Blog 23: The Hood, The Lie of Sacrifice & The Freedom of Truth
The Hood Is Heavy
There’s something deeply unsettling about the “hood”—not just the geography of it, but the spirit it carries. I live in the hood. It’s loud. It’s bitter. It’s angry.
And more often than not, it’s dangerous—not only to the body, but to the soul.
The fruits are the same, over and over again: scarcity, jealousy, gossip, violence, and trauma dressed up as toughness.
You feel it in the streets. You hear it in the casual cruelty of neighbors.
And somehow, you’re just expected to adapt.
But I can’t romanticize the hood. Not today. Because what I see is a system that was engineered to break people down—and sadly, it's doing just that.
A Short History: How the Townships Were Designed
Let’s be clear: black people didn’t choose the hood—the system chose it for us.
South African townships, where the majority of black communities still reside, were a product of apartheid’s violent spatial planning.
These areas were underfunded, overcrowded, and placed on the periphery—physically and economically. They were designed to separate, suppress, and surveil black bodies. Paved roads? Minimal. Safety? Nonexistent. Access to opportunities? Out of reach.
The result: generations later, we're still living in spaces created with oppression in mind, now expected to flourish like roses in concrete.
My Early Experience Was Different
I didn’t always live in the hood. The earlier part of my life was spent in a black suburb—clean, paved roads, one entrance in and one out. There was structure. Community. People planned together, prayed together, and executed with intelligence and maturity.
We weren’t perfect, but there was purpose.
And now? The contrast hits me daily. The neighborhood I live in now is loud—not just in volume, but in its pain.
The Scarcity Mindset and False Collectivism
There’s a difference between black collectivism and the survivalist mob mentality that festers in under-resourced townships.
True collectivism uplifts and unites.
Survival mode makes people violent, selfish, and suspicious.
The world taught us that there isn’t enough—enough money, enough jobs, enough land, enough safety. So we fight over scraps and glorify the trauma that shaped us.
It’s painful. It’s familiar. But it’s also not okay.
I Am Not The Savior
For the longest time, I thought God had sent me here to "save" the hood.
To stay in suffering. To be a light. To sacrifice.
But let me call myself in: that is not faith—that is idolatry.
That is me placing myself in the position of Jesus, believing that my presence alone can redeem a broken system.
That’s not the Gospel. That’s ego.
God already sent His only Son for mankind. I'm not Him.
You’re not Him either, sis.
We Are Called To Multiply, Not Martyr Ourselves
We are called to pray, to worship God, and to obey.
We are called to increase, to subdue the land, and occupy territory.
Nowhere does God say we must shrink ourselves to fit systems He never designed.
Nowhere does He say we must die daily just to prove our loyalty to our community while losing ourselves in the process.
Let’s clock that tea.
You can be passionate about black liberation and walk away from toxicity.
You can love your people without playing Jesus.
Final Thoughts: Get in Your Lane, Not on the Cross
So today, I lay my savior complex down.
And I pick up my purpose.
I refuse to stay in a cycle of suffering, thinking it proves I’m holy or good.
I was never called to be a martyr for a community that refuses healing.
I was called to serve God, worship Him alone, and to build what He tells me to build.
So let’s get in our bags. Let’s get in our purpose.
Let’s build with intelligence, strategy, and grace.
We’re not saviors. We’re seeds. Let’s plant well.
Comments
Post a Comment