Another Black Boy, Another Goodbye
On grief, kinship, and being held through the storm
Monday Morning
It’s 9:05am on Monday January 26th, and I’m staring at the stained glass window above the tv and well made dresser, blue and white hexagonal drapes, and the sound of the snow blower outside. Since Saturday evening, I’ve been with my lover-friend, a handsome Jamaican I met years ago, who I recently re-connected with a couple of weeks ago. “I think about you all the time… how was California?” These were some of the initial words he said to me when we re-engaged in communication. Prior to my move to LA, we had connected, gone on a date or two, and spent lots of time holding ourselves in each other’s embrace.
He loves to hug me, rub my body in a thoughtful and intimate way, and give me kisses. I revel in those moments, often closing my eyes, praying to be whisked away to a place where my nervous system is calm and all my fears and trepidations cease. We didn’t linger and I immediately came to his room, took my coat off, and got in bed. He was tired. I was tired but we both wanted to be held. He, being a Scorpio man, holding mystery, charm, and depth, caressed my body with softness and curiosity, moving at a pace that brought comfort and calm. And then he did this thing he’d always do since we met years ago, he’d hold onto me for dear life with a tight squeeze and press into my body and stay there. Us breathing, being, soft skin to soft skin, and within myself I’d ask, “what is this….?” because it felt so familiar.
It’s Monday morning, but last Friday evening, I got on the train to head north to be with my chosen kin through the impending storm that had everyone running to the market and looking out their window for the first sight of frozen whiteness falling from the sky. Everything was being shut down and on Saturday evening, after watching Interview with the Vampire with my godsibling, he texted me, asking me to come over. I responded, “Oh, so you can fall right asleep?”, knowing that my presence and energy are a comfort and joy for him. Not too long after, I arrived at his beautiful home, one full of warm Caribbean colors, plants, African and Caribbean paintings, sculptures, and relics passed down. I felt comforted.
Running from Pain
Admittedly, at this moment in time, I am running from pain.
Nine days ago, my paternal family had a memorial for my little cousin, Micah, who transitioned from this earthly realm. Up to the days before the service, I dissociated and compartmentalized the reality of what was happening as a means to cope and survive. Another Black boy, another family member, another life suddenly gone. And more grief, unrelenting tears, sadness, and sorrow amid the distance and estrangement from my paternal family that’s beguiled and saddened me for years. I told myself I was fine leading up to the memorial until I wasn’t. The day before and morning, I’d fallen ill with my stomach retching in pain & frequent runs to the bathroom. As I came to from my slumber and sat in that liminal space, early Saturday morning, I could see my little cousin from the other side & then I knew a bit more what was going on. My physical pain and sickness were connected to him because he was having a hard time with his transition. I’m an ancestral and psychic medium and at times, can feel the realities of the dead in material and embodied ways. I was frustrated, tired, angry, but also relieved. Stomach aches in the past led me to long hospital stays and medical bills and I wasn’t interested in going down that route.
Covering Myself
In light of my understanding more fully what was happening with me, I wrote a message to my beloved community and friends, letting them know what was going on and the kind of support I needed. And then I called my godmother, the prayer warrior, spiritual guide, and Iyalorisa. I was feeling so weak, scared, tired, and feeble; questioning how I’d make it through the day while holding so much heartbreak, trepidation, and despair. “Baby, you have the Holy Spirit living with you.” After sharing much of what was tormenting and hurting me, she, like always, found a way to reframe the circumstances without denying my truth and the realities set before me. “You have to anoint yourself with oil and……” As soon as she said that, my eyes went toward the items sitting on my dresser.
“See, you gotta do what grandma would do.” I smiled, gagged, and breathed a sigh of relief. I had the liniment and oils to anoint myself, the ones I was led to purchase months ago by my grandmother and great grandmother while at the botanica. The products smelled just like Butler Street circa 1996 and the comforting feelings found in Grandma Guess’ back room, with the high bed with wooden poles and fine jewelry strewn across her vanity and dresser. Iya continued to talk to me, made me laugh, checked in to see that what she was saying landed, gave me other instructions on how to cover, anchor, and support myself through the day, then sent me on my way with courage and confidence. “You need to be there, baby. This is about you and God. And so you go there and share and pray for yourself, cousin, and family and lift y’all to a very capable God…”
Getting Ready to Go
I got in the shower, still feeling ill, anointed myself, and did all the other things I was instructed to do. My mother, worried about my condition, informed me, “Your aunt and I are gonna drop you off, but I can’t go unless you need me there.” As I got ready, my spirit told me I’d need new whites for this gathering. I told my mom as such and not too long after, I gathered my water, banana, bag, and we were out the door. “I’m gonna take you to Mohammed’s around the corner.” As we drove around the corner, with the white snow blanketing the city, my mom joked about her complicated, albeit important relationship with Mohammed, the ornery, sometimes mean, South Asian Muslim merchant who’s been in our neighborhood as long as I can remember. “Ya father goes in there and gets what he wants on the eye, but you know him and I be arguing sometimes…” My mother was naming the subtle ways patriarchy and sexism show up in community relations.
As we got in the door, my mother speaks before me and on my behalf, “Hakim has a funeral service to go to and needs a kufi and to be covered.” Before I engage him, I give him the Islamic greetings with the understanding that he is my elder. Afterwards, my mom does too. Immediately, he knows what I need, provides me with the garments, and watches me put them on in the store. “That’ll be $21.” A comforting number for me, letting me know that both my Eggun and Eleggua were with me right then. We paid and then were on our way and I realized in real time that I belonged to a community, an institution and that so many ways were being made for me in real time.
The Service
We drove for 10 minutes and then I arrived at the location of the service, an African-centered high school that my little cousin attends, that my niece previously attended, and that is known for its prowess in sports. As we drove, the city was blanketed with white fluffy snow and reminded me of the coolness of Obatala, one of my godmother’s crowning Orisa. Before entering, I saw cousins and my aunt, and walked right in with them, all the while being greeted by pictures of elders and ancestors dressed in African garb all across the hallways of the school. How fitting that my cousin’s life celebration would be at a school that centered my world view and was rife with iconography of African cultures and religion.
As I walked in, I recalled old faces, family friends, and settled into the all-too-familiar feelings that emerged because we’d done this too many times before. Micah is the third grandson of my grandmother who has died before her. And I, the genderqueer non-binary one, who’s left. Before I had time to settle into my feelings or formally read the room, I was asked about my father’s whereabouts and if he’d be here. Being that I hadn’t seen him in months and I stopped talking to him, I didn’t know. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to think about him or us because that, too, would bring up too much feeling that I couldn’t control.
Not too long after, I saw my baby cousin, Malik. Days earlier, he’d just reached out to me but I hadn’t seen him in months; the last time was when his grandmother, my great aunt, transitioned. A beautiful grown-ass father of two toddlers ran over and melted into my arms. We held each other like in a sorrowful dance, one that I realized I was leading. I held him in closer, tightening my grip on him and removing myself from the gaze of others there who had no other choice but to witness and be with us in a scene rife with unspeakable agony.
Who Showed Up
We all sat at circular tables with numbers on them and we waited for the service to begin. That waiting would be for at least an hour because my grandmother, the Grande Dame and Diva she is, hadn’t yet arrived, and things wouldn’t start until she made her entrance. She didn’t want to ride with others and came in her own way, but when she arrived, looking fly as always, one of the first things she said, while being flanked by Malik and others, was “Keem…..” Shining in my white against the sea of those dressed in Black, I greeted her with warmth and held her close. “You looking good, girl.” The other details of the moment are a blur and I mostly now recall us all being tuned into the slideshow of pictures and review of memories. Silent tears transitioned into sobbing and public weeping from my aunties and cousins.
I washed the room with prayers and moments later, I looked behind me and recognized it was my father there, sitting quietly behind me, well dressed, smelling good, and filled with tears. Shocked and not expecting him to be behind me, his visage and presence brought me to immediate tears as I placed a loving hand on his leg to comfort him. Through my caretaking of him during cancer, I was able to access a tender place within him, and that is where I returned.
Speaking
They’ll now open the floor for reflections and words from family and friends. Immediately, I began shaking as I watched my little cousins maturely and painfully step toward the mic to speak and share. Spirit had already prepared me and gave me words through a poem to share but I was afraid and terrified to get up. But when my auntie, a multiple cancer survivor, got up and brought herself to the mic, I knew I had to as well. I got in front of everyone and the mic, and read what I was given. As I read, I heard loved ones weeping in between stanzas, my breath, and pacing. The whirlwind of sadness and sorrow almost swallowed my world to leave me naked, only clothed with sadness and tears, but the voice within insisted and I made it through. Afterwards, so many came up to me to acknowledge me for my words and offering. I said thank you, but it felt so inappropriate and unsettling.
Micah Today, we gather because a Black boy once bloomed among us. And that matters. That has always mattered. Micah mattered. Not just in the length of his life, but in the light of it. In the way his presence shifted a room. In the laughter, the softness, the sharpness, the brilliance he carried. In the ways he made our lives more livable, more beautiful, more bright. We don’t talk enough about Black boys as gardens. As tender. As sacred ground. But Micah was proof that Black boys bloom— even in hard soil, even under heavy skies, even when the world forgets how to tend them. And though Micah has transitioned from our sight, his bloom did not end. Because bloom is not only something that happens in a b ody. Bloom is something that happens between us. It happens in memory. In story. In how we show up for one another because someone once showed up for us. So I want to ask us something gently today: For the beauty you experienced from him, through him, as him— what does it look like to carry that forward? What does it look like to let Micah continue to bloom in the way we love more honestly, laugh more freely, protect Black boys more fiercely, and refuse to let their tenderness be mistaken for weakness? Because honoring Micah’s life means more than mourning his death. It means choosing remembrance as a living practice. It means letting his light keep moving. Black boys are beautiful. Black boys are bright. Black boys deserve celebration— not only in passing, but in life. And Micah, in his own way, reminded us of that truth. May we carry him with care. May we speak his name with love. And may the bloom he offered the world continue— in us, through us, and beyond us.
After
Time moved on. I had planned to leave directly after and be picked up by my godson, but everyone, including my dad, was going to grandma’s, and I felt led to be there. And so we ate, drank, watched sports, laughed, and remembered in the midst of the nightmare we were experiencing called life. At one point, my grandmother pulled me to the side and said, “Now, I want you to come and spend time with me…”—a surprising request that touched my heart and I didn’t know I needed.
Still Monday
My Jamaican lover, homie, friend has finally come in from the cold after cleaning up the property from all the snow. “I know you’re probably bored, huh? You don’t want any breakfast or cereal?” I say, “I’m a writer, you know I write every day so I’m good…” He says, “I’m gonna need your help to rub this on me…” and I say, “You better take the ibuprofen as well like I said last night.” He reminds me of my first ex, another Scorpio, a hard-working man, who uses his body to make things happen and get work done. A man with a million stories hidden beneath his eyes that refuse to come to the fore.
“I hate writing. The only subject I was good at was mathematics.” I push back and retort, “Writing often takes time and an exploration of feelings. You see how long I’ve been writing this? Since around 9, it takes work.” He knows work, but this work, this inner work, which he often dodges and refuses and I always address, is something different.
Now it’s 11:08. It’s Monday, a workday, Ellegua’s day, ripe for communication, decisions, and opening roads. Emails to write, text messages to send. Life, destiny, people, responsibilities calling; all the things I want to avoid, because I’m in immense pain and just want to be held until it all goes away. But for now, I’m gonna gaze at the beautiful artwork in the house, allow the African masks and figurines to talk to me, allow him to feed me again and hold me in his soft embrace, and then make my way back to my godsibling, and by God’s grace face all that’s before me.
To say that I am saddened, depressed, and mourning is an understatement. This has been the story of the majority of my life. My life laced together by loss, longing, and both an inner and outward search for sustained love.
Post Script:
I haven’t been on here, on Substack, since last summer—before I began my studies at Candler School of Theology. Since then, due to significant violence, hardship, and difficulty within the program, I’ve withdrawn and am now exploring other intellectual interests within the university and in other academic and professional contexts.
Over the past two years, I’ve been navigating mental illness, turning inward, avoidance (a major coping mechanism for me), and the slow work of trying to tend to myself after profound loss and sustained difficulty. This morning, I felt led to read—and to write.
I’m not going to make any promises about consistency. What I will ask is that you hold my words, my pain, and my story with care and regard, not consumption. I am here to be witnessed, not violated. It is my commitment to hold others in the same way.
If you want to support me and know me more personally, feel free to reach out. Another direct way you can bless me is through my cash handles. A bitch is between blessings and could genuinely use the support.
Thank you for rocking with me, believing in me, and engaging my work.
Blessings,
Keemyanla
Your writing is incredible- thank you for sharing your gifts.
You didn’t have to let us see you bloom, but you did. Glad to know you’ve been supported by loved ones. Sending up prayers for you 🙌🏾