Negro Spiritual

By Meredith

Negro Spiritual is a song of spoken word heard reflecting the soul of music inside the African pride and kinship stretching from slave ship to the bop of hip hop and rhythm and blues reflecting queues whipped, chained and ordained in the darkest hues of history and the black experience.
It’s a poetic journey into profiles of courage chronicling oppression, suppression and misdirection of bravery against the mental slavery brought and taught in books by hook and crooks that lied and tried to hide a people who cried inside cages throughout the pages described by cultural homicide and black genocide on the ride of the Underground Railroad of pride and perseverance adherence to the drum beat stimulating the feat the black kinship.
Negro Spiritual is about the blood, sweat and tears of years spent in slavery’s winter’s wrath minus the math of a summer breeze on the backs of pleas and amalgamated songs of jazz and gospel fuse of good news and old time religion meant to dent the roof of possibility educating Afrocentric youth on the proof and poetic justice of beans and greens and cornbread fed straight to the head, heart and soul mixed in a bowl of lessons fraught, taught and bought and paid by the blood, sweat and tears of years spent entangled in the roots of racism.
Negro Spiritual is the music, moments and magic of the ancestors giving rhythm and rhyme traveling through exaggerated time and extension and parallel dimension of imagination reflecting ourselves back to ourselves in rich authenticity and Afrocentricity that reflects the old time religion of a people building miracles out of thin air way beyond the snare of adversarial relationships with the truth.
We can do all things through the strengths of our ancestors. We are heirs to their strengths way down the lengths of time, rhyme and sublime crimes of old time religions told traveling through aggravated dimensions of perseverance preoccupied with a stride fortified with fortitude rude to the limitations of the superficial.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781728358314

Meredith

Meredith is the author of many other novels: Concrete Jungle Iscariot’s Kiss Strange Fruit Negro Spiritual Cinderfella No Ways Home Burning Daylight Acoustic Soul Detroit native, Meredith is creating and defining his own path in the Hip Hop urban fiction publishing world.

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© 2020 Meredith. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/06/2020

ISBN: 978-1-7283-5832-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-5831-4 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Introduction

Chapter One Young, Gifted And Black

Chapter Two Living Architecture

Chapter Three Lift Every Voice

Chapter Four The Dark Past

Chapter Five Invaders

Chapter Six Dusk Of Dawn

Chapter Seven Adversarial Relationship With Truth

Chapter Eight Black Holocaust

Chapter Nine Belly Of The Beast

Chapter Ten Blood, Sweat And Tears

Chapter Eleven Lost Cause

Chapter Twelve Breath Of Death

Chapter Thirteen Eloquent Rage

Chapter Fourteen Chasing History

Chapter Fifteen Slave Catchers

Chapter Sixteen The Chaos Of Flight

Chapter Seventeen Revolt

Chapter Eighteen The Rape Of A Nation

Chapter Nineteen Revolution

Chapter Twenty Old Time Religion

Chapter Twenty One Destiny’s Child

Chapter Twenty Two Black Gold

Chapter Twenty Three Souls For Sale

Chapter Twenty Four Five Hundred Year Old Room

Chapter Twenty Five Strength Of The Slave

Chapter Twenty Six Black Power

Epilogue

Commentary

It was like the drums were beating loudly in his ear. But it was only his heartbeat that he could hear

Negro Spiritual is a rhythm of truth straight from the music, moments and magic of the ancestors.

Take this book, touch it and feel it. Caress its pages. Allow the imagination to be stretched into the future, into the dark past, as you fondle and fathom a piece of history. Absorb its meaning, its story of wonder, beauty and mystery. Be a part of the great people who’ll be travelling this same passage four hundred years from now, sharing the phenomenon of time’s immeasurable space…

NEGRO

SPIRITUAL

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DEDICATION

I f I can give my children nothing else, I would endeavor to make them heirs to hope.

William IV

Daryn

Tristen

Dylan

Aniyah

D’naiyah

Daphne’

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

T here are a host of people and influences in my life that make up what I call A marketplace of hope, ideas and inspiration.

William IV

Janaya

Rocky

Lazar

Marshalle

Renee

Roz

Ishmail Alazzani

Abdulla Hassan

Ismail Al-Shara

Kareem

Rose

Denise

For this special reason I want to give special thanks and appreciation to a small circle of people who has one time or another lifted me above myself or personified a light bright enough to introduce me to a world of possibility and imagination elastic enough for me to see a way to live up to some of the ideals I’ve set for myself.

INTRODUCTION

T here’s a rhythm to this method of madness where music is ignited in that silent unfelt anticipation of breath, death and oblivion. Some say they’re living in the last days of blood and war, tearing up our nation’s core. It’s the core of the broken heart, tearing history’s boundaries apart. Fires start in the squeals of false conscious while the volatile twilight burns in seismic eruption from the corruption of barren celestial bodies changing the mind of the future.

Eons of evolution emitting a pollution in that terrible ecstasy of blue notions and love potions in swirls of equations embarking the occasion of magnetic energy. Destined to break the skin of air are the children of the primal cell of life, standing on the threshold of strife the dark child is born struggling against the strength of death in a depth that only deepens the meaning of the light. A flight into a flawless matrix of thought bought with the nutrients of living spirit.

Chance favors the dance of unpollinated flowers, reaching past that sphere of fear yet strengthened by the blood, sweat and tears of years spent in the darkness. In that slow process of photosynthesis, the soul does not parish but is rejuvenated in the ecstasy of the sun, a race already won by destiny’s child running wild through the vex of an amalgamated hex in a struggle as natural as the gravity of sex, where the penis point to anoint vaginal secretions unfolding secrets more sacred than the history of prayer, life laying layers of love graced by the heavens above exhorting the earth to live and give a voice whispering past the age of silence, to give choice leaning toward a bold purpose to enhance the romance of stretching the imagination far beyond the rationalization of sight on a flight which began long ago above the self.

CHAPTER ONE

Young, Gifted and Black

P aradise describes history at its youth without adversarial relationships with the truth. Paradise describes African tribes, in the jungle where the architecture comes alive to thrive and strive for something beautiful to bear. It made for yet another beautiful day while the fragrance of flowers filled the air. And with care we watched a sunrise so pretty that we couldn’t help but to stare. Dare to tear your glance away from the wonder, beauty and glare so fair and meaningful that we loved sleeping underneath a big blue sky; especially made all the more remarkable when it was just the intimacy of Jawanza and I.

He had left early this morning, probably to get something to eat. I hope he brings back juicy melons or something else with a taste just as sweet. Jawanza always brought back plenty berries and a whole lot of grapes. These would always go oh so well with my little pouch full of dates. Now that I'm hungry, I wonder where he could be; wondering oh so hopefully that he’ll hurry up on back for me.

My name is Nana. My father gave it to me before I crawled. We live in the mama land, as it is so reverently called. And I come from a very big family, big enough to say there are 26 of us all. There are 17 of us sisters and nine are my brothers. For the most part, I could say so simply that we deeply love one another. We play together very often and all of us help with the chores. But with me being the eldest means that I have to do just that much more. It is all for the good of the entire family and I never ever give it much mind. We all enjoy the practice of unity, so it takes very little time. But it never ends there with just a family, for actually my family could be much more bigger. It also includes the entire village, which greatly enlarges the figure. We’re all a working structure, building and maintaining our community. We daily celebrate and boast humility, which celebrates each one’s collective work and ability. Responsibility; so everyone is willing to make our sister’s and brother’s problems our own, wisdom known, grown as one people refusing to grow apart and rip and slip in a conquest of solving and involving a revolving history of kinship like a work of art.

As one can tell, my community deals in many principles. But these are only set up to make the depth of life’s journey more pleasing. Nothing quite so cold and freezing. No malice. No competing. Everyone can share in all and no wrath by teasing. Everyone has a mission without competition or promises to break. Nothing fake. Without flaw or mistake. There is always enough food and water to partake. We always feed our neighbors, for an everlasting peace this will make. The current of spiritual law flows in the rhythm our ancestors taught about universal love. It’s as if we can control our own blessings to flow like the rain that falls from above. The Creator is never willing to deny anyone in their need. That’s probably why there is always so much food, so we can all get our fill of grain without greed. Speaking of food, here comes my meal. And It’s just like Jawanza to make sure that we get our fill.

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Jawanza says, Peace to you, my flower. You make a beautiful sight in the morning. I was so very tired last night, I hope I didn’t keep you up with my snoring.

Nana just laughed and reached for a piece of fruit. She thought Jawanza’s concern was a little quite cute.

Jawanza smiled, Woman, tell me why you are laughing, so that maybe I can laugh too.

Nana shyly responded, Jawanza, my love, it’s for you. You make me laugh and that warms my soul. You’re too often like a hot fire, making my heart too often feel like the coal.

Jawanza then sat down and gave her a hug. And as he continued to hold her, his stomach she began to rub. And he thought to himself as he leaned his face into her locks, There isn’t a woman more beautiful than the one I’ve got.

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In the meantime, while they were enjoying each other’s company and away from their friends, the community rose up alive with the sun up again. The children were running about and singing songs, as the men were preparing to leave. They were all headed to their gardens amongst a forest of gigantic trees. As for the women, some would be feeding their young. Others were coming to visit, joining the mighty chorus of song. The others were getting ready for the special feast event. It was a time for community, rejoicing, for our ancestors, and usually everybody went. This was conducted by some of the elders in the village. And everyone had something to do, to celebrate and enjoy. It was a holy communion, from the elders on down to every little girl and boy.

It all starts out with the daily celebration of welcoming, where the land is brought alive by the rhythm of a drumbeat. It was a warming kind of heat, as the rhythm made you move your head and stomp your feet. Your shoulders would bounce and you’d put your hands in the air.

Your whole body will dance, from your toes to your hair. With an energy to spare, slowly the beat drops and it matches your heart. We all can now sit down and wait for the opening remarks. Usually, we children sit together or with parents, wherever they would. Yet the elderly in the village always sat in the front, for this was always understood. Then the master of the ceremony began his own dance. This captured the audience, lifting them in a trance.

The romance was enhanced with the fond remembering of ancestors with libation and pronouncement. He would pour water on the earth as he referenced names and announcements.

We will say a praise to show that we remember, and then a cup would be passed around. Tradition served the elders first, and then again the drums would sound. As the morning celebration moved steadily along, the rest of the community village would sing another harmonious song. And I love the way the drums would play and how the beat took its toll. It made us one with the music, as if the rhythm was part of our soul.

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When the last one has received his cup, then the calling names of ancestors and heroes begins. The community would speak of many past relatives; most of us weren’t even born then. Yes these were family, and they all had a hand in keeping our kinship alive. And their souls would always be with us, because the community wouldn’t let legacy be deprived. They showed us the light when the times were dark and dim. And so I also thank my grandpa Popi as I do love all the rest of them. After that, the drummers continued to play for everyone they love and know. They really dug down deep to lift our spirits up; one couldn’t help but to enjoy the show. Once they are done playing their music, many of us were now prepared. They were about to serve a great big feast and you could smell the flavor of fruits and vegetables in the air.

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Now everyone was sitting on the ground and could hardly wait to eat. And most of the children are now excited, waiting, expecting a treat. A gift to lift the spirit. Something made by hand; which is very special to me, because everything was recycled from the land. Motherland, mama land, we often stand, trace and demand the natural steps in mother nature’s prance. And after the soul food is eaten, all the brothers and sisters posture themselves in an ancient stance. More drums sound and again we all start to dance. Everyone is laughing and smiling, for no one is at all stressed. And this is why I love my very large family, for truly I know that I am blessed.

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Before the day is over and the night is still young, the drummers lowered their beat while we all lift up prayers from every tongue. And when this is all over and everyone is saying their good nights, this is a good moment for me to go on my walk toward higher heights. And I Have everything planned up tight in my mind. Everything in order of the wonderful, without a negative thought to find. Wonder, beauty and mystery that never just come and goes. Never just thrown away and carried on the wind as easily as a gentle breeze blows. These thoughts have a way of lifting me above myself, way higher than my tippy toes, way higher my spirit will ride. And my first hope is to always share these uplifting thoughts and memories with a strong wonderful man by my side.

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Every moment with Jawanza seemed to me a date with fate. Rubbing nose to nose we pose and suppose a future with a head start, living deeply inside the deep crevices of each other’s heart, existing in the realm of smiles and giggles and nibbles of chance, existing in a realm of reality’s romance. We both looked up and spied the children spying us from the trees, catching us on bended knees, both giving pleas trying not to tease or disease the tender minds of the young ones who watched. Unknowingly our intimacy botched. Jawanza just looked at me instead, and grinned and smiled and said, Well, Nana, your beauty has once again drawn us a crowd. So now my guess is that a gentle kiss would be all that is allowed. The silence suddenly became loud. Jawanza now suddenly stood up quite tall and proud. Nana laughed as she picked herself up from the ground. She was one of those women who could say a thousand words without even making a sound. A very special moment found. Even in the midst of village children playfully bound to sass and say that somehow they held sway to somehow make our day blush with the hush of a loud silence.

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By the time Nana reached the village again, it was almost like listening to a symphony begin. For everyone was moving in harmony like a city of ants. She could only stop and stare and try to compare and dare herself to imagine a better home. Imagine the unknown. Something like music with another tone. The very thought made her heart moan, her stomach groan, her whole entire existence suddenly awfully feeling alone. As soon as she approached nearer to her hut she was suddenly overwhelmed with a bunch of hugs. So many of the village children had rushed toward Nana like a big swarm of bugs. Nana was deeply loved and she knew it was mainly because of one particular thing. And after all the children were silent, she humbly began to sing. It was so unbelievable how a voice could summon such a glee. She could so naturally sound like the wind blowing through the trees. Like the very sound of the great waves of the ocean controlling the very motion of the seas. And her words couldn’t be kinder if ever she tried.

She was a gift to the ears and there was never a place one could hide and abide against the tide of total rapture and ultimate capture of the mind, body and soul…

Lift every voice and sing and shout out unity for our community. Nana loves you so true, with a love so brand new every day and every way. I’ll always stay, never leaving you come what may… lift every voice and sing and shout about having no doubt about unity and community. Nana loves you so true, with a love so full of wisdom and joy. Everlasting ever reaching every man, woman, girl and boy…

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Nana was always reaching and teaching when she sung her songs. She used a lot of colorful words to paint a picture and getting nothing of it wrong. She taught community principles to help give the young ones foundation. She knew it would one day be up to the youth to build up a greater African nation.

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Thinking back on her world when she was only but a little girl, she remembered herself with a lot of spark and appeal. Always thrilled. Always strong willed.

She had noticed something one day when her mama took her over the hills by the fields, and it was on that very day that a very important lesson was revealed.

Still thrilled and strong willed. Never ever nothing killed. Peeled back energy, the community was falling behind in their work. If was found that an elder had passed and so they had lost their perk. But mama was always wise in knowing exactly what to do. She started merely singing a song to chase away all things blue. Yes it was true, and really never nothing quite so new. And as all the others started to join in the fling, Nana had noticed an amazing thing. While everyone started to sing, they all seem to move in a rhythm as if they were one big machine. It was something to be seen. Something so basic and beheld to mean, that respect for every female in the village was the same as that of a queen. The simple song sang was lean but brought the team business back to life, and lifted their mourning out of a nasty strife. Something cutting like a knife and sword lifting everyone aboard the same measure of contentment meant to save them a wave of gloom and doom.

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I still remember that night when I asked my mama, What you did in the field was a matter of fact. How is it that you have such a wonderful matter of tact?

Mama said, as she slowly tilted her head, It was the ancestors whispering in my ear, and it was from their wisdoms that offered me no fear. It was the only voices that I could hear.

Nana listened like she liked to a lot. She was her mama’s child with an imagination always running wild.

You see, young Nana, her mama began again, Choosing words that can strengthen your village is the only way to win, anything less would be the ultimate sin. It is the darkened den of thieves that don’t seem to believe and have a faith without a base to put a glow in their face, leaving no trace of the spoken word. But tis the music that is to be heard, and like the bird song, you can feel it all night long. From deep in your soul, from your head to your feet, the beat becomes a treat to make a circle complete.

Then mama kissed me on the forehead and put me to bed, where I was led to dream impossible dreams deemed to come true blessed by fate on a date which seemed to fill my plate and let my cup runneth over.

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Now, I told the children that I had to leave, when suddenly I heard voices saying Don’t go please! So I promised them that I would sing again later on today and that right now I couldn’t possibly stay. My mama was wanting for me to come what may, to come home and help. And I knew this was important to her, and I know how she felt. When I finally arrived I thrived in all the excitement and the ways in which my sisters greeted me. There was a hugging spree, something I couldn’t very well flee or wanted to free myself from lest I’d be torn. Born the oldest didn’t make me the boldest. This was a trait freely given to my other sister Tinani instead. For she was the bold one who pulled me aside and said, Nana, seems I’ve been needing your help ever since I was born. I could enjoy your company much more if you would just help with these baskets of corn.

She always finished her pleas with a smile a mile long, always trying to lift her voice in a song. Seeing nothing wrong, Nana agreed to help her out, hoping not to shout about the innocent manipulation of wanting another’s participation in a situation that needed attention, not to mention everybody loved helping each other. And after all the small talk was done I could see that my sisters were only interested in all the gossip about Jawanza and me.

Tinani had said before her face could be read, Last night I was stalking and saw you two walking and talking. I saw you tease him in play, letting him come only so close and then run away. I'm anxious to know so tell me this, Nana, did you or did you not ever get your kiss?

Nana looked at Tinani and rolled an eye, careful of the words she chose because she didn’t want to lie or try to curb the imagination of the little family spy.

No, the chance was missed. I never got kissed. It wasn’t something we could have tried. We both were so desperately wanting to hide, from the crowd screaming ever so loud, clouding our judgment, bent on spending time alone, in our own zone, prone to no interruptions.

Then Tinani tilted her head and said, If you wanted time alone why not go somewhere less well known? Less in the way where others could see.

But they were desperate to see and so they climbed up a tree.

Oh no, that wasn’t Sanbi and me. Sanbi being a brother from another mother.

Nana sighed, without trying to hide her amusement inside, Yes, I'm in love with Jawanza as everyone can tell. The feelings make my heart race like the swift-running gazelle. I am so frail, whenever he’s around; my whole world seems to turn upside down…

And with that Tinani interrupted with a giggling sound.

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Tinani often lived in a fantasy world of lush jungles and blue skies and every situation turning up wonderful surprise. And now here she was hanging on to every word said, confused about the laughter, and started scratching her head. And that’s when mama walked in and said, Nana, why is your face so swollen? Look like you just got outta bed.

Nana’s expression couldn’t be read. But she assured her mama there was no fears, I was just laughing with Tinani mama, and that’s why the tears.

Mama acted as if she hadn’t seen her in a year, Well I'm so glad that you are here. We’ve got some catching up to do so don’t you disappear. I hear rumors of you and a jungle beast. And if you’re not too mindful of an attack you’ll soon be their feast –

Nana wasn’t worried. Not in the least. She just smiled and Tinani did too.

Then came a voice floating above the air, warning, She’s not playing with you.

All heads turned to see Baba coming in on a whim, and suddenly all the younger girls started heading for him. And then he dropped to one knee and opened his arms, hugging and kissing each of the girls, sharing all his love and his charm.

Suddenly mukwi appeared underneath the door frame. He was one of my favorite brothers and so I called out his name. His long locks were his fame.

He had beautiful hair and suddenly stopped and stared at me with his childish stare. And as he made his way through the children and their hugging spree, I couldn’t help but to think of so much of our history. No mystery, he was one of the first born of all my sisters and brothers. And I loved him just the same although we had different mothers. We had grown up with the benefit of being watched by eight eyes; the two from my Baba and six by his other three wives. Our lives were full of sweets and honeydew treats, and the riches of loot yielding the fruit of loves labor and the savor of favor of the almighty.

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I often remember him learning how to swim, always poised to make a lot of noise with his manner, holding up the family banner. Mukwi would often dive and thrive, catching fish for his favorite dish and wish for the adventures of man. Tall, dark and tan, he ran with the animals around the way. Come what may, and almost every single day, he would always sit me down and say, Nana don’t ever forget to pray. And whenever he came around I wanted him to stay.

Stay and reminisce and never miss a chance to do the dance of destiny’s child, running wild and free to be who we were always meant to be. In the eyes of God and glory, living on this earth without worry and wrath, journeying on a path to pass the mass abundance of stars and blue skies, answering all the reason whys, going places and filling up spaces where no one dies or cries or lies, where everyone is claiming a prize without the surprise of hunger and greed and the need to fit in. And win over the wages of sin, as my Baba would so often say, or scolded. Folded and molded from golden clay and wisdom. Watching through the very prism of living history unfolding the mystery of sacred words told in bold revolution combating the pollution of naked thought bought with violence and the loud silence of indecency.

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CHAPTER TWO

Living Architecture

A ll the younger men went fishing one particular sunny day, and Mukwi didn’t have any gear or a spear but he went anyway. There were a whole lot of brothers who went, about forty in all. And Mukwi watched them from his perch over underneath a waterfall. As time went by he wondered why no one was catching any fish. Immediately he had gotten a notion to aid the younger men with a wish. Now even closer he would watch them and studied their technique. They were laughing and talking very loudly which was really no way to sneak. He was reminded of watching a leopard, standing in the water ever so still. Remembering one quick swipe of a paw, and he caught a fish for a meal. A deeper excitement he began to feel, something the wisdom of time could only instill, reveal and confide; suddenly thinking to himself inside, Baba had always said that I could do that, always saying I had the reflexes of a cat.

Suddenly he dove down in the water, way way deep down. And no one seem to notice him because he didn’t make any sound. The younger men wondered what he was doing when he appeared at the water’s edge. Everyone seemed so astounded at the fact that he had jumped from such a ledge. They laughed as he assumed a crouch position, then one of them pointed, That’s a funny way of fishing. Oh yes, they were pointing and laughing, running to and fro. And that’s when Mukwi shot both hands deep in the waters below. Now suddenly the group stopped their laughing, not a sound uttered their lips. And then they saw Makwi’s arms started jerking with a big fish in his grips. Suddenly all eyes were