Mukuya

Of the Zezuru Tribe

[deryliya]

[sensitivityandbrutality]

Holy mother fucking shit

[reluctant-god01]

Young Sun God

[kemetic-dreams]

There is No Devil in Indigenous Afrikan Spirituality ( Without The Devil, There Is No Christianity)

Without the devil, there is no Judaism, Christianity or Islam. Neither sin nor the devil is native African concepts. ‘Devil’ as expounded by the alien unAfrican, anti-African and non-African Judeo-Christian &Islamic religions, does not exist in traditional African spirituality. We don’t condemn, much less demonize anyone who believes in the “the Devil” or even “the Devil” himself. One is free to believe in anything one wishes. The only case we make is, It’s NOT AFRICAN.

“African Religion doesn’t know a cosmic principle of evil like the devil in the Christian and Muslim faith.”Gregor Schmidt, MCCJ Contemporary Beliefs about Witches and Witchcraft in Kenya, p.3

“Within the African worldview, there is no concept of a devil that is in constant battle with God. Only through colonization and enslavement have Africans adopted such a notion, and in some instances, they have infused it into their own indigenous belief systems.” The African Concept of God,p. 6

Exonyms are what help fuel ignorance. Foreign people implanting foreign ideas on native peoples culture.

http://petitions.moveon.org/sign/banning-exonyms

[reluctant-god01]

Hungwe, The Great Zimbabwe Bird

[likeafieldmouse-deactivated2015]

[reluctant-god01]

Take it back

[poetryunpoetically]

a writer’s curse

At this moment, there is nothing more frightening than a blank page. Artists are supposed to create and yet I have nothing to say. Can I even refer to myself as an artist? Did you know Hitler was a painter? Even this man had an urge to create and we all know what happened when colors and brush stroke failed him. It could be argued that starting World War 2 was easier than confronting a blank canvas.

And here I am staring at a blank page. I once found solace in letter and word yet now my notebook feels like a home from some lost childhood where you learned all the bad things about life and quickly forgot them. I could write metaphors so powerful you could call them metafives. I could weave passages, deadly like a spider’s web; passionate like honeymoon nights…once. Only now I’m so easily lost around corners and bends and everything that makes letters distinct characters. Maybe I’ve lost all my corners and bends and am not distinct myself anymore, just this idea-less mass flowing through time, hoping someone can do something, anything with me. I’m like a book with crisp, empty, white pages—no story to tell and would even be happy with dirty fingerprints, anything to fill my sheets. To be tainted must be better than being empty; someone dirty me, please. Writing isn’t like riding a bike, more like riding a woman— you can so easily forget and make a fool of yourself in seconds. I become frustrated like a retired athlete looking at pictures of his glory days as I browse older pieces of writing, memoirs of a time when I was better me. I recycle it all and throw it to others like it’s fresh so I can get a few pennies of pride. But really, the only thing that would make me happy is to have some creation to call new and really mean it. A pen in hand but I am not writing, only reminiscing about things already written. I don’t want to live for yesterday. I don’t want to start a war.

[poetryunpoetically]

This was the first thing i posted to this tumblr. I’m reposting it because i feel it more than ever during this quarantine. I just want to sit in my room and veg out in front of netflix, maybe eat once a day, and sleep. And then sleep.I just don’t know what to do with myself. I’m finding it incredibly difficult to focus on anything other than my desire to go back to bed until this is all over. 

[reluctant-god01]

Nice touch

[reluctant-god01]

I smoke too much blunts I think I'm going insane...

[whitepeopletwitter]

[reluctant-god01]

This is deep.

[disc80s]

womanhood: an anthology