I'LL NEVER APOLOGIZE FOR LOVING GHANA...

Some lives follow one straight road. Others cross worlds, systems, identities, cultures, and continents. Mine did all of it. I was born on April 8th, 1963, 5:34 a.m., in Washington Heights, Manhattan, at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital — directly across the street from the Audubon Theater, the very place where Malcolm X was assassinated. That alone feels symbolic in hindsight, like history and destiny touching the same ground.

I came into the world during a time of unity, tension, transformation, and movement. The 1960s were not quiet years for Black people in America. They were years of awakening, struggle, organizing, assassinations, resistance, pride, fear, hope, and change. Even in single-digit ages, I remember the energy. I remember the conversations. I remember the tone of adults. I remember the seriousness. I remember the awareness. I remember the community.

Back then, Black people had more unity. More connection. More shared struggle. More collective thinking. More sense of purpose. More community spirit. More responsibility for each other. The neighborhood felt like family. The elders felt like guardians. The streets felt watched over. The community felt connected.

That atmosphere shaped my consciousness long before I had language for it. I want to give a big shout out to my parents for the way they raised me, the way they taught me values, explained life to me, and provided a wonderful childhood, a solid home, and a safe neighborhood that instilled discipline, respect, and focus.

By the time I left America on September 15th, 2020, I had lived exactly 21,398 days, which is 704 months and 57 years, 5 months, and 7 days. Every one of those days contributed to the foundation I would carry forward in life.

CHILDHOOD AND FORMATION

My family moved from Manhattan to Richmond Hill, Queens, in September of 1968. The air was heavy with change. The assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was still fresh. Malcolm X’s legacy still echoed through conversations. The civil rights movement was not history — it was present reality.

I grew up overhearing adult conversations about politics, race, power, justice, struggle, survival, and America. I absorbed it before I understood it. That early exposure formed a level of consciousness many younger generations never had access to, because they have no emotional connection to that era.

New York City raised me.

Not just geographically — psychologically.

It taught awareness. It taught perception. It taught discernment. It taught survival. It taught adaptability. It taught toughness. It taught independence.

A major influence in my life was bodybuilding and physical discipline. At 13 years old, I started lifting weights in my basement with some neighborhood friends. My father had trained in martial arts, boxing, powerlifting, and bodybuilding, and that rubbed off on me. By January of 1980, at age 16, I began competing in New York City bodybuilding competitions. Within two years, I won the Natural Teenage Mr. America title, drug-tested, no steroids — a true testament to discipline, focus, and integrity. I trained seriously until age 22, but eventually stepped away after seeing the prevalence of steroid use and shortcuts in the sport. That period instilled in me discipline, focus, and an alternative path to many peers who became involved with drugs or crime. Bodybuilding became a foundation for my resilience, work ethic, and dedication.

I worked different jobs. I worked with my father in his business. I learned responsibility early. I learned discipline early. I learned structure early. I learned how to function in real-world systems.

I attended the High School of Art and Design on 57th Street and 2nd Avenue in Manhattan. That alone expanded my world. Leaving Queens daily to go into Manhattan gave me access to the real city — not the tourist version, but the real New York. The beauty. The decadence. The creativity. The danger. The ambition. The culture. The contradictions.

From my birth in 1963 until leaving New York in 2001, I had lived approximately 13,158 days in New York City and Queens alone, which is roughly 432 months — 36 years and 5 months. Those decades shaped every part of me: the discipline, the street sense, the cultural awareness, the drive to survive, and the vision to transcend.

As I got older, I watched my generation scatter. Friends moved away. Some passed away. Some went to prison. Some built careers in other states. Some disappeared into life. New York slowly became a shell of what it once was to me. The emotional connection weakened. The attachment faded. The magic dissolved.

At that point, New York no longer felt like home — it felt like history.

THE TRANSITION: NEW YORK TO FLORIDA

I left New York City permanently on April 5th, 2001 — just months before the September 11th attacks. That timing would later feel symbolic, like leaving a world before it fundamentally changed forever.

I chose between Atlanta, Georgia and Orlando, Florida.

I chose Orlando.

Florida became a bridge phase in my life.

Not the chaos of New York. Not the separation of Africa.

But the in-between.

I lived in Orlando for roughly 6,240 days, which is 204 months — 17 years and 5 months. Those years gave me space. Mental space. Physical space. Creative space. Psychological space. Space to reflect. Space to evolve. Space to build.

This is where my digital life emerged.

My political illustrations. My writing. My blogging. My cultural commentary. My masculinity philosophy. My social analysis. My YouTube presence.

My voice became radical.

Not loud — truthful.

Not sensational — honest.

Not trendy — grounded.

Not performative — real.

My platforms grew because people felt truth in the message, not branding in the delivery. At one point, my YouTube channel reached 117,000 subscribers. The message was not comfortable. It challenged systems, psychology, culture, identity, masculinity, power structures, and social conditioning.

Truth isn’t always welcome.

On February 24th, 2024, that channel was taken down.

But a platform is not an identity.

A channel is not a voice.

A system is not a soul.

I rebuilt.

Again.

THE LIFE RESET: AMERICA TO GHANA

On September 15th, 2020, I left America permanently.

On September 16th, 2020, I landed in Ghana, West Africa.

This was not a vacation.

This was not an experiment.

This was not a fantasy.

This was a reset.

A rebirth.

A rebuilding.

A transformation.

As of January 29th, 2026, I have lived in Ghana for 1,926 days — 63 months and 13 days — which is 5 years, 4 months, and 13 days. Every day here has been an investment in peace, freedom, and personal evolution.

I adapted.

Where others complained, I adjusted. Where others resisted, I learned. Where others compared, I accepted. Where others judged, I observed. Where others demanded, I respected.

We didn’t rent a dream — we built a home.

My wife and I designed it ourselves. I designed it to my standards, my vision, my lifestyle, my needs. We did due diligence. We did it properly. We did it legally. We did it carefully.

This is not survival living.

This is success living — on my terms.

I built a massive studio inside my home. A real creative space. A production space. A legacy space. Everything is there. One button. One room. One system. One sanctuary.

My life rhythm changed.

No financial stress. No system pressure. No survival anxiety. No chaos culture.

I wake up and choose my day.

Creation. Rest. Nature. Beach. Silence. Work. Reflection. Isolation. Community.

Freedom.

CITIZENSHIP AND HOMECOMING

I hold dual citizenship.

That citizenship was not something I chased — it was offered.

I was contacted directly by someone connected to the presidential cabinet and offered citizenship. It fell into my lap. Unexpected. Unplanned. Unforced.

And yet it felt natural.

My father, who is Jamaican, always told me our lineage traced back to Ghana. Like most Jamaicans — over 90% — the bloodline traces to this region.

Slavery broke the names.

Slavery broke the records.

Slavery broke the tribes.

But it never broke the blood.

So Ghana doesn’t feel foreign.

It feels ancestral.

It feels familiar.

It feels rooted.

It feels like return.

THE GHANA LIFE

Ghana slowed my nervous system.

It calmed my mind.

It stabilized my body.

It healed my stress.

It softened my pace.

It grounded my spirit.

America trains urgency.

Ghana teaches presence.

America trains consumption.

Ghana teaches contentment.

America trains competition.

Ghana teaches community.

America trains anxiety.

Ghana teaches peace.

People talk about Africa.

I live Africa.

People theorize Africa.

I build in Africa.

People criticize Africa.

I grow in Africa.

MY CLOSING THOUGHTS…

My life is not one story.

It is two worlds.

America built my foundation — 21,398 days.

Ghana built my peace — 1,926 days and counting.

America forged my survival.

Ghana refined my soul.

America trained my resilience.

Ghana taught me how to live.

I don’t apologize for loving Ghana.

Not because it’s perfect.

But because it’s home.

Not because it’s flawless.

But because it’s mine.

Not because it’s modern.

But because it’s meaningful.

This is not escape.

This is evolution.

This is not exile.

This is alignment.

This is not abandonment.

This is belonging.

This is a life reset.

This is a rebuild.

This is a transformation.

This is a memoir in motion.

And this is a story that only a small percentage of human beings on earth will ever live.

Not because they can’t.

But because they won’t.

And I did.

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I hope that your enjoyed this memoir.

Sincerely,

SCURV