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Chapter 4 (Continuation): The Weather Changed When They Came

What’s ironic is how Africa has always been a warm, tropical place, yet after their invasion, the cold crept in—not just the literal temperature, but the spiritual atmosphere too. Before them, the winds carried rhythm and memory, the sun was familiar, not foreign. But as colonizers expanded, the land chilled. They named it climate change, but maybe it's always been consequence. The consequence of disturbing what was once whole and alive. The balance was broken, and the earth responded.

Even time didn’t escape the rewrite. In their calendars, they shifted everything—when days begin, when years start, what months mean. According to nature, a new year begins with spring—when life returns, not in the dead of winter. But they crowned January as the beginning, forcing the rhythm of their frost onto the beating heart of African time. Their 24-hour clock became law, even though we had always followed the sun. Day starts when the light rises and ends when it sets. But they caged time too.

They erased the metaphysical and repackaged it as fiction. Now, the supernatural is no longer remembered but sold—dressed in capes and CGI. Marvel. DC. Mythology. But if you look closely, you’ll see—they’ve been telling our stories, wearing our power like costumes.

Superman? A being from another world, powered by the sun—a power that burns them but strengthens us. How ironic. He is not their reflection. He is ours.

And Avatar: The Last Airbender? That wasn’t fantasy. That was ancestral memory. We were the water carriers, the fire whisperers, the wind dancers, the earth walkers. In Kemet, it was known—we were one with the elements. We didn’t have “many gods”; we lived among the divine. We were interconnected. Every force of nature spoke to us and through us. The priestesses called rain. The oracles read the stars. The elders bent the wind.

Then they took our thunder and gave it to Thor. Gave our ancestral rites to Hollywood. Sold our legacy back to us in comic books and screens. And we said, “I wish I had that power,” forgetting that we did. That we do.

And now, their lands are crumbling. Deserts stretch where rivers once ran. Volcanic eruptions. Tsunamis. Fires. Ice. Nothing is still. Because the people who belonged to the land were ripped away, sold, erased—and the land remembers. The land weeps. The land fights back. Because the soil knows when it has been orphaned.

They call it disaster. We call it reaction.

And when we speak these truths, they say we are angry, or worse, racist. But what is racism compared to erasure? What is anger compared to centuries of theft masked as civilization? What is hate compared to being lied to about who you are?

Even today, they own the beaches. The beaches! They’ve turned everything into possession—from land to sea to sky. And we celebrate heritage on land we do not even own. We dress up on September 24th, not realizing it's a ritual of humiliation—a mocking dance on soil we cannot claim. We perform “roots” without knowing them. Our languages renamed, our surnames stolen, our villages renamed, our maps drawn by hands that came to conquer.

And they say they bought the land. From who? Where are the deeds? The receipts? Because many still live here, on land their ancestors took—and they call it legal.

Meanwhile, a German settler in Namibia or South Africa walks like they belong more than we do. Feels at home. Builds castles. Because whiteness has always meant ownership, even of that which never belonged to them.

And now, they make movies of alien invasions, speaking as if it’s a future threat. But the invasion already happened—twice. First with the Arabs. Then with the West. And Egypt became their crown jewel. The entire Middle East—a place of our memory—was rewritten to become their origin story. They never had identity, so they crafted one using our sacred grounds.

They didn’t travel the world—they lurked. They didn’t explore—they invaded. And when they spoke of monsters—vampires, zombies, creatures who feed on flesh, who drink blood—they weren’t imagining us. They were describing themselves.

And now, we live inside their fiction. We read our power in their pages and forget it was ours first.

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