Life often presents us with a wilderness , a desolate space where we confront our deepest fears and insecurities. In these moments, we might feel abandoned, lost in the vastness of our struggles. Yet, as I have come to realize, this wilderness can serve a profound purpose: the elevation of our souls and the destruction of fear.

Fear is an insidious force. It paralyzes us, shackles our potential, and keeps us tethered to a lower frequency, far from the divine purpose that God has set for us. We become afraid, afraid of poverty, divorce, change, judgment, and even death. This fear creates an operating system within us that is utterly destructive. It whispers lies that lead us to choose convenience over destiny, comfort over calling.

I have faced my own wilderness in recent years, a nasty legal battle, sickness, divorce, and a complete upheaval of my environment and financial status. It felt as if I was starting from scratch, a daunting prospect. Yet, in the midst of this chaos, I discovered a small circle of friends who stood by me, offering support and love. Their willingness to help was a reminder that even in our darkest moments, God blesses us with connections that can uplift our spirits.

Throughout this journey, one truth has become clear: when God has a plan for us, no human force can alter it. It is destiny, a battle we must endure to emerge victorious, emotionally and spiritually transformed. Much like the story of Job, I have wrestled with my circumstances, continually rebuilding my foundation and identity, all centered on Christ.

In these trials, I took pen to paper and wrote an open letter to my dear friends Israel, Reed, Chris, Yerim and Tunde hoping to share the lessons I’ve learned.

A Letter To You, My Dear Destiny Helpers…

Life can be a tumultuous journey, often filled with trials that test our strength and resilience. During these challenging times, we may find ourselves surrounded by incredible individuals who wish to offer us companionship or intimacy. Yet, deep within, we often recognize that the timing may not be right; these beautiful connections might not fulfill our needs in that moment.

We yearn for support, longing to lean on someone, but we must remember that true rescue comes not from human strength, but from God’s divine intervention. While these souls may wish to help, they may not possess the capacity to support us in the way we truly need.

God places us in these deserts not to abandon us, but to guide us toward a deeper understanding of ourselves and our reliance on Him. The wonderful people He sends our way can become friends, lovers, brothers or sisters, perhaps even long-term partners, but only when the time is right and divinely ordained.

These relationships can be a source of strength, reminding us that while they can support us, the ultimate rescue comes from God alone. In moments of despair and pressure, let us remember that it’s in these trials that the diamond within us emerges.

So, I embrace the journey, knowing that God is shaping me for something beautiful.

As I reflect on my wilderness experience, I recognize the profound truth that pain has a purpose. Just as diamonds form under pressure and gold is refined by fire, our struggles can lead to transformation. Fear may be paralyzing, but when we confront it head-on, we find the strength to rise above.

Ultimately, I have learned that my wilderness is not a place of abandonment but a sacred space for growth. I invite you reading this piece , to embrace your own journey, trusting that God has a beautiful plan in store for you.

I keep those photographs

because I want to remember her tenderly.

The woman with the shaved head.

The woman whose clothes hung differently

because she had lost so much!… so much more than just weight.

The mother who could see her son looking at her in despair, lost…

and wondered what he was learning about fear, fear of losing his one and only parent.

just by watching her get ready in the morning, trying but shrinking day by day.

I want to put my arms around that woman now.

Back then, I was afraid to put my arms around anyone.

To give you context, from 2021 to 2023 we left America to go live in Africa. The pandemic was rampant and we thought…Why not doing different, something out of the ordinary. So we left, and never looked back. It was incredible.

However, after a camping on the ground in Tanzania,

I came home to a body I could no longer predict.

There was Lyme disease, and there was the ordeal with mites.

I still don’t know exactly what kind.

I remember the constant crawling sensation on my skin, the excruciating biting,

how deep it seemed to go, how badly my joints hurt,

and how hard it was to explain any of it

when there was so little anyone else could see. I was plagued!

I missed the ordinary things. Doing my makeup, Getting dressed, sleeping in a bed, getting my hair done. Sitting close to a friend.

Hugging someone while we were still saying hello.

I was afraid of passing whatever was happening to me

to the people I loved.

And when my sister began suffering in similar ways

I carried the knowledge that I had brought it to her, too.

At night, I found people on Facebook in a support group

who could read half a sentence of mine

and know what I was trying to say.

We were all looking for answers.

Sometimes all we could give each other

was the relief of finishing the sentence.

Some of them are still looking for relief.

I think of them today.

I want there to be more research, more answers,

and a room where someone can tell the whole story

without first having to prove how much it hurts.

In Africa they said, I may not make it, they don’t see anything. They are not capable of healing me.

I came to the Sarasota area looking for a specialist and found one. She knew! A naturopath with so much knowledge of parasites.

At the same time my marriage was ending. He couldn’t find better time to leave. Running away from responsibilities. Freeing himself!

So it was me and God at this point.

When I call it a new beginning now,

I remember how little it felt like one then.

I couldn’t picture the life I would build in Florida.

I was trying to picture myself well enough

to make plans for next week.

And one night, I spoke to God

the way I have always spoken to Him,

with whatever words I had.

God, I’m a mother.

I have a child.

I don’t want to die.

Please let me keep my mind.

Please let me stay and see who Noah becomes.

That was my whole prayer.

I didn’t have a beautiful ending for it.

There are people who wonder why I speak to God so often.

They didn’t hear me speak to Him that night.

They didn’t hear how small my voice got

when I said my son’s name.

What I remember about November 15, 2024,

is what it felt like to believe I had a future again.

I call that day my deliverance.

I felt the angel of death come close, so many times.

But now, I say rest in peace to my old self.

I say it gently.

She had carried me as far as she could.

I wish I could tell her how many ordinary mornings

were still waiting for us.

I used to think of the phoenix for the rising.

Now I think about the part where everything is ash

and the bird has yet to lift its head.

I believe God was with me there, too.

I can see it now in the woman in those photographs.

She couldn’t see what I see.

She just kept getting up. Hoping! Believing!

There is a tenderness I feel now

when someone tells me they are seriously ill.

I think about the things they might be afraid to say aloud.

I think about the child in the next room,

the appointment they keep checking the time for,

the photograph they may never show anyone.

And I remember what it meant

when somebody let me finish my sentence.

Today I thank God for having my health back.

I thank Him that I get to hear my son tell me about his day.

And I pray for the people still awake at night,

still typing into that little box on Facebook,

hoping somebody somewhere will say, I hear you.

When Sam Smith’s song “Pray”comes on,

I think of how many different voices

can ask for mercy.

I think of mine, that night, saying my son’s name.

And I think of the prayer I get to say today.

You can paste this right before “And I think of the prayer I get to say today.”

Going through all of that opened my eyes.

I had to come to terms with how little I could control.

You can have everything today

and wake up tomorrow to a life you barely recognize.

So I try to live in the now.

When my son tells me about his day, I put down what’s in my hands.

I want to be here for the life I asked God to let me stay for.

That experience changed the way I look at everything.

When you receive it as a lesson,

things will never be the same again. Never.

I see beauty now in an ordinary afternoon.

I hear things in people’s voices I used to miss.

And my conversations with God have grown deeper

because I learned I could tell Him everything.

God and I? We’re besties now.

We talk every day, all day.

Sometimes it’s Lord, did You see that?

Sometimes it’s Help me be gentle here.

And sometimes I’m just telling Him how good it feels

to be here for one more ordinary day.

I remember what I promised Him when I was sick.

God, if You heal me, I will speak of Your glory wherever I go.

I try to live by that promise.

Sometimes I minister by telling my story.

Sometimes I minister by listening

long enough for somebody to finish theirs.

Wherever I go, I want the way I love people

to say something about the God who stayed close to me.

Thank You, God.

I am still here. Still Standing, Still breathing…. Still going 🙏🏾

Where she no longer mistakes attention for love,

intensity for connection,

or appearances for truth.

And I believe I have arrived there.

At 48, I am no longer searching for a life that impresses me.

I am searching for a life that feels aligned.

A life where my spirit is not at war with my surroundings.

A life where peace is no longer a luxury, but a way of being.

I no longer crave chaos disguised as passion.

I crave calm.

Depth.

Consistency.

Soft mornings.

Honest conversations.

Intentional love.

Beautiful silence.

I have come to understand that there is nothing glamorous about surviving endlessly.

There is nothing noble about carrying the world while abandoning yourself.

So now, I choose differently.

I choose wellness over exhaustion.

Authenticity over performance.

Emotional maturity over games.

Connection over attention.

Purpose over distraction.

I find myself drawn toward the simple and sacred things:

nourishing food, healing rituals, ancestral wisdom, meaningful conversations, creativity, family, prayer, beauty, stillness.

Not beauty for display.

Beauty for nourishment.

I am becoming a woman who protects her energy carefully.

Careful with who enters her space.

Careful with words.

Careful with love.

Careful with what reaches her spirit.

Because I now understand that everything we consume eventually becomes part of us.

And in love…

I no longer seek fleeting emotions or temporary excitement.

I seek safety.

Depth.

Integrity.

A man whose presence feels steady instead of performative.

A man with emotional discipline.

A man whose character speaks louder than his charm.

Not perfection.

Steadiness.

I think life has humbled me enough to know that external success means very little when the soul is restless.

So now, more than anything, I seek congruence:

for my mind, body, spirit, relationships, and lifestyle to finally move in the same direction.

And perhaps that is what this chapter truly is.

Not a woman trying to start over.

But a woman refining herself into her truest form.

A woman no longer asking,

“What can I get from life?”

But instead:

“How can I live fully, truthfully, and beautifully?”

This woman is Me! Authentically.

It is not about dominance, it’s about complementary strengths.

In nature, the lioness is not weak, passive, or dependent.

lionesses are the primary hunters of the pride. They are maternal, adventurous, strategic, controlled, cooperative, patient, and incredibly capable. They provide much of the food, protect the cubs, defend territory, and often form the stable core of the pride.

The male lion’s role is different. He helps defend the pride from rival males and external threats. His presence can provide protection, order, structure and stability.

What fascinates me is that the lion does not need the lioness to be weak in order to be a lion.

The lioness hunts.

The lion roars.

The lioness provides.

The lion protects.

Neither role diminishes the other.

A secure lion does not feel threatened by a capable lioness because her strength is not an attack on his identity.

In human relationships, this is often where things become difficult.

Some men, may feel challenged by a strong woman because he believes his value comes from being more powerful than she is.

A secure man understands that his value comes from who he is, not from keeping her small.

Likewise, a secure woman does not need to pretend to be lost and helpless to make a man feel masculine.

She can be intelligent, successful, nurturing, decisive, ambitious, and still deeply feminine.

The question of “submission” is often misunderstood.

Healthy submission is not the surrender of intelligence, strength, or individuality.

It is TRUST.

It is choosing COOPERATION over competition.

It is being able to say, “I respect you enough to surrender and to let us move in the same direction.”

A lioness can walk beside a lion without trying to become the lion.

And a lion can admire a lioness without trying to forcefully dominate her, but instead gently tame her.

The strongest partnerships are rarely built on one person shrinking so the other can feel large.

They are built on mutual respect.

The lion knows the lioness is powerful.

The lioness knows the lion is powerful.

Neither is threatened by the other’s gifts.

A lion is not intimidated by a lioness who knows how to hunt.

He does not ask her to become smaller so he can feel bigger.

He admires her strength because he recognizes it.

And the lioness, secure in her own power, has no desire to compete with the lion.

She is too busy building, nurturing, protecting, and creating life.

They do not stand face to face in opposition.

They stand shoulder to shoulder, looking toward the same horizon.

Strength recognizes strength. Insecurity competes with it.

I believe I finally found one…

À bon entendeur salut! 🌍🇫🇷🇺🇸🇵🇹🇨🇻

And today I found myself thinking about something my family have said to me as a young adult.

“Olivia, he is not on your level.”

I’ve always wondered what they meant by that. Are we talking about etiquette? Culture? Sophistication? Knowledge? Money? Status? Intelligence? Refinement? The way a man carries himself? And whose idea of a level are we using? But somehow I somewhat understand.

It is all in the nuances of my thought process…

Then I thought about Naïka’s song Layers. My sisters and I have always described ourselves as onions. You peel back one layer and there’s another underneath. And just when you think you know yourself, life shows you that you have a lot in storage.

It is like having a power bank!

Life puts you in a room, in a country, or in a relationship that reveals a part of you you’ve never fully met.

If I had to choose one word for myself, it would be multidimensional. I carry the imprint of the places I’ve lived, the people I’ve met, the food I’ve eaten at other people’s tables, the emotions, the languages I’ve heard love and anger spoken in, and the different ways I’ve seen people reach for God. Which part of all that would you use to define me?

Think of an American who spends years living in Japan. When he comes home, he might behave differently or notice things about America that used to be invisible to him.

I know that feeling in my own way. I spent so much time in studios when I worked in music that I learned to hear and appreciate sounds I might once have passed over. I grew up in a family deeply rooted in politics, so when I hear people talk about politics, there are things I smile about or do not believe because of what I saw or heard growing up.

I am what they call a conspiracy theorist, my eyes are too opened at this point and to me, the rabbit hole keeps going deeper.

I’ve been with men who were brilliant in finance, medical or law, men I could listen to and learn from.

And still, sometimes something between us felt flat.

I wonder how much of it was that some of my own dimensions had nowhere to go in the relationship.

I picture it as a staircase. From the top, I can look out a window and see several roads at once. All those years of moving between places and cultures gave me that particular view.

What gets lonely is feeling like I’m always the one coming down to meet him. After a while, I start leaving parts of the story upstairs because it takes too much explaining. I hit a wall! That’s where the gift can feel like a curse. My world has gotten bigger, and sometimes I don’t know how to share all of it with the person closest to me.

Is it intellectual capacity? Curiosity? I can’t help thinking about the well-known philosophers constantly pushing the envelope to expand.

I compare my observations to a woman who prays every day and is married to a man who doesn’t believe in God. He may love her deeply. Still, there are mornings when something happens in prayer that she longs to talk about with him, and she knows they’ll experience that conversation very differently. They will not meet on the same height.

My beloved partner tells me, “It can be eighty percent, and you can be happy with it.” He reminds me to look at the glass half full. I hear him. And I think part of knowing myself is being honest about what’s in the twenty percent.

I guess some differences give us room to bring each other something new. Others can leave us lonely even when we’re loved.

Maybe that’s part of why finding a partner has sometimes felt complicated, and why I’d love to sit down with Naïka one day and talk about Layers. I’d ask her, “With all these places and people living inside you, how do you answer when someone asks who you are? Do you even want to fit inside an answer? And when you imagine the man you could build a life with, what would make you feel that he is the one……?”

I think I’d ask her that last question and sit quietly for a while. I’m still answering it myself.

Can a one-dimensional being be with a multidimensional one?

I woke up this morning pondering something that has become increasingly evident to me: how difficult it can be to have meaningful conversations with people whose understanding of the world has never been challenged beyond the boundaries of what they know.

And I am not speaking about academic intelligence. Intelligence, to me, is so much more than the books we have read, the degrees we have earned, or the information we have accumulated.

There is another form of intelligence that comes from exposure.

From crossing continents, learning languages, tasting unfamiliar cuisines, studying religions, understanding psychology, discovering philosophies, reading history, and sitting among people whose cultures, beliefs, and experiences are entirely different from our own.

Every encounter adds a layer of understanding. Every unfamiliar perspective introduces a nuance. Every new experience reminds us that the world is far too complex to be understood through a single lens.

In French, we have a beautiful expression: prendre de la hauteur. Literally, to gain altitude. Figuratively, to rise above a situation and see it from a broader perspective.

I often call it having a bird’s-eye view.

And perhaps that is what I find increasingly missing in so many conversations today: intellectual altitude.

The ability to step outside our own convictions long enough to consider another reality. To understand context before forming conclusions. To recognize that history, culture, psychology, religion, geography, and personal experiences are often intertwined in ways we cannot immediately see.

This is particularly evident in political conversations, where complex issues are too often reduced to one argument, one grievance, one belief, or one convenient answer. Yet the world rarely operates in such simplicity.

The more we learn, the more we should realize how much remains unknown.

A philosopher from ancient Greece, a thinker from Africa, a spiritual teacher from Asia, or a stranger sharing a meal across the world may all offer fragments of wisdom that, when brought together, deepen our understanding of humanity.

And something beautiful happens when we acquire this kind of perspective.

We become slower to judge and quicker to reflect.

We become less interested in immediately proving ourselves right and more interested in understanding what might be missing from our reasoning.

We learn to pause before speaking, not because we have nothing to say, but because we recognize the responsibility that comes with having something to say.

Of course, traveling does not automatically make someone wise, just as remaining in one place does not prevent someone from becoming profoundly knowledgeable. Curiosity, humility, and a willingness to learn can take the mind to places the body may never visit.

But without exposure, whether through people, books, experiences, or genuine intellectual curiosity, our understanding can become confined to the limits of our own familiar world.

And perhaps the greatest danger is not ignorance itself, but ignorance that mistakes itself for certainty.

I have come to believe that true intelligence is not simply the capacity to accumulate knowledge. It is the ability to connect it, question it, contextualize it, and recognize its limitations.

It is adaptability. It is discernment. It is nuance. It is humility.

It is knowing that sometimes wisdom requires us to climb a little higher before deciding what we are looking at.

Because from the ground, we see what is directly in front of us.

But from a greater altitude, we begin to understand how everything is connected.

And perhaps that is why so many people make noise, while so few truly contribute to understanding.

Knowledge gives us something to say. Wisdom teaches us when to speak. And intellectual altitude reminds us how much more there is to see.

Just a morning reflection on the difference between knowing the world and learning to understand it.

There are stories that make you sad. There are stories that make you angry. And then there are stories that reach so deeply into your soul that you feel as though you are mourning someone you have known your entire life.

The death of 15-year-old Javits Frimpong, a young Ghanaian boy shot and killed in the Bronx on October 29, 2026, is one of those stories for me.

Perhaps because I am African. Perhaps because I am an immigrant. Perhaps because I am the mother of a teenage son myself. Or perhaps because, somewhere in this tragedy, I recognize a journey that so many of us have made. A journey wrapped in prayers, sacrifice, innocence, and the beautiful illusion of a better tomorrow.

This child came from Ghana.

Let that sink in.

He came from Africa, from a continent that the world too often describes through the language of poverty, hardship, and struggle, forgetting that Africa is also a continent of extraordinary beauty, dignity, family, community, faith, and dreams.

And when a child leaves Africa for America, it is rarely just a child boarding an airplane.

An entire village travels with him, even when only one name is written on the ticket.

I know something about that journey.

In many of our African communities, when someone is preparing to leave for Europe or America, the departure becomes an event.

Neighbors come to say goodbye. Aunties offer advice. Grandparents place their hands upon your head. Mothers pray. Fathers speak blessings. Someone slips a little money into your pocket, even when they have so little themselves.

There are embraces that last longer than usual. Tears hidden behind smiles. And those beautiful, familiar words that follow you everywhere:

May God protect you. May doors open for you. May you become somebody. May you never forget where you come from.

Because you are not simply leaving.

You are being entrusted with something.

You are crossing an ocean carrying the expectations of people who may never have the opportunity to cross it themselves.

And this, I believe, is something that many children of immigrants understand in a way that is difficult to explain to those who have never experienced it.

We are often born into responsibility before we are old enough to understand its weight.

We leave our countries hoping for liberation, but we discover that liberation comes with an invisible suitcase filled with obligations.

We must succeed. We must adapt. We must work. We must endure. We must send something home.

We cannot afford to crumble because there are people on the other side of the ocean waiting for us to make it.

Sometimes, we are not allowed the luxury of failure because too many people have invested their hopes in our success.

I often describe us as the mules of immigration.

And I do not use that word to diminish our dignity. Quite the contrary.

I use it because I know how much weight we carry.

We work in America. We pay rent in America. We pay taxes in America. We raise families and try to survive in America.

Yet our responsibilities do not end at the American border.

There is a mother back home who needs medicine. A younger sibling who needs school fees. A relative who needs help paying rent. A funeral contribution. A roof that needs repairing. A family emergency that somehow becomes our responsibility because we are the ones who made it abroad.

And so we work.

Sometimes two jobs. Sometimes three.

We are exhausted, but we keep going.

We become providers for two worlds while barely finding enough time to live in one.

And I think about Javits’s father.

A man who had gone ahead, as so many African parents do, trying to establish a foundation before bringing his child to join him.

I imagine the anticipation of finally having his son beside him.

Perhaps the pride of showing him New York. Perhaps the joy of introducing him to a different world. Perhaps the hope of watching him attend an American school, graduate, go to university, and one day become the doctor he dreamed of becoming.

What father would not dream of such a future?

And what child would not be excited?

I imagine young Javits arriving in America, looking around with those curious eyes that belong to a child discovering a new world.

Perhaps he imagined the skyscrapers, the bright lights, the yellow taxis, the stores, the basketball courts, the American sneakers, the jackets, the music, and the neighborhoods he had only seen in films.

Perhaps he couldn’t wait to put on his first American school outfit.

Perhaps he rehearsed how he would introduce himself to his classmates.

Perhaps he imagined making friends, fitting in, becoming part of this extraordinary place called America.

I do not know what he wore, how he spoke, or what he thought when he first arrived. But I know what it is to be an African child discovering a foreign country, and I know how much hope can fit inside a young heart.

When Eddie Murphy’s Comedy Becomes a Painful Reality

And strangely enough, this tragedy brought me back to one of my favorite films, Eddie Murphy’s Coming to America.

Oh, how I love that movie!

There is a scene that makes me laugh every single time, even after all these years.

Here comes Prince Akeem, fresh from Africa, arriving in Queens with the enthusiasm of a man who has just discovered paradise.

He is smiling from ear to ear, looking around at everything with wonder, practically ready to embrace every stranger on the sidewalk.

He steps outside and enthusiastically greets his new neighborhood, wishing everyone a beautiful morning.

And what does New York give him in return?

A gloriously rude, profanity-filled welcome!

Welcome to America, Your Highness!

I laugh because, as an African immigrant myself, I recognize that innocence. That almost childlike excitement.

We arrive ready to love everybody, greet everybody, thank everybody, and sometimes even smile at people who are looking at us as though we have completely lost our minds!

Prince Akeem sees possibility. His neighbors see another ordinary day in a rough neighborhood.

And that’s the genius of Eddie Murphy.

He makes us laugh at something that, beneath the comedy, is profoundly revealing.

Because sometimes we Africans arrive in America with so much sunshine in our hearts that we don’t immediately recognize the storm around us.

We think we have landed in the country of our dreams, forgetting that even a dream can have neighborhoods where nightmares live.

And you have to admit, there is something wonderfully innocent about that African optimism.

We can arrive in a neighborhood where the walls are covered in graffiti, sirens are singing louder than the birds, and somebody is arguing on the sidewalk at eight in the morning, and still convince ourselves that everything is marvelous because, after all, we are in America!

We are ready to greet the entire neighborhood, while the neighborhood is wondering why this overly cheerful stranger is smiling at everybody.

But behind the laughter is a much deeper truth.

We sometimes mistake opportunity for safety.

We mistake a wealthy country for a healthy society.

We mistake the promise of an American education for the guarantee of a protected childhood.

And those are not the same things.

Suddenly, as I think about young Javits, that comedy feels painfully different.

Because unlike Prince Akeem, this child was not playing a character in a Hollywood movie.

He was living a real story.

And there was no director to yell, “Cut!” before tragedy struck.

A Child Who Simply Wanted to Go to School

America, with all its wealth, brilliance, universities, opportunities, and extraordinary achievements, also has neighborhoods where children are growing up surrounded by violence, instability, gangs, weapons, and hopelessness.

Communities where too many young people have lost faith in tomorrow.

Communities where violence has become so familiar that cruelty sometimes passes for strength.

And in the middle of all this, imagine a newly arrived African child who simply wants to go to school.

Perhaps he has an accent. Perhaps he dresses differently. Perhaps he does not understand the jokes or the social codes. Perhaps his food, his mannerisms, or even his quietness make him stand out.

For some children, being different becomes an invitation to curiosity and friendship.

For others, tragically, it becomes an invitation to humiliation.

And this is where my heart breaks.

Because Javits’s father has spoken publicly about the bullying his son reportedly endured at school.

He described a quiet boy. A child who attended school. A son who was trying to build a life in this new country.

His father said that two students had recently been suspended following bullying complaints.

Whether those incidents were connected to the shooting remains a matter for investigators to establish.

But on the morning of October 29, 2026, Javits was shot while walking to school.

Fifteen years old.

Not walking into a battlefield.

Not crossing a dangerous border.

Not going to war.

Walking to school.

The very place his father had brought him to America to attend.

The very institution that was supposed to help him become the man he dreamed of becoming.

And now, instead of preparing for his graduation, his family must prepare for his funeral.

Instead of imagining him wearing a doctor’s white coat, they must confront the unbearable reality of his death.

Instead of his mother one day traveling across the ocean to celebrate her son’s accomplishments, she is hoping to cross that same ocean to say goodbye.

How does a mother survive such a reversal of destiny?

How do you send your son toward what you believe will be a brighter future, only to discover that the country of opportunity has become the place where his life ends?

Somewhere in Ghana, a Mother Is Crying

I think about his mother in Ghana.

I think about the last time she embraced him.

Did she hold him longer than usual? Did she remind him to listen to his father? Did she tell him to study hard, be respectful, and make her proud?

Did she stand there watching him leave, already counting the days until she would see him again?

I imagine her praying over him, asking God to protect him from every danger she could imagine.

But how could she possibly have imagined this?

A child who survived the journey across an ocean, only to lose his life on an ordinary walk to school.

And that is what makes this so unbearable to me.

Because I am a mother.

I have a son.

And when I look at this tragedy, I cannot separate my outrage from the fear that lives quietly in every mother’s heart.

We raise our children believing that if we love them enough, guide them enough, pray for them enough, and teach them enough, somehow the world will be gentle with them.

But the world does not always honor the love we pour into our children.

Sometimes, it takes what is most precious from us without warning.

And this is where my grief becomes a cry to my African brothers and sisters.

Africa, We Must Stop Romanticizing the American Dream

We need to stop selling the American dream without telling the whole American story.

I say this with love, not bitterness.

I am not denying the opportunities this country has given millions of immigrants. I know that America has opened doors for families who could not have imagined such possibilities elsewhere.

But we must stop pretending that crossing the Atlantic automatically means crossing into a better life.

It does not.

A passport does not guarantee protection.

A public school does not automatically guarantee a good education.

An American address does not guarantee a safe neighborhood.

And living in one of the wealthiest countries in the world does not mean that your children will grow up surrounded by wealth, stability, or opportunity.

For some immigrant families, the reality is far harsher than the dream.

They arrive and discover that housing is expensive, healthcare can be financially devastating, childcare is difficult to afford, and even working several jobs may not be enough to live in a neighborhood where they feel safe.

They discover that poverty in America may look different from poverty in Africa, but it carries its own cruelty.

And sometimes, in their desperation to give their children a better future, parents unknowingly bring them into environments where survival becomes more urgent than education.

That is the painful contradiction I want us to discuss.

What good is bringing a child to America for an education if that child must first learn how to survive the journey to the classroom?

To every African parent preparing to bring a child abroad, I beg you: do your research.

Know the neighborhood. Visit the school. Ask about bullying, violence, supervision, and safety. Speak to other parents. Understand the environment your child will enter.

And if you are struggling financially, please do not allow the pressure to prove that you have succeeded abroad to push you into decisions that may place your children in danger.

There is no shame in taking more time to prepare.

There is no shame in choosing a different city, a different school, or even a different country.

And there is certainly no shame in recognizing that a child can receive a meaningful education and build an extraordinary future outside America.

I know that many parents have very little choice. Affordable housing is limited, safe neighborhoods are not available to everyone, and many families are doing the very best they can with what they have.

That is precisely why I am not blaming these parents.

I am questioning a society that makes safety feel like a privilege instead of a basic right.

I am questioning a system where a father can work tirelessly to provide for his family and still be unable to guarantee that his son will return home from school.

And I am questioning an educational environment where a child’s repeated complaints about bullying can become part of a family’s story of unimaginable loss.

For me, the American dream was never supposed to mean merely surviving in America.

It was supposed to mean having the freedom to become something greater.

And if our children must sacrifice their peace, their innocence, and sometimes their lives just to chase that possibility, then we need to ask ourselves whether we have misunderstood the dream entirely.

We Must Also Confront the Violence Within Our Communities

We must have another uncomfortable conversation.

We speak often, and rightly so, about racism, discrimination, and violence inflicted upon Black communities from outside.

But we must also confront the violence that takes place within our own communities.

Not to divide ourselves.

Not to condemn Black people, Latino people, or any other community.

And certainly not to suggest that poverty makes someone morally inferior. Some of the most honorable, generous, hardworking people I have ever known have lived with very little.

Poverty is not a character defect. And skin color is not a measure of someone’s humanity.

But violence is violence, regardless of who commits it.

Cruelty is cruelty, regardless of the face that wears it.

We cannot demand justice from the world while remaining silent about the harm happening among us.

We cannot celebrate our children’s potential while allowing other children to grow up believing that carrying a weapon makes them powerful, that humiliation makes them important, or that taking a life makes them respected.

What happened to the value of human life?

What happened to teaching our sons that strength is not intimidation?

What happened to raising children who understand that another person’s accent, nationality, clothing, or quiet personality is not an invitation to ridicule?

When did being different become something to punish?

And when did a school disagreement become something that could potentially end in a funeral?

The police must establish exactly what happened to Javits and who is responsible. His family’s concerns about bullying deserve serious investigation, but the circumstances of his murder must not be reduced to assumptions.

Justice requires truth.

And truth requires us to ask difficult questions without turning an entire race, neighborhood, or generation into the enemy.

Because there are wonderful children growing up in the Bronx. Wonderful families. Teachers, neighbors, and community members who dedicate themselves to creating something better.

Their lives matter too.

They deserve neighborhoods where children can walk safely, schools where learning is protected, and a future that is not dictated by the street on which they were born.

And that is my deeper cry.

A child should not have to be born into wealth to deserve peace.

A child should not have to move to a different country to deserve opportunity.

And a child should never have to lose his life for adults to begin paying attention.

Perhaps It Is Time to Dream of Africa Again

Javits Frimpong was only fifteen.

He had crossed an ocean.

He had left his mother behind.

He had joined his father.

He had dreams.

He wanted to become a doctor.

And perhaps that is what hurts me most.

A child who dreamed of one day helping to save lives has lost his own before he was old enough to begin.

There is something profoundly cruel about that.

Somewhere in Ghana, a mother is mourning a son she trusted the future to protect.

Somewhere in the Bronx, a father must live with a silence no parent should ever have to know.

And across the African diaspora, many of us are grieving because we recognize the story.

We recognize the sacrifice.

We recognize the hope.

We recognize the invisible burden placed upon immigrant children.

And we recognize that this could have been our son, our nephew, our brother, or the child of someone we love.

So today, I do not want to speak only about the American dream.

I want to speak about the African dream.

The dream that one day our children will not have to cross oceans to find dignity, safety, education, and opportunity.

The dream that Africa will continue building societies where its brilliant young minds can thrive without feeling that their future belongs somewhere else.

The dream that leaving home will become a beautiful choice rather than a desperate necessity.

The dream that our sons and daughters can travel the world not because they are escaping limitations, but because they are free to explore possibilities.

And I want to speak about the responsibility of every society, including America, to protect the children who live within its borders.

Because a child does not become less worthy of protection because he is foreign.

His accent does not diminish his humanity.

His immigration status does not diminish his innocence.

His father’s income does not diminish his future.

And his African origin does not make his death any less of an American tragedy.

Farewells son…

Dear Javits,

I did not know you.

I never heard your laughter. I never saw you walk into a classroom. I never witnessed the dreams you shared with your father or the conversations you had with your mother.

But today, I mourn you.

I mourn the boy you were and the man you will never have the opportunity to become.

I mourn the doctor who might have helped heal the sick.

I mourn the family you might have built.

I mourn the beautiful stories you might have brought back to Ghana.

I mourn all the unwritten chapters of your life.

And I pray that your death will not become just another headline, another photograph, another moment of collective outrage that disappears when the next tragedy arrives.

May your name awaken conversations that we have avoided for far too long.

May your story remind immigrant parents that the future we promise our children must include their safety.

May it remind schools that bullying is never something to dismiss.

May it remind communities that protecting children is everybody’s responsibility.

And may it remind us that no dream, however beautiful, is worth more than the life of the child carrying it.

You crossed an ocean carrying hope. You deserved to grow old carrying memories.

To your father, I pray for strength beyond human understanding.

To your mother, I send the embrace of another African mother who cannot begin to imagine the depth of your pain.

And to every parent reading this, especially those of us raising sons, I ask that we never become so accustomed to these tragedies that we forget to be outraged.

Because fifteen is an age for dreams, not death.

For textbooks, not tombstones.

For graduation gowns, not funeral clothes.

For a mother’s proud tears, not her inconsolable grief.

Rest peacefully, young Javits Frimpong.

May the God who watched you cross the ocean now hold you in eternal peace.

And may justice find its way to your name.

You came to America to become somebody.

But you were already somebody.

You were a son. You were a dream. You were a life.

And that should have been enough for the world to protect you.

“In loving memory of Javits Frimpong, 15 years old, killed October 29, 2026.”

From the heart of an African mother, an immigrant, a daughter, a sister and a woman who believes that every child deserves to come home.

🙏🏾😭

Credits: Photo taken from Fox5 New York.

The lesson was simple, but it touched something deep in me: I am not my circumstances. I can have dreams that feel so clear inside me while my present life looks very different. I can know that there is more I want to build, experience, and become without knowing exactly how I will get there. That distance between what I carry within me and what I see around me does not mean that my dreams are foolish. It means I am still on the way.

This is where I want to keep my eyes on God. When I look only at my circumstances, it becomes easy to feel discouraged or to believe that what is happening now is all that will ever happen. But I want to remember that I am living through a season. A season can be difficult, long, and uncomfortable, but it is still a season. It is a moment in my life, even when it feels as though it has taken up so much of it.

My responsibility is to keep moving through it with as much obedience and as good an attitude as I can. I will not always do that perfectly. I will have questions, tired days, and moments when I feel frustrated. Still, I want to keep choosing to trust God, to do what I believe He is asking of me, and to take care of what is in front of me. I want to remain faithful while I am waiting, even before I can see what that faithfulness is leading to.

Life has highs and lows. Sometimes I move forward and feel hopeful, and then something happens that makes everything feel uncertain again. I am learning not to turn every low into a conclusion about my life. A disappointment does not tell the whole story of who I am. A delay does not erase my ability. A difficult chapter does not get to decide how the rest of the book will read.

What I am working toward is a steadier pace. I imagine reaching a place where I am no longer constantly being lifted up and brought down by everything happening around me. Perhaps life will still bring its changes, but I will have grown more grounded in who I am and in my relationship with God. I want the kind of stability that allows me to continue with purpose, without having to rebuild my confidence every time circumstances change.

Then the artist said something that I loved. As I remember it, he said that he had always known he would make it, and make it big. He simply had not known how. He spoke about having a winning DNA. That expression stayed with me because it captured a feeling I understand: carrying a conviction inside yourself before there is anything outside you that can explain it.

For me, having a winning DNA means that I still have the desire to rise, to create, and to pursue what matters to me. It means I can go through disappointment and still find myself dreaming. I can be tired and still believe there is something ahead worth preparing for. I do not need to know every step today to take the next one with faith.

I want to remember this when I am tempted to judge my whole life by my present situation. I can acknowledge where I am without forgetting who I am. I can be grateful for what I have while still believing in what I hope to build. I can keep my eyes on God and allow this season to be part of my story without letting it become my identity.

I do not know exactly how everything will unfold. But I want to keep showing up with faith, obedience, and the best attitude I can bring. There are dreams in me that I still want to honor. There is a future I still want to walk toward. And somewhere deep inside, I recognize what he meant: I have a winning DNA.

began to sound like prophecy. But I tried to REFUSE with all my heart and strength. Truly , I was doubting…

So many closed doors

that I wondered whether anything beautiful

would ever open for me again.

That is how hope grows quiet.

How joy slips away.

How adversity begins to change

the heart, Christ speaks loudly about!!!!

But on my knees,

fasting, praying,

crying where no one could see,

I felt God whisper:

I am right here. Resist!

Let Me reach the places

you have hidden beneath your strength.

Surrender was hard.

I had learned to survive

by holding everything tightly and keep myself from disappointment.

Then one day, someone held up a mirror,

and I met little Olivia again.

Behind the so called confidence,

a frightened young girl

still wondering whether she was enough.

I thought perhaps he was the one, wondering 🤔 for months…

But our meeting became part of my healing. He was just a catalyst,

and I began to understand

the armor I had mistaken for myself. I went in … dived into my soul, my wounds, my shame and guilt.

I brought light into my shadow.

I learned to hold that little girl

with tenderness,

while learning that she

no longer had to lead every conversation

or defend me from every possibility.

And while I was still becoming,

still healing,

still learning to share my joy

and be my sisters’ keeper,

His message arrived on my dating app.

Among so many faces,

something made me pause at his. He spoke to me with such beautiful words. My spirit felt something… just explainable 🙏🏾

Now I watch him love

in the ordinary hours:

the care he give his children,

the way he shows up for his father, the love he has for his deceased mother. 🪦

the support and respect he offers

even where a marriage has ended.

I see it in his willingness

to listen, to compromise,

to make room for someone besides himself.

Mon chéri LLH…

There is something of Christ’s servant heart

in that quiet generosity.

You are human.

I am human.

And still, the way you love me

has been medicine

to places I thought would always ache.

I do not know where our story leads.

I am receiving it one day at a time,

with open eyes

and a grateful heart.

But today, I thank God for you.

And I thank Him

that somewhere between the tears

and the courage to try again,

I kept enough hope

to answer.