There’s a reason I see myself in Kunta Kinte. Not because my life mirrors his suffering, but because my spirit mirrors his resistance. Kunta Kinte’s power wasn’t just in surviving—it was in refusing to forget who he was, even when the world demanded he become someone else.

As an author, I feel that same pressure. To soften my words. To make my truth more “digestible.” To rename my experiences so they fit into someone else’s comfort zone. But like Kunta, I don’t write to be convenient. I write to be honest.

Every time I put pen to paper, I’m choosing memory over erasure. I’m choosing to tell the stories that get whispered, ignored, or dressed up in polite language so they don’t make anyone uncomfortable. I write about family dynamics, racial bias, sexuality, shame, faith, and freedom because those are the spaces where people are often told to be silent.

Kunta Kinte held onto his name as an act of rebellion. I hold onto my voice the same way.

My blog isn’t just content—it’s lineage. It’s me passing down thoughts, questions, and truths the way stories were passed down before books were even allowed in our hands. I’m not trying to go viral. I’m trying to go deep. I’m trying to leave something behind that says, someone was here, and they refused to disappear.

So when I write, I’m not just an author.
I’m a witness.
I’m a storyteller.
I’m a reminder.

And like Kunta Kinte, I will not be renamed.