Blood at the Root

by LaDarrion Williams

Life is your birthright, they hid that in the fine print. Take the pen and rewrite it. —BEYONCÉ, “Bigger,” from The Lion King: The Gift

In just minutes, my magic was here, and my mama was dead and gone. Maybe there’s a reason why Black boys like me don’t have magic powers. Because no good ever comes from it.

It’s a funny thing about smells and how they can trigger memories you’ve tucked away for so long.

I got pain, anger, and magic inside my DNA.

It is hot as hell. Muggy. Humid. That type of heat makes your sweat feel like syrup and build in places only God knows about.

“You got a right to the tree of life…. Ups and downs, but you got a right to the tree of life….”

“Voodoo, which is from the original word Vodun, is a religious belief system originating in Africa. The motherland. Whereas Hoodoo is a derivative of the teachings of Vodun. Enslaved folks and their descendants took what they learned in their native ways and modernized it and mixed it with Christian ideology. The origins being from Kongo/Igbo.”

Dr. Akeylah’s voice haunts me from a distance. Bane magic—using your powers to tap into dark, sinister forces for your own will. I’m sorry. But something in me can’t. Bane magic is tempting me. Please, I need your help. Peeling the letter back, really studying the words, feeling the edge of the piece of paper. Damn, something was clearly bothering my mama, but what?

I shoot him a respectful fuck you eye roll and walk out.

“That’s why I became a cop, Malik, to change the way things are.” “Can’t change something that’s been built off the backs of niggas. You a part of the system.” “I get it. The system’s broken—” “Nah. You don’t get it; this system is doin’ exactly what it was designed to do.”

God bless the broken road that keeps on leading me back home.