fire can heal.

Iron sharpens iron—

our collective swords forged here, in this fire.

Where there is fire,

there is Smoke, and Stack…

and Sinners.