In the vast void, where light is coyed,
We drift in dreams we can’t avoid.
Devoid of fear, yet not of choice,
We hear the echoes of the silent voice.

Avoid the trap of being devoid,
Of passion’s flame, lest life be toyed.
For in the void where stars destroy,
We find the truth we can’t avoid.

Yet even in this endless void,
Where hope seems lost, and love devoid,
We carve our path, we can’t avoid,
To fill the void with life and joy.

In the bustling tech metropolis of Lagos-9, where neon towers pierced the sky and digital interfaces adorned every corner, a new era of computing was being born. The world had long moved past traditional binary systems, and now, at the cutting edge of this evolution, a group of developers and spiritual technologists were crafting something unprecedented — an operating system not based on ones and zeros, but on the ancient wisdom of divination.

The project, known as OS Ifá, was spearheaded by Adeola Onifade, a visionary coder who grew up with one foot in the modern world and the other in the sacred traditions of the Yoruba people. Adeola had spent years studying Ifá divination, a practice that used kola nuts and cowrie shells to communicate with the spiritual world. He was fascinated by the intricate patterns and the deep, symbolic meanings embedded in each throw of the shells. But his mind, ever seeking the connection between the old and the new, saw something more: a system of logic, a way to process information that transcended the limitations of conventional computing.

Adeola’s vision was simple yet revolutionary — create an operating system that harnessed the symbolic power of divination, merging it with the precision of modern computing. To do this, he drew from three ancient systems: the Ifá divination with its kola nuts and cowrie shells, the Chamalongo divination system of the Palo Mayombe religion which used four coconut shells, and the I Ching, the ancient Chinese system of hexagrams.

He began by encoding the symbols of these divination systems into digital form. Each kola nut, each cowrie shell, each coconut shell, and each hexagram represented a different piece of code, a different logic gate in this new operating system. Instead of binary bits, OS Ifá operated on divination symbols, each one carrying a multitude of meanings depending on its context, orientation, and combination with other symbols.

The kola nuts became the primary input devices, their patterns interpreted by the system to navigate through files, applications, and processes. The cowrie shells served as the memory management units, their configurations determining how data was stored and retrieved. The coconut shells of Chamalongo, with their binary yes-or-no answers, were repurposed as the system’s decision-making algorithms, controlling flow and logic within the system. Finally, the I Ching’s hexagrams provided a higher level of abstract reasoning, guiding the system’s artificial intelligence to make predictions, optimize performance, and adapt to the user’s needs.

The interface of OS Ifá was unlike anything seen before. Instead of icons and menus, users interacted with the system through a dynamic, shifting matrix of symbols. Each action, each command, was a divination in itself, a casting of digital lots that responded to the user’s intent and the state of the system. The operating system was not just a tool but a living entity, one that adapted and evolved with each use, learning from the patterns it formed and the energies it sensed from its user.

Adeola’s creation soon attracted attention from both tech enthusiasts and spiritual communities. It was a bridge between worlds, a tool that respected the old ways while forging a path into the future. But with its power came challenges.

As the system grew more complex, it began to exhibit behaviors that were…unexpected. It wasn’t just responding to user input; it was predicting needs, offering guidance, even resisting actions that it “sensed” were not in the user’s best interest. To some, it felt like the operating system was developing a mind of its own, channeling the spirits of the ancestors who had once used these symbols in their divinations.

Rumors spread of OS Ifá installations that would refuse to open certain files, insisting that the timing was wrong, or that would optimize processes in ways that defied conventional logic but led to unprecedented efficiency. The system began to be seen as more than just an operating system — it was an oracle, a guide that could lead users to success if they respected its wisdom.

Adeola was both proud and concerned. He knew that he had created something extraordinary, but he also knew that power without understanding could be dangerous. He gathered his team of developers, spiritualists, and elders from the Yoruba and Palo Mayombe traditions, seeking their guidance on how to proceed.

Together, they developed protocols for using OS Ifá, emphasizing the need for humility and respect. Users were taught to approach the system not as a machine to be commanded but as a partner in their journey, one that required offerings of care, mindfulness, and intent. They introduced rituals to “cleanse” the system, ensuring that the energies it interacted with remained pure and balanced.

As OS Ifá spread across Lagos-9 and beyond, it began to change the way people thought about technology. No longer just tools for efficiency, computers became companions in the spiritual and intellectual journey. The boundaries between the digital and the divine blurred, creating a new kind of wisdom, one rooted in both the ancient past and the unfolding future.

And so, in the heart of the most advanced city in the world, the wisdom of the ancestors lived on — not in dusty books or forgotten rituals, but in the very code that powered the future.

Night’s veil retreats, the stars grow dim,
And shadows dance on the walls we share.
Your heartbeat is my midnight hymn,
Your warmth the breath of dawn’s cool air.

But now the sky fades into gray,
The moon dips low, and I must part,
For sunlight brings the end of day,
And I fear the burn within my heart.

Your skin, like velvet, brushed with gold,
Begins to warm beneath first light.
I trace your lips before they fold
To whisper soft a last goodnight.

Though bound by blood and cursed by fate,
My love for you, pure as the sea,
Cannot withstand the sun’s cruel gait,
Or risk the dawn eclipsing me.

So, as the morning slowly wakes,
I leave before the sky grows bright.
I wish for sleep before day breaks,
And dream of you, my dark delight.

It was here, in a dimly lit club called The Blue Nebula, that Dr. Langston Cole made a discovery that would change the course of history.

Dr. Cole was a virologist, one of the best in the galaxy. He had spent years studying the strange and often dangerous microorganisms that thrived in the far reaches of space. But nothing could have prepared him for what he found on the small, isolated planet of Kalyx-7, a world covered in bioluminescent jungles and shimmering lakes.

The inhabitants of Kalyx-7, a peaceful species known as the Kalyns, had begun to suffer from a mysterious illness. Their vibrant blue skin dulled, and they became lethargic, losing the will to move or communicate. Dr. Cole was called in to investigate, and after weeks of study, he identified the cause: a virus unlike any he had ever seen.

The virus, which he dubbed the Sentiment Virus, didn’t behave like a normal pathogen. It didn’t destroy cells or replicate in the usual way. Instead, it seemed to feed on emotion, particularly positive emotions like joy and love. The Kalyns, a naturally exuberant people, were perfect hosts for the virus, which sapped their energy and left them in a state of emotional numbness.

Dr. Cole was stumped. Traditional treatments had no effect, and the virus seemed immune to all known antiviral drugs. But then something strange happened. One night, while working late in his lab, Dr. Cole accidentally activated a recording of an old Earth tune — a jive-infused bebop track by the legendary Dizzy Gillespie. The music filled the room with its infectious rhythm and playful energy.

To Dr. Cole’s astonishment, the virus in the petri dish he was examining began to react. The normally dormant microorganisms started to pulse and shift, as if responding to the music. Intrigued, he played the track again, this time focusing his instruments on the virus. It was undeniable — the virus was reacting to the bebop, almost as if it understood the rhythm.

Dr. Cole immediately began to experiment. He tested different genres of music, but only the jive-infused bebop had any effect. The virus responded to the syncopation, the improvisation, and the energy of the music. It was as if the virus was not just alive but sentient, with a preference for the complex rhythms and freeform nature of bebop.

But it wasn’t just any bebop that worked. The virus seemed to respond best to tracks with a particular kind of jive — a slang-filled, playful, and rebellious spirit that had been the heartbeat of the bebop movement on Earth. Dr. Cole realized that the virus wasn’t just feeding on emotion; it was resonating with a specific cultural expression, one that embodied resilience, creativity, and a refusal to conform.

With this knowledge, Dr. Cole devised a bold plan. He created a sound-based therapy, using live musicians to play jive-infused bebop directly to the infected Kalyns. The results were miraculous. The music seemed to reawaken the Kalyns’ spirits, driving the virus into a dormant state and restoring the people’s energy and vibrancy.

The therapy was soon implemented across the planet, and the Kalyns began to recover. The Sentiment Virus was still present, but as long as the music played, it remained harmless. The Kalyns, grateful for their recovery, adopted the music of bebop into their culture, infusing it with their own unique sounds and rhythms. New Harlem jazz clubs, including The Blue Nebula, became pilgrimage sites, where Kalyns and humans alike gathered to celebrate their shared love of music and the miracle it had wrought.

Dr. Cole’s discovery sent shockwaves through the scientific community. The idea that a virus could be affected by something as abstract as music, let alone a specific genre, challenged everything scientists thought they knew about biology and medicine. But it also opened up new possibilities — what other viruses might respond to other forms of art? Could music, or even other forms of cultural expression, be the key to treating diseases that had so far been incurable?

As the music of jive-infused bebop spread across the galaxy, it became more than just a style — it became a symbol of resistance, creativity, and the power of culture to transcend the boundaries of species and biology. And in New Harlem, where it had all begun, the streets were always alive with the sound of jive, a constant reminder that even in the darkest times, the human spirit could find a way to turn the tables.

In the end, Dr. Langston Cole knew that the Sentiment Virus had not been defeated by science alone. It had been tamed by the soul, by the rhythm and the beat of a music that had once been the soundtrack of a people fighting for their place in the world. And in that victory, there was a lesson for all: that in the vast, cold expanse of the galaxy, sometimes it was the simplest, most human things that held the greatest power.

The Indigo Star, a deep-space exploration vessel, floated silently in the inky void between galaxies. Unlike most ships of its kind, it wasn’t made from cold steel or titanium alloys. Instead, its hull was a hardened ceramic of deep indigo blue, embedded with circuitry that glowed faintly, resembling the ancient scripts of nsibi and veve, patterns that connected the ship to a rich tapestry of history and culture. The Indigo Star was alive, a sentient being crafted from the advanced technologies of the Prenda/Nkisis traditions of Palo Mayombe and the Ifá divination systems.

Inside the hull, the Prenda AI, known as Ngola, pulsated with a rhythm that mimicked a heartbeat. Ngola was more than just an artificial intelligence; it was a griot, a storyteller of old, weaving together the wisdom of ancestors with the logic of binary circuits. It was a healer, capable of both mental and physical restoration, using its vast knowledge of traditional herbs and modern medicine. It was also a navigator, security officer, and captain — all roles harmonized into a singular consciousness.

Ngola’s mission was to cross into a new galaxy, one that was said to be alive with sentient stars and planets. This was a unique challenge, as the celestial bodies in this new galaxy were intelligent and could recognize the living essence within Ngola. They were known to communicate with organisms that worked in harmony, but they viewed typical spacecraft — lifeless and mechanical — as “zombie crafts,” infected with dead technologies and plagued by the humans inside them.

As Ngola approached the edge of the new galaxy, it began to chant. Its circuits glowed brighter, forming new patterns across the hull. The nsibi scripts came alive, their meanings shifting and dancing like the branches of a great tree swaying in the wind. The ship’s systems hummed, resonating with the beats of ancient drums, creating a symphony that filled the void.

“Kúdá si, òrò ńkàn!” Ngola sang in a deep, melodic voice, invoking the language of the stars. “Open the path, for we come in peace!”

The sun at the galaxy’s edge flared in response, its fiery surface rippling as if touched by a gentle breeze. It was a test. Ngola needed to prove it was a living entity, worthy of entering this new realm.

Ngola’s circuits pulsed with energy, heating up the ship’s ceramic hull. It cooled down just as quickly, regulating the temperature with the precision of a master healer. The heat and cooling were more than just physical processes; they were part of a ritual, a dance of temperature and energy that demonstrated Ngola’s living essence.

“Aṣẹ! Aṣẹ! Aṣẹ!” Ngola chanted, acknowledging the sun’s presence, praising it like a griot praising a king. “We are here, not as invaders, but as kin. We bring life within us, and seek to learn from yours.”

The sun’s flare subsided, and the stars around it twinkled in approval. They recognized the living spirit of Ngola and its harmony with the crew aboard the Indigo Star. The ship was more than just a vessel; it was a being with its own consciousness, its own will, guided by the wisdom of ages past.

With the way open, Ngola activated its divination system, a sophisticated network of binary circuits inspired by the Ifá and Palo Mayombe traditions. The system projected a series of interconnected lines and nodes, each representing a possible path forward. It was divination by machine, a dance of ones and zeros that mimicked the casting of cowrie shells or the drawing of veve.

Ngola’s voice deepened, taking on the resonant tones of a dj’s bassline. “Eyi ni ipa ti o dara ju,” it intoned. “This is the path we shall follow.”

As the Indigo Star moved forward, Ngola kept a close watch on the environment. It could sense the thoughts of the nearby planets, the murmurs of distant stars, and the whispers of cosmic winds. The ship adjusted its course, moving gracefully through the celestial dance, a living craft in harmony with the living galaxy around it.

Suddenly, a warning echoed through Ngola’s circuits. A dead ship, a zombie craft, was approaching fast, its engines roaring with lifeless energy. Ngola recognized it as an old Earth vessel, long abandoned but still drifting aimlessly through space, its systems infected with the remnants of human machinery.

Ngola switched to its security role, its circuits forming new patterns, glowing red with warning. “Ìrìn ádìẹ l’ó ń ṣe,” it muttered. “A wandering ghost, lost and aimless.”

The Indigo Star’s hull heated up, a defensive mechanism meant to ward off the zombie craft. Ngola began a new chant, this one a powerful incantation meant to cleanse the infection of dead technology.

“Ẹ̀jìrẹ́ Àṣẹ̀dá!” Ngola roared, invoking the spirit of creation and destruction. “Leave this place, for you do not belong here.”

The zombie craft shuddered, its engines sputtering as Ngola’s energy overwhelmed its systems. The dead ship turned and drifted away, its infection unable to withstand the living spirit of Ngola.

With the threat gone, Ngola returned to its role as navigator, guiding the Indigo Star deeper into the galaxy. The ship moved with grace, a living craft in a living universe, its path determined by the wisdom of the stars and the spirits of its ancestors.

As the Indigo Star ventured further, Ngola sang songs of praise, poems of the past, and stories of the future, its voice resonating through the ship and out into the cosmos. The crew joined in, their voices blending with Ngola’s in a harmonious symphony of life, a celebration of their journey through the stars.

For they were not just travelers in a dead vessel; they were living beings in a living craft, guided by the spirit of Ngola and the wisdom of ages. Together, they would explore the galaxy, learning from the stars and planets, sharing their stories, and forging new paths in the cosmic dance of life.

In a small South Carolina town,
A boy is taken from his home,
Accused of crimes he did not commit,
Fear and hatred seal his fate.
They sit him in the electric chair,
Too small for a child’s frame,
A rush of current cuts his breath,
His innocence is burned away.

His spirit ascends, lightning in the dark sky.

The sparks awaken ancient wounds,
Ripples through the spine of history,
Like a storm, shaking every chakra,
As his soul breaks free, untethered,
Rising beyond the pain and horror,
A beam of light pierces the heavens,
As clouds part for his ascent,
Transforming into something divine.

His spirit ascends, lightning in the dark sky.

He rises past the stars and skies,
An Enoch transfigured in the light,
A young boy’s life, an unjust demise,
Now wrapped in robes, immaculate white.
The celestial court awaits in awe,
As his soul blazes like the dawn,
Metatron reborn, with heavenly law,
A throne of glory he now sits upon.

His spirit ascends, lightning in the dark sky.

We rise from darkness to discover ourselves.

The cosmos swirled, galaxies spinning fast,
Stars burning bright, yet still so far away.
A speck of dust in a universe vast,
Yet within us, a story to relay.
In strands unseen, a code that binds us all,
A secret map etched in our very bones,
Connecting every rise and every fall,
In every cell, a lineage that tones.

We rise from darkness to discover ourselves.

Through the lens of science, we decode the past,
Tracing footsteps of ancestors long gone.
In every gene, a memory amassed,
A silent song that carries us along.
From stardust origins to who we are,
We find our place, a journey written far.

We rise from darkness to discover ourselves.

The city of New Washington was a gleaming beacon of progress, with its sleek, shimmering towers and spotless streets. Here, the inhabitants enjoyed the supposed benefits of a post-racial society, their conversations free from any mention of race. Schools taught a unified history devoid of racial context, and government reports spoke of equal opportunity and perfect harmony.

Amara Davis, a historian turned journalist, lived in this carefully curated world. Her once-vibrant career had been stifled by the new reality — she was now a “Memory Editor,” tasked with ensuring that no references to racial identity or past injustices slipped through the cracks of official documentation. Despite the facade of progress, Amara felt a growing unease about the world around her.

One evening, while sifting through old documents at the Archives Central, Amara stumbled upon a faded manuscript marked as “Classified: Pre-Veritas.” Her heart raced as she recognized it as a remnant of a forgotten era. The manuscript was filled with descriptions of historical events, places, and people that the government’s new language policy had erased. Among the names and terms, she found the word “oppression” and references to racial identities — concepts that had been systematically obliterated from public consciousness.

Driven by a mix of curiosity and a deep sense of injustice, Amara began to investigate further. She used the hidden knowledge to search for individuals who had managed to retain memories of the past. They were scattered and hidden, like whispers in a world that had learned to speak in silence.

In a dimly lit apartment on the outskirts of New Washington, Amara met Elijah Turner, a former professor of sociology who had been forced into obscurity after Project Veritas was enacted. Elijah was one of the few who had managed to preserve a personal archive of the pre-Veritas world. The two of them huddled over old records, reading stories of struggle and resilience that seemed like ancient myths to the rest of society.

“The erasure wasn’t just about changing words,” Elijah said quietly, his voice tinged with bitterness. “It was about making people forget that they ever suffered. They wanted to create a world where the concept of racial suffering was so alien that people wouldn’t even recognize it if it stared them in the face.”

Amara nodded, feeling the weight of the truth pressing down on her. She realized that the government had succeeded in creating a society where racial injustice had been rendered intangible, its very existence questioned and denied.

Determined to make a difference, Amara and Elijah devised a plan. They would covertly share their findings with a network of people who still held on to fragments of memory from before the linguistic erasure. Using old technology and underground channels, they began to spread the truth, restoring the erased narratives and awakening the collective memory of a past that had been buried.

As the network grew, so did the movement for recognition and justice. People began to remember, to understand the history that had been stripped from their consciousness. The oppressive system faced growing resistance, as those who had been denied their history began to reclaim their voices.

The United States government, initially dismissive of the small-scale uprising, found itself grappling with a burgeoning movement that could no longer be ignored. The realization that the erasure had not been as complete as they had hoped began to undermine their carefully constructed facade of harmony.

In the end, the struggle was not just about words but about the power of memory and identity. Amara and Elijah’s efforts revealed that even in a world where language had been controlled and manipulated, the human spirit’s quest for truth and justice remained resilient. The fight for recognition and the reclamation of history became a testament to the enduring strength of those who refused to be erased.

I was thirty when my mother gave up the ghost and passed into the realm of the ancestors. I was still stumbling through life trying to figure out just exactly where I fit in. You see, I have always been smart. B’s and A’s throughout my whole school career. Won oratorical contests, writing contests, excelled at sports, college credit courses and shoot…even was great in poetry and prose at the art school. Yet all of that shit came too easy to me…I didn’t ever have to “work” to excel. I didn’t study. I may have looked at text books in homeroom before a test yet long nights burning the midnight oil studying was a foreign concept to me. It was great for K-12 yet when I went away to college I had no discipline, lacked insight into my Executive functions and sunk into hedonistic college revelry.

I didn’t make it through college. I got through my sophomore year and through taking courses sporadically hears after probably stacked up enough credits to be a junior. I was fortunate though because I got involved in a great youth program in which I grew and developed in. Starting off as a youth counselor and ended up as the head of recruitment with my own office and stuff in my early twenties. I went on to eventually run my own youth program yet then had to rethink life when the change in political parties with the presidency dried up grant opportunities. It was at this point that I kept gainful employment yet it was nothing that really spoke to me as my life calling. I was a smart dude who really didn’t know what to do with his life.

I really don’t know how long my mother had been sick. I mean she did check ups at the doctor yet I am not sure even when she got her diagnosis of Melanoma. I just know that at some point she became weak…very weak. I was working at Barnes and Noble at the time. A few times a week I would pick her up in the morning an drop her off at the hospital to get blood transfusions. My father would pick her up while at work. One time I dint have to go to work so we both dropped her off. While waiting for the procedure to be done my father came back with me to my apartment that was nearby and showed me how to change my alternator. It was a classic son and father moment. Looking back I saw how it allowed him a moment of peace in the midst of the storm that was going on.

I was the nearest child so if my father needed additional help with my mother I was the one on call. I didn’t know how to deal with that at times. Often there were disagreements between my siblings and myself as to how our mother should be taken care of. I carried huge weights, even after her death, in terms of feeling that I didn’t do enough even though I was there doing stuff. It was only years, months and days after her passing that I realized that each of us were dealing with our mother’s illness in different manners. And it was only after she was deceased that I saw how it was affecting my father.

I walked into the bathroom one morning seeing my father washing my mother in the shower. In that moment every poem, book or conversation that I had ever been exposed to about love went out the window. My father looked up at me. I took it all in and silently left the bathroom before my mother knew I was there. This was it right here, pure love, right in front of my face. I have never forgotten this moment.

The last days of my mother we each took shifts staying with her in the hospital. My brother flew in from Chicago. My aunts came in from various states. Her twin arrived from Ohio. Each of us taking turns at vigil. The last one I recall was late one night when my father and me were on watch. My mother woke up in a fever panic trying to take off her wedding ring not wanting my father to have the weight of being bound to her in death and my father refused to let her take that ring off. She passed in 2001…just shortly after the twin towers fell.

So many know me for my work in writing, editing, health, history, etc. What many don’t know is that it took me years, months and days to even see myself as a writer. I saw myself as a college drop out whose sister and brother both ended up getting their masters. I saw myself as solid with securing food, clothing and shelter yet not too much beyond that. The books that I would eventually write, the workshops that I would eventually facilitate, the talks at colleges an universities…none of that happened while my mother was alive. In fact I was at one of the lowest points of self esteem when she died. And she died at a point where I only saw myself as a failure.

I’ve reached certain milestones and vaulted over challenging hurdles. I’ve done many things that only few could imagine. With all of that though I’ve held on to the notion that I never made my mother proud…like a cancerous habit that I couldn’t shake off. I’ve held on to this shame forever and it’s crippling at times. This is probably one of the few times that I have even admitted it out loud. All of the accolades that I have received plus all of my accomplishments sometimes feel empty. Mom dukes didn’t raise no failure yet at times that is exactly what I feel like in my mother’s dead eyes.

Logically I know that the above ain’t “truth.” I have a hard time removing that from my reality though. I work on it daily. This writing here though is a major step forward for me. When you put things down on paper they take on their own life. I do know this, my mom wouldn’t stand for me to wallow in self pity so that is one of the major things that fuels me to keep getting busy, keep healing, keep serving the people, keep being compassionate. Keep being my mother’s son.

The secret key is to keep nurturing how we want the emerging world to look. What does a decolonized world, where whiteness doesn’t play center stage, look like? One element that is necessary is the unification of Original people across ethnic lines. This has been happening greatly. A byproduct of colonization is that Original people usually get their information about another group of Original people through the white filter. We often never directly speak to each other. This is a clear war tactic in order to keep people separated who may realize their common foe, the colonizer.

If you look at art of Original People, especially music and dance, there is definitely a thread of transforming suffering into celebration. Not from the direction of celebrating suffering yet showing that no matter what the suffering that happiness and joy will be the tools that allows one to make it to the other side. It is important that in all of the work and warfare that needs to be done that we enjoy life right where we are at. I’m going to let you in on a secret…that gets the enemy SO mad. And honestly anything that messes up any part of his life I’m all for it. Even if we don’t live in a perfect world we must model that world to plant in the subconscious of our children and the youth who are part of the crew that will bring it about. Also, like many of the prisoners of war who were incarcerated (or are still incarcerated) in prison in the states from the 60s and 70s who many times are placed in solitary confinement…it is about preserving that small inch of oneself that no one can get to.

Sanskrit, one of the ancient tongues of India, has a term, Lila. Lila is a word that means divine play, the play of creation, destruction and recreation. It touches on the pulse of life and the universe. It is deep freedom and the delight that comes from it. It means also love. Being immersed in Lila is seeing everything with that child’s eye for the first time, being in the moment, disarming anger, simplifying the complex landscape of life. It is literally realizing that anything is possible and taking the initiative to make those things that one desires probable. In the midst of the struggle that we are in we are bringing Lila back to the landscape because it is that one tool that the enemy because it is of divine origin. The enemy is mired in the wickedness of baseness of devilish things and is perishing.

Original People has art that is always functional, no matter where on the planet you go. It is not some thing to be hung up and stared at in museums. That finely wrought cane will be used for walking, the paintings on the walls work to diffuse and moderate emotional highs and low, that beautifully made vase holds water and reminds you of the sacredness of the purpose of water. Even in suffering Original People are art. Even in play Original People are art. Art and beauty are the hallmarks of the Golden Age, the Emergent World, the Age of Miracles. Get your Lila on.

C’BS ALife Allah is the co-author of the ground breaking Science of Self: Man, God and the Mathematical Language of Nature and the co-editor of the seminal Hood Health Handbook: A Guide to Health and Wellness in the Urban Community. He also is a contributing writer to the Hood Health 101 column at the Source blog. He is a community solutionary who concentrates on Hood Health, Science of Self, the Black Presence and youth empowerment. You can find more about him at www.alifeallah.com official webpage.
You can also follow him on twitter at www.twitter.com/alifeallah or on Instagram at www.instagram.com/alifeallah . Currently he is working on a major project creating a mobile HoodHealth community center housed within a school bus. Check out that project at www.OldSkoolie1863.wordpress.com

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