It hurts so bad…

Why The Loss of Nipsey Hussle is The Brutal Reminder of Unchallenged Reality

White supremacy is a mutha!

Centuries later, and those chains can’t be unshackled for shit.

The brutal murder of Nipsey Hussle has paralyzed me.

When he was alive and well, I barely paid attention. In fact, it was about two weeks ago or little bit more than that, when I stumbled upon the vibrant GQ spread that featured the rapper, entrepreneur, community activist and so much more, with his ladylove, actress Lauren London.

It was a beautiful collage of love in the culture that celebrates such things in verses, but when you see it manifested in all its glory — there’s nothing like it.

And then when the shots rang out and the death was announced, the present climate forces you to research videos from the past, and that’s when the hilariously entertaining Q & A session between the two artists hit my screen, and I was frozen.

And then right after that, hours were spent getting to know the young man whose life was violently stolen at the age of 33, by another young Black man, named Eric Holder, who wasn’t able to survive the whooping of his ego by a successful visionary, who represented pretty much everything he would never attain because of those shackles.

Nipsey Hussle was a bright light, getting brighter, and he certainly didn’t need nor will he ever require a halo to alight the steps he has taken, and the ones that will be laid out in his honor.

Nipsey Hussle

Heroes don’t need capes or masks or any special powers to prove their grasp of humanness, and why it takes the fallen to get back up, with the motivation that those behind them won’t trip as easily as they did.

The moves made by movers within the space that chose them, is the special kind because it’s homemade.

Nobody can love you the way your own does, and that inherency towards grooming the clusters who were born to reap from the riches of self-worth, self-love and self-made, by the champions who fought their way out of shit to emerge victorious, is the communal gift that should never be halted.

But reality poses a dire status that remains unchallenged.

We have to say the name Eric Holder, and cringe, but we need to say it out loud.

He’s the face of what we never want to imagine as fact, so much so that we would rather dream up fantastical scenarios to escape the burden of what this fresh killer illustrates in the aftermath of unspeakable tragedy, that won’t provide peace of mind or any range of justice.

There are many who share the truth of how very little I knew about Nipsey’s immense contributions and heroic progressions until it was much too late.

When I started this off with a “fuck you” to White supremacy, there’s no doubt that readers scoffed at my relentlessness with this dependency on cursing out the White folks from back in the day, who invaded Blackness with nefarious acts of ripping away our primal characteristics of emotional indulgence — and replacing it with the acute disease of self-hate.

The Diaspora Wars are waging with furious rage, as Black people exchange personalized lists that contain all the reasons why despite being ripped away from the same cloth, we can’t ever claim the love that binds us.

We are blaming each other for the messiness that was caused by outside forces, that infiltrated our beauteous and bountiful haven without permission and under false pretenses that was rooted in the weaponry of Christianity, and how the Lord their God tasked them with the assignment of clothing our bodies into civilization, while robbing us blind.

Colonialism and slavery, brought the mind-fuck that can’t be reversed, no matter how hard we toil for mental emancipation.

It’s the reason why colonies never recovered from the trauma that stemmed from criminal invasions, that successfully shattered functioning tribal systems into jagged debris. The resultant of the oil maps that were drafted to solidify the inactivation of independence, would be the lifetime of civil wars that scorch any attempts for unification with the hope for advancement.

Slavery and its harrowing repercussions can’t ever be adequately assessed for the complete and irrevocable damage that distorted the language and behaviors of generations, and outfitted mindsets with residue of distrust and destructive mechanics of self-loathing, that can’t be easily finessed with denial.

First off, Black pain is a global experience.

It’s centered at the oil-flooded villages in the Niger Delta that have been facing an environmental and humanitarian crisis since the eighties, when local hero, and environmental activist and writer, Ken Saro-Wiwa spoke out against the gross negligence of the Nigerian government, who were bribed by European oil companies to poison their own people — and at bullet-ridden neighborhoods in Baltimore and Chicago where floods of tears still can’t erase the blood of the taken.

The unbearable loss of a charismatic giant, who was permanently silenced by someone who chose him as the epicenter of his self-inflictions is the horrifyingly vivid blueprint of what has always been and what will continue to be in this frightening tale, that recalls the weightiness of past afflictions that went far deeper into the layers of sub-consciousness to produce the underlying symptoms of self-destruction.

It’s disheartening and so very tragic, that a promising and prosperous young Black creative, who was armed with the urgency for uplifting, enriching and and celebrating his own people in the environment that raised him — had to mercilessly perish on the streets that knew his name, and will dutifully memorialize it.

The pain will never subside because of the nagging scar tissue that gets thicker with warnings of more to come from lessons unlearned and the fear of challenging the recognizable demons that roam in search of the same blood that runs through their veins.

When we ponder what killed Nipsey Hussle, we envision the videos on repeat that replay the setup of the death scene, in broad daylight, followed by the chaos that erupted after the shots rang out, and bodies touched the ground.

But what really snatched the life of a Black man who was born to live well and long in the embrace of love and self-fulfillment from the blessed ritual of empowering others with the gems of mental nourishment, that spreads beyond modest expectations, can’t be allotted to the bullets that ricochet against the backdrop of somber familiarity.

It’s the fragments that stay exactly where they ended up after the soundtrack to Black sorrow finishes playing. It’s the next rack of casings that hit the ones that doused surrounding areas on a Sunday afternoon, and how the pilings are sturdier than the senseless reasoning behind the fatal litters that shape into the pain of our existence.

This recent event hit harder than I anticipated, and it took me awhile to gather the thoughts into a cohesive pattern of self-realization that would prompt my ability to summarize the culprit of this piercing grief.

What was identified is the terrifying acceptance of how legacies survive so that more can join the collage of “gone too soon.”

We need them here, but they never stay.

And that’s because we still don’t know how to keep them here.

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