They never told me it would feel like this.
They didn’t say that answering the ancestral call would make your skin feel electric and your soul feel ancient, all at once. They didn’t warn that “stepping into your power” would sometimes make you feel like a fucking weirdo in a world that only understands the language of the mundane.
But here I am. A bridge.
The first in my bloodline to walk this path with eyes open, hands up, and voice clear.
This is not a hobby. This is a covenant.
The Protocols Came First: A Sober Clarion Call
It began with the wine. My favorite occasional drink. A simple pleasure. Then Spirit, in that unmistakable, internal voice that is both whisper and command, said, “No more.”
It wasn’t a suggestion about morality. It was a protocol about vibration. A surgeon does not operate with foggy hands. A radio tower does not transmit on a cluttered frequency. A Mongo Witch, a Hoodoo Conjurer, a Healer—this is what I am becoming—does not mediate between worlds with a muddied spirit.
In the Kongo traditions that inform my path, this is a lukaku: a sacred restriction. It is not a punishment, but a fortification. They were not taking something away; they were asking for the purest, most potent version of my energy to work with. It was the first, clearest sign that my training had moved from the theoretical to the deeply, dangerously real.
This is the lifestyle now: a life of conscious sovereignty. Every herb, every word, every cup of water on the ancestor altar, every moment of solitude is an ingredient in the medicine. My body is no longer just a body; it is the primary nkisi—the sacred container of power.
The Weirdo Feeling: The Weight of the Bridge
To be the bridge is to feel alone, until you realize you are profoundly accompanied.
The “weirdo” feeling is the stretching of your spirit. You are rooted in the physical—in the hoodoo traditions born of Southern soil, of survival, of rust and nails and red brick dust. And you are branched into the spiritual—into the Mongo stream of Central Africa, of the rainforest, of the ancestors who speak in the patterns of light and the silence between heartbeats.
You are translating a language forgotten by the living for an audience that lives just beyond the veil. Of course it feels strange. You are dismantling generations of spiritual silence. The loneliness is the birth pang of a reawakening lineage.
My Practice: A Three-Cord Strand
My spiritual practice is a braid of three sacred cords:
1. The Hoodoo Root: This is my grounding cord. It is practical, tactile, and born of the genius of my African American ancestors who made medicine from the land that bore witness to their trauma. It is the work of the hands: the mojo bags, the floor washes, the whispered prayers over a candle. It is power drawn directly from pine, from pepper, from the crossroads dirt.
2. The Healer’s Hand: This is my channel. It is the sensitivity to energy, to imbalance, to the stories held in the body and spirit. It is the listening that happens before the doing. It is the compassion that must be balanced, always, by the warrior’s discernment. To heal, one must sometimes cleanse. To mend, one must sometimes set a boundary so fierce it crackles.
3. The Mongo Witch’s Fire: This is my direct, ancestral current. It is the Kongo cosmology flowing through my veins—the understanding of kindoki (spiritual power), the respect for the bakulu (ancestors), the relationship with the natural world as a living, intelligent colleague. It is fierce, direct, and uncompromising. It demands integrity, because to wield this fire without it is to burn yourself down.
These are not separate paths. They are a single, braided rope, strong enough for me to use as a lifeline and a lasso.
A Message to the Other Bridges
If you are reading this and your spirit is stirring—if you feel the ancient pull, the strange dreams, the inexplicable knowings, the frustrating protocols—see me.
I am a mirror.
You are not crazy. You are not a weirdo. You are the rememberer.
You are the one your ancestors have been whispering to. The isolation is part of the initiation. The restrictions are the shape of your unique power being carved out. The fear is just the edge of a frontier your soul agreed to cross long before you took this body.
This path is not paved with rose petals. It is paved with eggshells, graveyard dirt, glowing roots, and ancestral tears turned to diamonds. It is the most difficult and most magnificent thing you will ever do.
You do not walk it to be special. You walk it because you are essential. You are the bridge they built in the dreamtime, now made flesh.
So tend your altar.
Listen to the quietest voice.
Respect the protocols.
And when you stand, as I do, between the shack and the rainforest, between the past and the future, between the living and the dead—stand firm.
The world needs its bridges.
Asé. May your roots be deep and your connection clear.
This blog is an offering from my spirit to yours. It is born of my lived experience as a practitioner. It is not a blueprint, but a testimony. If you feel called to learn more, I invite you to explore the services and pages of this site. Walk good.
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