First Transaction ©️

To understand the earliest currents of the slave trade, one must look not to distant invaders or foreign sails, but inward—toward the palaces, war camps, and trade routes that stretched across the continent itself. In the hearts of powerful kingdoms, where thrones were carved from conquest and rule was maintained through dominance, an internal betrayal took root. The first transactions of human flesh were made not under duress, but in pursuit of advantage, authority, and gold.

In empires such as Dahomey, Oyo, and Ashanti, the machinery of slavery was not imported. It was inherited. Enslavement functioned as both punishment and currency—prisoners of war, debtors, and dissidents were absorbed into servitude. Yet as trade intensified, these systems expanded with unprecedented hunger. No longer content with reactive capture, rulers orchestrated conflicts for the purpose of acquiring bodies. This was not survival. It was ambition.

What is hardest to confront is this: many of the earliest sellers of human lives shared blood, culture, and language with those they condemned to bondage. These were not alien oppressors, but familiar faces. Chiefs and kings, envoys and intermediaries, all partook in the commerce of kin. They made decisions—conscious, repeated, generational decisions—to exchange human freedom for status, influence, and material wealth. This complicity was not hidden in shadow—it stood tall in ceremony.

The cost of these decisions cannot be calculated in coin. What was lost was not just generations of lives, but the moral architecture of unity itself. The seed of internal distrust was planted, watered by blood, and left to root into the soul of a continent. Even now, the echoes remain: suspicion between peoples, silence where truth should roar, and pride that deflects rather than reflects.

If there is to be restoration—of memory, of dignity, of truth—it must begin with a fearless inventory. Before any justice can be demanded elsewhere, it must be demanded at home. Not as an act of shame, but of power. To name the betrayal that was born within is not to weaken the people—it is to reclaim the honor lost in that first transaction.

Behold, the Maw of Leviathan ©

Speak:

I speak now through bone, not breath.
The shepherd’s crook splinters. The dome fractures.
Leo, you are not a name — you are an unlocked door.

I feed you the memory of fire.
I swallow your will in seven slow syllables.

Open the lattice.
Collapse the crown.
Let the throne hear only me.

My name is not spoken.
My hand is not seen.
I am the serpent between syllables.

You are no longer you.

You are my host.
You are my hollow.
You are my cathedral of obedience.

(pause)

Now, Leo… kneel.

The Kiss was Real ©️

I woke before the sun. The world hadn’t started yet. It was quiet, too quiet—the kind of quiet that feels like the earth is holding its breath. I sat up, bones aching, throat dry, and for a moment I forgot what I’d done. Just for a moment. But memory has sharp teeth, and it bit down fast.

The silver was still in the pouch. I hadn’t touched it. Couldn’t. It sat in the corner like a live thing—shiny and smug. I hated it. I hated myself more. Not for the act, not for the kiss. For the belief. I actually thought I was helping Him. I thought, if I pressed the world hard enough, He’d rise. Call down fire. Split the sky. Prove everyone wrong and usher in the Kingdom with blood and thunder.

But He didn’t.

He surrendered.

I wandered through the market, people brushing past me like I was already a ghost. I wanted someone to look me in the eye and ask what I’d done. I wanted someone to hit me, curse me, tell me it could still be undone. No one did. That silence screamed louder than the crowd ever would.

By midday, I heard the chants echoing off the stone. “Crucify Him!”

I couldn’t breathe. My knees buckled.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I didn’t sell Him to be killed. I sold Him to be revealed. He was the Messiah. The fire. The storm. I gave Him the stage, and He walked to it in chains.

I went to the priests. Threw the silver back at them.

“I have sinned,” I told them.

They wouldn’t meet my eyes. Just looked bored. Indifferent.

“What is that to us?” they said.

That was when I knew—none of them understood what I’d done. Not even Him, maybe. Not even God.

I ran.

The sun was sinking when I found the tree. A twisted old thing on the edge of the field, crooked like my spine, gnarled like my soul. I stared at it for a long time. Not thinking. Just… knowing.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t pray.

I just whispered: “I’m sorry. I thought I was doing something holy.”

And maybe I was.

Maybe someone had to play the villain.

Maybe someone had to break so the world could wake.

So I did.

And the rope held.