Greetings and welcome to my Tumblr. I love Good Sex, Adore Black Woman and Basketball. I love studying Ourstery (BLACK 'History' from our point of view). I also study Amerikkka's Failed Economic System; Yes, the toxic, evil economic doctrine of (Predatory) Capitalism. I'm unapologetically Black and Love, Adore and Worship Black Women. I do not own a majority of the photos of the women displayed. If you find a pic that belongs to you and you want it removed, contact me and I'll take it down. Thanks for stopping by!
"The Black Mamba: He Hung 11 Klan Leaders From The Same Tree They Used On His Family
In the summer of 1947, Pine Hollow, Alabama, learned a truth they could not comprehend. 11 of their most powerful white supremacist leaders were found hanging from the very tree they once used on Ezekiel Turner's family. Hours earlier, those same men had gathered confidently inside an abandoned sawmill, trading plans about how they would finish what they started with the Turner name.
They expected no resistance, no witness, no consequence. Yet by dawn, their bodies hung in identical positions, ropes knotted in a way none of them ever taught each other. And Ezekiel Turner, an unarmed veteran who returned home alone, was seen walking away from that tree without a scratch. How did a single man turn the symbol of their dominance into the scene that destroyed their entire network? What happened inside those missing hours? Before we go any further, comment where in the world you are watching from and make sure to subscribe because
Tomorrow's story is one you don't want to miss. The Greyhound bus lurched to a stop, breaking hissing like a dying animal. Ezekiel Turner, Zeke to everyone who knew him, stood and retrieved his duffel bag from the overhead rack. His army uniform, pressed sharp despite the long journey, bore the weight of four years overseas.
The fabric showed creases at the elbows where he'd rested his arms during the two-day ride from the discharge center in Virginia. Ribbons decorated his chest, distinguished service cross, bronze star, purple heart. Each one told a story he'd never share with the folks back home. He stepped down onto the dirt road.
Dust rose around his polished boots. Pine Hollow, Alabama, 1947. The town looked smaller than he remembered. The bus pulled away behind him, leaving him alone on the empty road. Morning sun painted everything gold, but the light felt thin, weak, nothing like the fierce brightness of the Pacific Islands, where he'd spent years moving through jungles, silent as smoke.
Zeke adjusted the duffel on his shoulder and started walking. The road stretched ahead, familiar as his own hands. He'd run these paths as a boy, raced Samuel's father, his late brother, to the swimming hole every summer. Now he was bringing home stories for Samuel. His son would be nine now, old enough to understand some things, young enough to still look at his father like he hung the moon.
Sarah would be waiting on the porch. He could see her in his mind. Flower on her hands from making biscuits. That smile that made his chest tighten even after 12 years of marriage. Mama Ruth would be in her chair. Bible in her lap, humming those old spirituals she loved. He passed the Johnson's farm. The cotton fields stretched to the horizon, plants swaying in the morning breeze. Nobody worked the rose yet.
Too early. But old man Johnson usually sat on his porch about now, smoking his pipe. The porch was empty. Zeke kept walking. His boots made soft sounds on the packed earth. A dog barked somewhere in the distance, then went quiet, too quiet. Something felt wrong in the air, thick and heavy, like the moment before a storm break.
The Henderson's clapboard house came next. Mrs. Henderson would normally be hanging laundry by now. Zeke could remember her waving to him when he left, telling him to come home safe. But when he approached, he saw curtains twitch. Movement behind the glass. Then nothing. The door stayed shut. Zeke's pace slowed.
His instincts, honed sharp in combat zones where silence meant danger, started screaming. Something was deeply wrong. He passed the abandoned general store. its windows boarded up since before the war. The painted sign had faded to ghosts of letters. Everything looked the same, but nothing felt right. More houses, more closed doors, more faces turning away behind windows.
This image bridges two worlds often seen as separate… yet perhaps they were never divided at all.
On the left, the womb and unborn child represent the biological matrix of life, the sacred chamber where form is conceived, protected, nourished, and brought into being.
On the right, the Egyptian Ankh, often called the “Key of Life” mirrors this same principle through symbol and sacred geometry. In esoteric and alchemical traditions, this is more than coincidence.
The upper loop of the Ankh echoes the womb.. the vessel of gestation, potential, and creation. The cross beneath represents manifestation into the material realm, incarnation, embodiment, life taking shape through matter.
Ancient wisdom traditions understood something modern consciousness often forgets.. The body itself is symbolic. A living map of cosmic principles. A bridge between spirit and form.
Alchemy was never only about turning metals into gold. It was about transformation within the human vessel.
Every idea, healing, awakening, relationship, or vision must first pass through an unseen phase of incubation before it can manifest outwardly.
The womb becomes both literal and symbolic… a reminder that all creation requires patience, nourishment, protection, and inner gestation before birth into the world.
The Ankh therefore becomes more than a symbol of immortality. It becomes an operative key, a reminder that consciousness itself creates through cycles of conception, development, and emergence.
Audience ERUPTS as Comedian DESTROYS Religious Fraud
The reason why I will always refuse to believe in some shit religion that murdered and enslaved innocent people who didn't know anything about their fake and wicked religion.
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