Nigeria Jones: Part One

I, Nigeria Jones, in order to form a more perfect Black girl, establish justice, insure inner tranquility, provide for my defense, promote my general welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to myself and my posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the united, whole, and complete states of Nigeria Jones.

I, Nigeria Jones, in order to form a more perfect Black girl, establish justice, insure inner tranquility, provide for my defense, promote my general welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to myself and my posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the united, whole, and complete states of Nigeria Jones.

We’ve rented out the community center over on Spruce Street for the birthday party, but it’s not called a birthday party. In the Movement, nothing is ever that superficial. It’s a gratitude celebration marking the one-year anniversary that Freedom Sankofa Jones chose us as his family.

So I am a returning ancestor and I chose to be the daughter of Kofi Sankofa—the Black nationalist, revolutionary freedom fighter, and founder of the Movement, whose mission is to divest from oppressive systems and create an all-Black utopia.

The aunties had smudged every corner with sage, and the scent lingers along with nag champa incense and all the different natural oils the members have on.

When the members start coming in, a sea of braids, locs, afros, wooden beads, and cowrie shells will extend out to each wall of the community center.

She’ll shift the energy in the room as soon as she walks in wearing one of her tie-dye caftans and matching head wrap, her many beaded necklaces and silver bangles making music as she moves, and her waist-length locs swinging from side to side.

My father being a radical activist and all means that if he’s not out on these streets liberating our people, he’s on the internet fighting for the cause.

My father being a radical activist and all means that if he’s not out on these streets liberating our people, he’s on the internet fighting for the cause. And by default, fighting everybody and their mama—Black or white.

He stays, trying to make me feel bad for still being homeschooled. He doesn’t have to try that hard. I live vicariously through my cousin as he navigates his fancy private school and goes to yacht parties on the Delaware River.

“And Philly Friends is far from a regular school—talking about socialism while partying on yachts and charging forty grand for tuition.”

Across the room, Makai starts to unfurl the huge Black Liberation flag to prop it up in the front near my father’s podium—red for the blood of our people, black for the skin of our people, and green for the land of our people.

When he passes the mic to me, my voice is often like Oshun—smooth and undulating.

“In honor of the legendary Black Panther Party for Self-Defense, we invoke their vision of Black liberation in the twenty-first century. Now repeat after me: ‘All power to the people!’”

“And we honor the great Marcus Garvey and the Garveyites,” I continue, “and their vision for Black autonomy and global African liberation from over a hundred years ago. Now say it with me, fam: ‘Africa for the Africans!’”

“That the lands on which we gather are the ancestral lands of the Lenni-Lenape people, whose presence and resilience in Pennsylvania continue to this day. We take this opportunity to honor the original caretakers of this land and recognize the histories of land theft, violence, erasure, and oppression that have brought our movement and ourselves here.”

One of the elders comes up to pour libation for the ancestors as the aunties in the room start with their rhythmic clapping to “Lift Every Voice.”

“We are black, it is true, but tell us, gentlemen, you who are so judicious, what is the law that says that the black man [girl] must belong to and be the property of the white [and black] man?”

My father went around letting everybody know that he was legally strapped. It wasn’t about being a gang member or selling drugs or any of those stereotypical things. It was because of these words that I had to memorize since I was five: A well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

She said what we do is called communal living or an intentional community. Because capitalism and white supremacy want to keep us separated and isolated.

We don’t have any grades or report cards for you to determine her ability to keep up with the academic rigor, but I hope an interview combined with her test scores can convey her intellectual prowess.

My father would never let me go to their schools, especially when he’s starting his own. It’s part of the system that he wants us to divest from—schools, corporations, prisons, and even hospitals. All these institutions that were built on Black labor while oppressing Black people.

My father responded with his booming voice, “We live in America, Natalie. We’re steeped in that kind of violence. This entire country will kill you and will even blame you for it. Your incense and crystals are not going to save you or our daughter.”

My mother became livid and unleashed an inferno on my father. I had to walk away and force myself not to hear any of it. Mama fought back with deadly, puncturing words I couldn’t hear.

Following the rules here will prepare you for navigating gun ownership within the parameters of the law. Remember, we have a legal right to defend ourselves.

She handles the website, runs the Freedom School, applies for city permits for us to protest, manages the volunteers, and solicits donations from the members.

“Well, you look emancipated the way you’re sprawled out across this deck,” I say.

“All right, y’all. This meeting is adjourned. Who’s gonna help me fix the upstairs room?”

“You’ll have plenty of time to reclaim your African heritage through a name that’s fit for a young king,” my father continues with a wide grin.

My sister told me it was your mother’s idea that Kamau go to a school—not just any school, a Quaker one called the Philadelphia Friends. Because it’s progressive, whatever that means.

Maybe that was the first time a crack formed between my parents, and ever since then, there’s been a widening chasm—this hole Mama left behind.

She always told me that a Black woman birthed humanity, that everyone can trace their ancient ancestry to an African woman—the primordial mother, mitochondrial Eve.

Macramé hangings, plants in all sizes, and paintings and illustrations of pregnant women cover every inch of this house, as well as statues and trinkets from every continent.

Sage’s curly afro is pulled back with a green bandanna, and she’s wearing an off-white apron with an embroidered bee on the front—the same exact outfit she had on when Freedom was born.

She was preparing tinctures and salves before I came in—pouring and mixing alcohol, distilled water, and herbs into glass measuring cups.

She was preparing tinctures and salves before I came in—pouring and mixing alcohol, distilled water, and herbs into glass measuring cups.

Nigeria, it’s so messed up that me and my mother had to go behind your father’s back, being all discreet, just to get you to go to school.

But then she says, “I’m not going back to my school. That’s one of the rules for living here, right? Decolonize, divest, and indigenize.”

The name of the school is embossed in fancy silver letters.

Her voice, her warm honey lilt, is all the story, all the dreaming, I need right now.