Chef Ophus

I’m officially official on UNC status now 🤣, and listen… I’ve never felt this level of PEACE in my spirit. My sister and brother in law just dropped the first grandchild off in the world, and I’d like to personally thank that baby for freeing me from YEARS of parental side eye, shade, and unsolicited “so when you settling down?” conversations.

My parents already forgot I exist. My dad said “good morning, son” for the first time in 12 years he meant it for the baby, but still. My mom stopped asking me about grandkids so fast you’d think somebody hit the skip intro button.

This child didn’t just get born… they SAVED me.

Uncle Ophus, walking in freedom like the Israelites after the Red Sea parted.

Anansi () is about more than food it’s about the stories that bind us across oceans and centuries. Every course last weekend at .urbanoasis was a chapter in the Afro-diasporic story: bun & cheese on the corner, seeds that traveled with us, tides that carried memory, crossroads where ancestors whispered, uprisings that fed freedom, and my grandmother’s porch light pie to close it out.

Because whether you’re in Kingston, Lagos, Port-au-Prince, Bahia, or DMV we’ve all got that same thread of survival, laughter, and seasoning running through us. The diaspora don’t just connect us to each other it connects us to the world.

And if you don’t believe me, just ask somebody’s auntie who can stretch one pot of rice to feed the whole block. That’s folklore, that’s history, and that’s flavor.

Cabbage kissed by flame, dripping in sh*to and Dende oil bold, loud, unbothered. Laid on yuca and salt cod, a Diaspora remix of brandade. But this ain’t Provence. This is ours. Sh*to from Ghana. Salt fish from the Caribbean. Yuca from stolen lands and stolen people. What they called scraps, we called supper. What they threw away, we turned into legacy. This is Black food. Black memory. Black pride on a plate.

July 4th thoughts (some of us had work! 😎)…

“The Fire This Time”

They pop fireworks on stolen land,
sing of freedom while cages line the border,
and wave flags like amnesia.

July 4th
where liberty got a barbecue invite,
but truth still ain’t on the guest list.
Where the anthem blares louder
than the cries of the undocumented,
and Black skin still looks like a threat
instead of a birthright.

They love the smoke
just not the kind from protests.
They love the red
just not when it bleeds from our backs.
And they love history
as long as it’s edited for comfort.

A man once sat in the highest seat
with the lowest soul,
turning walls into policy,
and hatred into campaign confetti.
He made mockery of the dream,
then dared to call it patriotism.

But we?
We’ve been here.
Lighting grills and fires.
Telling stories our grandmothers whispered
through spoonfuls of greens and grace.
We’ve been free in ways
no constitution could define.
Black joy, immigrant hustle,
resistance wrapped in rhythm.

So no,
we don’t need your fireworks.
We are the explosion.
Every step we take,
every truth we tell
is the spark this country
has been running from
since 1776.

Let the sky light up.
We been shining.