I was born in a land where shadows had names,
where skin decided futures,
and silence was taught like scripture.
I grew up learning the weight of privilege
before I even knew the word for it.
But years have passed,
and I have walked far from that soil.
I have learned to listen,
to unlearn,
to sit with truths that are not mine
and still honour them.
And so I write this now —
not as a man without colour,
but as a man who refuses
to let colour be the reason
someone stays quiet
when their mind is breaking.
Pain does not choose a race.
Crisis does not check a passport.
Despair does not ask
for the shade of your skin
before it settles in your bones.
And healing —
healing belongs to everyone.
To every young Black man
who has been told to be strong,
to swallow it,
to survive it,
to never show the crack in the armour —
you deserve softness too.
You deserve safety.
You deserve a room
where your voice is not questioned
but welcomed.
Therapy is not betrayal.
Medication is not weakness.
Support is not a luxury
reserved for the privileged.
Your story matters.
Your life matters.
Your mind matters.
And if I stand beside you —
it is not to speak over you,
or for you,
or instead of you.
It is to say:
You do not have to carry this alone.
Because in the end,
we all bleed red,
we all break,
we all rise,
and we all deserve
to be held through the storm.
This is my promise:
to keep learning,
to keep listening,
to keep showing up
with humility,
with open hands,
with no agenda
but your safety
and your right to heal.
Colour should never be the lock
on the door to help.
And every one of us
deserves the key.
