The Crown & The Cross: Bloodlines of a Nubian Daughter

I was born with gold in my blood and prayers in my bones.

Before I had a name, I had a lineage.

Before I ever took a breath, I had a story—a sacred one, written by the Most High and whispered into the earth by my ancestors.

I am not a single thread—I am the entire tapestry.

Stitched with the hues of empires and exiles, royalty and resilience, divinity and diaspora.

And this is my story.

The Blood That Remembers

Long before my feet touched Caribbean soil, my soul danced along the coasts of Ghana, Liberia, and Sierra Leone.

There, among the palm trees and fortress walls, my ancestors wept, resisted, and remembered.

They were not just taken—they were transformed.

Carried in chains across oceans, they turned trauma into tradition and pain into praise.

From the looms of Nigeria and the rhythms of the Senegambian & Guinean coast, their spirits poured into my bloodstream, forging a birthright I did not choose—but one I now fully claim.

These were not just people.

They were queens, griots, blacksmiths, seers, warriors—the chosen of the Most High.

And now, I wear their memories as a crown.

Whispers from the Nile

In the quiet spaces of my spirit, I hear a different voice—older, wiser, royal.

A sliver of Egyptian blood—ties me to temples and tombs, to sacred geometry and the divine feminine power of Isis.

It is this whisper that reminds me:
You are not just from royalty. You are from revelation.

You are not merely a descendant—you are destined.

My walk is not casual—it is calculated. My womb is not empty—it is encoded.

The scrolls may have been burned, but the truth still lives…
in me.

The Fire Beneath My Feet

From the Congo River’s thunder to the heat of Angola’s soil, my DNA carries the strength of Central Africa.
Angolan. Congolese. Southern East African.

This fire is not rage—it is remembrance.

It is the force that turns buried bones into blooming futures.

It is the pulse that lets me walk into boardrooms, ministries, and spiritual spaces with unapologetic sacred power.

Because I do not walk alone.

The Crown of Congo is still on my head.

The Cross of Christ still marks my purpose.

The Intruder’s Ink

There is also blood that came through force—British, Irish, French, German.

The colonizer's inheritance.

And yet…

Even that blood submits to the divine calling placed on my life.

What was once used to enslave is now used to empower.

What once wounded now worships.

I am not ashamed of this ink in my lineage—it is merely part of the script.

A reminder that I have survived systems, outlived empires, and still rise royal.

Rooted in Sacred Soil

Buried deep beneath it all is a presence that grounds me:
Indigenous American.

Earth walker. Fire keeper. Water whisperer.

I do not just descend from soil—I am soul of the soil.

The drumbeats, the herbs, the moon rituals—they feel familiar because they are ancestral memories coded into my bones.

In a world obsessed with disconnection, my DNA is my reminder that I was always woven into the web of sacred earthwork.

My Crown. My Cross. My Calling.

I am the living artifact of divine strategy.

A Nubian daughter reborn through diaspora—called to build altars with my art, liberate with my language, and reign with sacred responsibility.

This is more than ancestry.

It is my anointing.

I wear the Crown not for vanity, but for visibility.

So my ancestors can see their prayers fulfilled.

So my daughters, my son, and grandchildren, can know what royalty feels like in the marrow.

So the world will never forget who we are.

And I carry the Cross, not as a burden—but as a banner.

Proof that I was chosen.

Saved.

And sent.

👑 ✝️ I Am Nubia. I Wear the Crown. I Carry My Cross.

And I am the continuation of everything they tried to destroy.