I'M TIRED: A FIRESTORM AGAINST THE DEATH OF BLACK UNITY...
There comes a point when silence feels like betrayal—not just to your people, but to your own spirit. This is one of those moments. This is not another sweet, soft-spoken plea for unity. This is not a sanitized, watered-down sermon begging us to “do better.” This is rage. This is pain. This is the raw ache of watching your people self-destruct while the world profits from our pain and emulates our greatness.
How long are we supposed to keep hope alive when every day feels like a funeral for Black unity? I’ve tried being positive. I’ve tried building. I’ve tried uplifting. But the weight is unbearable when the very ones you’re fighting for are the ones dragging you down, cutting your throat while smiling in your face, and laughing when you fall. You want honesty? I’m almost done trying.
We’ve become addicted to self-hate. We’ve normalized betrayal. We’ve turned jealousy into sport, envy into lifestyle, and murder into music. We mock, we slander, we sabotage—and then we ask why we’re still at the bottom. This ain’t a white man’s doing. This ain’t systemic racism’s fault alone. This is us. This is what we’ve done, and what we continue to do.
Other communities—yes, they have their issues—but even in dysfunction, they find a way to unite when it matters. Economically. Politically. Culturally. Spiritually. They pass down wealth. They build institutions. They defend each other’s image. Meanwhile, we defend our right to tear each other apart. We celebrate division. We meme our trauma. We joke about our genocide. What in the actual hell have we become?
Malcolm X would not recognize us. Martin Luther King Jr. would weep. Our ancestors who survived slavery, Jim Crow, and the lynching tree—who fought and died so we could have something—anything—would be sickened by what we’ve allowed ourselves to become. We dishonor them every time we choose chaos over community.
MEAT OF THE MESSAGE
We need to start honoring ourselves among ourselves. That means rebuilding—not begging. That means stop expecting validation from outside forces and start creating our own. Institutions of culture. Schools that don’t erase our history but embrace it. Not watered-down versions that placate white fragility, but schools that tell the truth: raw, unfiltered, and Black-centered.
We are a force of nature. But a hurricane with no direction only destroys itself. A wildfire with no purpose only turns to ash. Until we learn to wield our power inward—toward us, for us—we will continue to implode. We cannot expect others to honor us until we’ve proven that we are worthy of honoring ourselves. This is not about being anti-anyone else. This is about being pro-Black in a world that profits from our confusion.
Invest in yourself. Invest in your people. Honor your elders. Stop calling them “old heads” and start learning from their mistakes. Don’t abandon our kings and queens, our foremothers and forefathers, the ones who held on through hell so we could even be here to spit this truth. They survived the unimaginable. And we repay them with memes, mockery, and mental decay?
Where are our monuments? Where are our museums, our award shows that actually mean something, our banquets to honor the unsung heroes of our community? Not the celebrities, not the clowns, not the “influencers”—but the real builders, the elders, the grassroots warriors who labor in silence. We celebrate those who destroy and ignore those who heal.
We can build our own mini-nation within this nation. Others have done it—we can too. Governance. Policing. Daycare centers. Playgrounds. Community gardens. Mental health facilities. News platforms. Media outlets that tell the truth from a Black perspective—not some hand-picked talking head reading off a white man’s teleprompter. A non-partisan, unapologetically Black news network that reports OUR reality, not one shaped by Republican or Democrat agendas.
We need our own political party. Yes, I said it. Call it the Afro-American Party, the Black Sovereignty Party—whatever. But never again should an election pass without a candidate who speaks directly to our needs. Our issues. Our survival. And once we build that foundation, we apply for our own funding. We stop depending on crumbs and start baking our own damn bread.
I’m tired. I’m exhausted beyond words. Sometimes I wonder if it’s even worth it to keep fighting for something that doesn’t want to fight for itself. Maybe I should just tap out, live for me, chase pleasure, and let the chips fall where they may. Because honestly? It hurts to care. It hurts to try. It hurts to believe in a people that act like they don’t believe in themselves.
It’s not just disappointment. It’s disgust. Disgust at the lies we tell ourselves. Disgust at the foolishness we tolerate. Disgust at the way we turn our pain into profit for everybody but us. We are the bloodline of royalty, and we’ve reduced ourselves to clowns and court jesters in someone else’s circus.
We scream about injustice but don’t lift a damn finger to protect our own children from mental slaughter. We talk about economic empowerment but spend ourselves into debt for validation. We cry about police brutality while we kill each other in record numbers over Instagram beef and street corners we don’t even own. What the hell are we doing?
If unity is impossible, then maybe survival is all we’ve got left. Maybe I’ll stop preaching. Maybe I’ll stop caring. Maybe I’ll pour into me and forget the rest. Pleasure. Peace. Escape. Because this community? It’s drowning. And the few who try to throw lifelines get dragged under too.
But before I go silent, before I retreat to my own island of peace, let me say this: We can do better. We must do better. But it starts with truth. Raw. Unapologetic. Truth. If you’re not ready to face it, then get out the way. Because the real revolutionaries? We’re sick of wasting time on people who don’t want to be free.