We All Come From Africa: Why Racism Is a Lie That Never Made Sense

The Root

We All Come From Africa

No matter how much it’s resisted, denied, rewritten, or erased—
every single human being alive today traces their origins to Africa.

This isn’t ideology.
It’s not metaphor.
It’s not political.
It’s biological.
It’s archaeological.
It’s geological.
And for those who feel it—it’s spiritual.

Long before empire, before race, before even the concept of “white” or “black,”
there were people—dark-skinned, radiant, earth-bound—
walking, birthing, foraging, remembering.

And from them—
came everyone.

From the Khoisan of southern Africa to the ancient Maghrebi of the northwest,
from the early foragers of the Rift Valley to the Neolithic cave-settlers of Morocco—
this is where the human story begins.

And it’s not a distant, abstract origin.
It’s active memory.
It’s in your bones, your breath, your blood—
whether your skin remembers it or not.

Even if you carry only a fraction of that ancient signal—
0.2%, 1%, 12%—
it’s not about the number.
It’s about what’s been buried beneath silence.

The Fracture

How Origin Was Turned Into Fear

If we all come from Africa,
then racism isn’t just cruel.
It’s a lie rooted in forgetting.

Because something had to happen for the world to begin fearing its own origin.
And that something was a fracture—not just in land, but in memory.

As empires rose—driven by conquest, extraction, and control—
they needed a system to justify dehumanizing the people closest to the Earth.
The people whose skin still carried the sun.
The people whose bodies still pulsed with field rhythm.
The people whose bones remembered how to survive without owning.

That’s when race was invented.
Not as science.
But as strategy.

To divide.
To rank.
To erase.

Dark skin went from being a symbol of life to a symbol of danger.
The people with the deepest ancestral memory were called primitive.
And the people who had wandered furthest from the root
called themselves “civilized.”

It was never about color.
It was about control.
And control always begins by severing people from their source.

The ones who remembered how to live cyclically, relationally, with the land—
they became feared.
Silenced.
Exoticized.
And punished.

The Body Knows

Even When the Mind Forgets

You can erase names.
You can distort histories.
You can rewrite textbooks.
But the body doesn’t forget.

The body remembers rhythm.
It remembers land.
It remembers grief.
It remembers the hum of a lineage buried but not broken.

When I found out I carried 0.2% of Northwest African Early Neolithic DNA,
something lit up in me that no chart could explain.
It wasn’t just science.
It was recognition.

It was a knowing that these were people who lived in caves,
who grew barley, shaped clay, buried their dead with ceremony,
and whose skin was kissed by the same sun that shaped the human story.

It was the realization that even a trace of that ancestry
was enough to shift something in me.
To anchor.
To open.
To remember.

We often think memory lives in the mind.
But the deepest memory—field memory—lives in sensation.

That tightening in the chest when we see injustice.
That breath that deepens when we see brown skin called beautiful.
That quiet ache when someone says: “Africa doesn’t matter.”

These are not opinions.
They are the body remembering the root.

Racism as a Lie

Nothing About It Makes Sense

Racism is not logic.
It’s not rooted in truth, science, or reality.
It is a collective trauma response—
passed down through systems, silence, and stories that were never true to begin with.

It’s a lie that says:
origin is threat.
darkness is danger.
difference is deficiency.

But none of that makes sense.

We all come from Africa.
So how can dark skin be “less than”
when it is the very skin that birthed the species?

How can Blackness be other
when it is the ground from which all humanity rose?

How can proximity to Source
become the reason for erasure?

It makes no sense
unless you see racism not as ideology,
but as field-level amnesia—
a way of coping with the guilt of forgetting.

When people are severed from their own origins,
they need a new story to justify the fracture.
So they invent superiority.
They invent purity.
They invent whiteness.
And they build it on top of silence.

But it never holds.
Because truth doesn’t need to dominate.
It just needs to be remembered.

Closing Prayer

To the Ancestors, and to the Ones Still Here

To the ones who walked barefoot through grain fields in the Maghreb,
who shaped clay, fed fire,
who birthed children in caves with moonlight as their witness—
I remember you.

To the ones whose skin was dark as the soil they came from,
whose rhythm was older than language,
whose lineage was silence and song—
I see you.

Even if I carry only a trace of your DNA,
I carry your frequency.
Your stillness.
Your grief.
Your coherence.

And I carry this truth forward:

Racism is a lie.
The Earth does not recognize it.
Blood does not believe it.
And the body remembers what systems forget.

We all come from you.
And the deeper I breathe, the more I feel it.

I will not let your memory be twisted into shame.
I will not let your beauty be erased.
I will not let the world forget where it came from.

You are not gone.
You are in me.

And I will speak you into every silence
until the field is whole again.