The Gospel According To Us
I. The First Testament Was Ours
I didn’t come back to God because life collapsed.
I came back because reclaiming myself required a clarity more honest than survival.
Leaving an emotionally and mentally abusive relationship — one threaded with violations that were never named as violence because they didn’t bruise — demanded a dismantling of identity so meticulous it felt like excavation. I didn’t just rebuild. I unearthed. Grief became methodology. Silence became evidence. And somewhere in that reconstruction, I stopped asking how to move on and started asking who I was before I began diminishing myself to accommodate someone else’s comfort.
Every layer I peeled back revealed something beyond fear, beyond injury, beyond the frameworks I’d used to explain myself.
An intensifying perceptiveness.
A rising interior clarity.
A widening spiritual frequency that sharpened each time I told the truth about what I had endured — and what I refused to carry forward.
That clarity followed me into the car one evening not long after sunset.
Driving had become my ritual of decompression — long stretches of quiet road, music blaring, a small pocket of stillness carved out from a demanding job and a life I was trying to rebuild with precision. I wasn’t meditating. I wasn’t invoking. I wasn’t asking for anything. I was simply moving through dusk, letting the horizon steady me.
Then everything went silent.
Like the air had been emptied, like the world had paused mid-breath.
And then it happened.
A voice — deep, thunderous, unmistakably masculine — tore through that silence and filled the entire car with one word:
“SHIVA!”
The sound reverberated through metal and thought.
I didn’t feel fear.
I felt recognition — the kind that arrives with authority, not intrusion.
It didn’t sound like imagination.
It didn’t sound like memory.
It sounded like a truth that had been waiting for me to become undeniable to myself.
That moment didn’t bring me to God.
It revealed that God had been waiting for me to catch up.
It gave context to my intuition, my awareness, my ancestry, my sensing — all the pieces of myself I had once tried to rationalize into something smaller. Every question I had about who I was spiritually — and where it came from — shifted from isolation to coherence.
Not denial — continuity of self.
Not dismissal — continuity of truth.
Not coincidence — continuity of something that refuses erasure.
It was the beginning of tracing my instincts backward — through diaspora, through erasure, through silence, through survival — until I arrived at the threshold of something beyond articulation.
History confirms what we have always carried.
African cosmologies held the Divine long before any Bible existed:
Yoruba honored Olódùmarè — a supreme creator outside time.
Igbo called the Source Chukwu — the Great Spirit.
Kongo cosmology mapped creation along a cross-shaped axis linking the living and the ancestral.
Akan spoke of Nyame, the One whose breath holds all things.
Kemetic theology articulated the Neteru, principles of cosmic intelligence so refined that modern physics still chases their language.
The Dogon charted the Sirius star system with astronomical precision long before Western telescopes claimed discovery.
These systems weren’t religions.
They were total cosmologies — integrated networks of ethics, astronomy, ecology, metaphysics, medicine, divination, social order, and ceremonial life.
So when Cheikh Anta Diop wrote that Africa is “the cradle of humanity and the cradle of civilization” (The African Origin of Civilization, 1974), I didn’t feel enlightened — I felt affirmed.
When Zora Neale Hurston wrote that “research is formalized curiosity” (Dust Tracks on a Road, 1942), I understood my curiosity had always been deeper than the education offered to me.
When Marimba Ani exposed how European epistemologies fracture what African worldviews hold in harmony in Yurugu (1994), I recognized that the rupture was never inherent to us — it was engineered through narrative.
We weren’t empty before missionaries arrived.
We weren’t waiting for revelation.
We weren’t wandering in some imagined darkness.
We had light.
We were light.
We generated light.
And we preserved it — through drum, through dance, through trance, through ceremony, through cosmology, through survival — even when the world tried to sever us from ourselves.
African people shaped the world’s earliest theological frameworks — including the traditions that predate and inform the Bible.
Not only geographically — spiritually.
Ancient Israel did not arise from Europe.
It did not emerge from whiteness.
It did not originate in the West.
It emerged from an Afro-Asiatic corridor that produced Ethiopia, Nubia, Kemet, and Kush — cultures with unmistakably African religious, linguistic, and aesthetic identities.
The people who scripted our erasure into their religious texts also wrote themselves into a God who never belonged to them.
Western Christianity is a translation layered over a translation layered over a confiscated memory.
It is governance masquerading as gospel.
A colonizing grammar presented as Divine order.
Once you see that, everything shifts:
The genealogies of Genesis look different.
The geography of Exodus looks different.
The prophets look like people whose descendants now fill the diaspora.
And the historical Jesus reads not as a sanitized Eurocentric figure, but as a colonized, Afro-Semitic man teaching sovereignty under oppression.
The Bible becomes something else entirely when you stop reading it through Europe’s mouth.
**Before there were priests, we were prophets.
Before there were churches, we were temples.
Before there was Scripture, there was story — and story lived in us.**
Our first testament wasn’t inscribed on papyrus.
It was embodied in practice — dawn invocations, the touch of soil during planting, how we honored those who transitioned, the ceremonies carried across oceans in the bodies of enslaved people who refused spiritual extinction.
Everything that came after — conversion, condemnation, translation — was interruption, not inception.
Our beginning is resonant.
Our beginning is enduring.
Our beginning is ours.
If there is a gospel, we deserve to write it — because the first word ever spoken was spoken in our image.
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II. We Were Never Meant To Forget
The deeper I went into my own remembering, the more I realized that forgetting had never been an accident. Forgetting was engineered. Forgetting was policy. Forgetting was a strategy of domination for the people who needed us to believe that our story began with chains.
The narrative calls it Diaspora —
but our story is the story of dislocation, dispersal, and deliberate scattering.
The breaking of worlds and the carrying of worlds at the same time.
And the proof is everywhere if you know where to look.
The First Israelites Were Not Who We Were Taught They Were
When I first learned about the Hebrew Israelites — the communities across Africa and our scattered nations whose histories, languages, and oral traditions trace back to ancient Israel — it didn’t feel far-fetched. It felt familiar.
I saw echoes of my own people in the tribal names, the customs, the migrations, the songs, the rituals that survived captivity in every direction.
And it is truth supported by record, research, and witness.
Scholars like:
Tudor Parfitt, Black Jews in Africa and the Americas
Edwin Yamauchi, Africa and the Bible
James E. Landing, Black Judaism
Rudolph Windsor, From Babylon to Timbuktu
…all confirm that Black Israelite communities existed long before Europe inserted itself into the narrative.
Parfitt demonstrated that the Lemba of Zimbabwe carry the Cohen Modal Haplotype — a signature of ancient Israel’s priestly bloodline.
Yamauchi traced linguistic and cultural ties linking Ethiopia, Eritrea, Sudan, and West Africa to Israel’s earliest traditions.
Landing mapped African Israelite migrations across entire regions.
Windsor showed how Hebrews fled into Africa after 70 CE and merged into African kingdoms.
The conclusion is both undeniable and obvious:
Black people were among the first Israelites.
Scripture affirms it:
“Princes shall come out of Egypt; Ethiopia shall soon stretch out her hands unto God.”
— Psalm 68:31
and
“Are ye not as children of the Ethiopians unto me, O children of Israel?”
— Amos 9:7
Africa and Israel named as kin —
not as metaphor, but as record.
Kush appears more than fifty times in the Old Testament — referenced as a sovereign African power, central to the Biblical world.
And Revelation’s description of Christ is unmistakable:
“Hair like wool, and feet like burnished bronze.”
— Revelation 1:14–15
A description that mirrors our people more than any Western painting ever dared to show.
This is reclamation.
This is historical correction.
This is memory restored.
As Tupac warned —
“They’ll try to take everything you have, and then judge you for having nothing.”
Administrative Violence & The Rewriting Of God
The agents of European expansion — priests, soldiers, traders, and crown-backed “civilizers” — understood something devastating:
you cannot dominate a people whose God looks like them.
So they attacked the Source.
They outlawed ancestral rites.
Confiscated sacred objects.
Restricted drumming.
Banned possession ceremonies.
Punished diviners.
Criminalized healers.
Redefined African spiritual authority as threat.
They replaced our spiritual institutions with their own —
not to uplift, but to restructure power.
They labeled our diviners as “witches.”
They labeled our healers as “sorcerers.”
They labeled our ceremonial leaders as “deviants.”
Anyone carrying spiritual authority outside their sanctioned systems was targeted.
Meanwhile, centuries later, the very practices they condemned were stripped of their Black roots and turned into profitable industries:
Smudging rebranded as “cleansing.”
Ancestor communion renamed “inner work.”
African percussion turned into “sound therapy.”
Spirit possession softened into “somatic healing.”
Divination reframed as “intuitive coaching.”
Sacred breathwork commercialized as “wellness.”
Our spiritual sciences became their wellness economy.
Our ceremonial technologies became their profit pipelines.
As Bob Marley reminded us —
“Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery; none but ourselves can free our minds.”
What They Could Not Claim, We Disguised
Despite every attempt to erase us, our spiritual systems survived by mutating in plain sight:
The ring shout — a West African ceremonial technology disguised as church praise.
Call-and-response — the architecture of communal worship long before Christianity existed.
Laying of hands — an ancestral healing rite wrapped inside Christian prayer.
Possession traditions — renamed the Holy Ghost.
Even the quiet prayers of our elders — the rocking, humming, whispered names — were ceremonies carrying worlds inside them.
When The Lie Cracked Open
My break with the church wasn’t born from scandal or outrage.
It was the moment I realized the God I had been instructed to fear had nothing to do with the God who had been guiding me all along.
The church gave me rules.
The church gave me shame.
The church made me believe that everything I was belonged to sin.
But the God who has always moved with me?
That God carries depth.
That God carries knowledge.
That God carries a truth untouched by their sanctioned beliefs.
Once that clarity arrived, I couldn’t return to the version of myself who believed their story over my own.
The gospel according to them demanded obedience.
The gospel according to us demands reclamation.
Because reclamation restores power.
Because reclamation exposes the architecture of the lie.
Because reclamation rewrites the world from the ground up.
Because reclamation resurrects what they tried to extinguish.
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III. We Were The Technology
They told us our practices were superstition because the truth was too destabilizing:
we were practicing science before their world had language for it.
In the communities I come from — both in this lifetime and the ones I’ve remembered — spiritual authority wasn’t symbol. It was infrastructure.
Ritual wasn’t performance. It was technology.
Ceremony wasn’t decoration. It was governance.
African spiritual systems functioned as multi-layered networks of metaphysics, medicine, mathematics, ancestral jurisprudence, ecological management, and cosmological mapping — systems so sophisticated that Western anthropology still struggles to interpret them without shrinking them into folklore. As Jacob Olupona writes in African Religions: A Very Short Introduction, African spirituality “is not a set of doctrines, but a lived, dynamic system of knowledge and practice,” predating the Western categories imposed on it.
But when you’re born with gifts, and those gifts come online, none of it feels like folklore.
It feels like recognition.
Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o reminds us that “memory is the weapon” (Decolonising the Mind). And for our people, that weapon traveled across oceans not in scripture, but in breath, in rhythm, in inherited knowing carried body to body.
Our dispersal didn’t erase our Scripture.
It expanded its terrain.
Zora Neale Hurston once said, “Research is formalized curiosity” (Dust Tracks on a Road, 1942). But for us, curiosity was older than research — a way of seeing that the world tried and failed to quiet.
The Moment Everything Returned
I remember when my senses cracked open after I left the relationship that almost erased me.
Not the first opening — but the moment the gifts I’d carried my entire life stepped forward so completely they could no longer be muted.
Emotional abuse, psychological control, and sexual violation had built a cage around my perception — but once I broke the cage, everything sharpened.
Patterns I used to ignore suddenly pulsed with meaning.
The guidance in my own mind started speaking in full sentences — calm, precise, impossible to dismiss.
Strangers’ emotions clung to my skin like humidity.
Ancestral presence felt like pressure in the room.
My intuition arrived with clarity that left no room to negotiate.
That was the moment the air changed around me.
That was the moment my power took its rightful place in the room.
The Technologies We Carried
Long before anyone called these traditions “religion,” they operated as systems — finely engineered spiritual technologies.
Ifá moves through a divinatory matrix so mathematically complex that scholar Wande Abimbola describes it as “a philosophical, poetic, and numerical corpus capable of explaining every aspect of existence” (Ifá: An Exposition of the Literary Corpus).
Vodou is a structured diplomatic network between planes, with protocols and jurisdictions carried through centuries — a point Malidoma Somé affirms when he writes that African cosmologies are “technologies of relation” (Of Water and the Spirit).
Hoodoo is tactical intelligence — chemistry, botany, psychology, and spirit negotiation woven into survival strategy. As Yvonne Chireau writes in Black Magic: Religion and the African American Conjuring Tradition, Hoodoo is “a system of supernatural technologies designed to influence, protect, and recalibrate the conditions of life.”
Obeah is political technology — encrypted communication, protection, counter-governance. Historian Diana Paton notes in The Cultural Politics of Obeah that it worked as “a juridical and spiritual practice of resistance,” an encrypted system for safeguarding community and subverting threatened power.
Dagara cosmology functions as emotional architecture, mapping communal balance across elemental fields, as Malidoma Somé explains through the fire–water–earth–mineral–nature relational system.
Philosopher Kwasi Wiredu argued that African knowledge systems are not symbolic but operational, designed with their own internal logics and metaphysical coherence (Cultural Universals and Particulars).
Theologian John S. Mbiti wrote that African spirituality is “a way of life woven into every moment” (African Religions and Philosophy).
Jonas Adama describes African cosmology as “a continuum between visible and invisible worlds,” a spiritual circuitry rather than creed (African Spiritual Traditions and the Invisible World).
These weren’t hobbies.
These weren’t theatrics.
These weren’t superstitions.
These were technologies — technologies so advanced they had to be demonized because they could not be controlled.
Ritual As Data, Ceremony As Science
Ritual is data.
Divination is information architecture.
Ceremony is energetic engineering.
Possession is communication between planes.
Ancestral veneration is a transgenerational network.
Trance is frequency modulation.
Incantation is vibrational programming.
Offering is exchange theory.
Initiation is spiritual credentialing.
These were sciences long before the West had the tools to measure them.
Western science only arrived centuries later to study what our people had already mapped.
They laughed at possession states, then built neuroscience around altered consciousness.
They mocked herbalists, then built pharmaceutical empires extracting our remedies molecule by molecule.
They shamed mediumship, then published peer-reviewed studies on psi and anomalous cognition.
They outlawed ancestral work, then commercialized epigenetics and called it innovation.
What they ridiculed in us, they rebranded in themselves.
What they criminalized in us, they monetized.
What they feared in us, they renamed as wellness.
Modern neuroscience, anthropology, and physics have only recently begun to validate what these systems already mastered.
Sylvia Wynter argues that African cosmologies reveal a human “beyond the terms Europe used to confine us” (Unsettling the Coloniality of Being).
And still, even Wynter’s brilliance is only an echo of what our people practiced long before theory existed — proof that African systems were never waiting to be discovered; the world was simply late to the truth.
When My Power Came Back Online
My abilities intensified the moment I started asking questions about what they meant.
At first it was subtle — a tightness in my core before certain conversations, a presence settling at the edge of my awareness.
Then it became unmistakable:
Heat gathering in my palms.
Pressure at the back of my spine.
Instructions forming cleanly in the inner corridor of my mind.
A knowing that rose ahead of thought itself.
It didn’t feel supernatural.
It felt inherited — a spiritual architecture reactivating.
To awaken spiritually in a Black body is to destabilize every hierarchy designed to diminish you.
A spiritually awakened Black population is ungovernable.
Unmanageable.
Uncolonizable.
A sovereign network.
A dispersed priesthood.
A living archive.
This is why our systems were forbidden.
Why our rites were outlawed.
Why our priests were targeted.
Because once we remember the technologies we are built from, the world they engineered cannot hold.
The Return Of What They Failed To Destroy
Now everything rises again:
Mediumship.
Energy work.
Divination.
Trance.
Ancestral communication.
Ceremony.
Initiation.
These aren’t relics.
They are synchronization — a collective reactivation timed with the frequency of this era.
The world has hit an energetic threshold that calls these systems forward, summoning what has always lived in us.
Every African cosmology agrees:
When the world falls out of balance, the ones who carry the oldest technologies rise first.
We are rising,
softness optional,
silence impossible,
apology irrelevant —
with the force of a power restored,
a system remembering itself,
coming back online.
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IV. The Gospel According To Us
In the beginning, we were.
Before borders.
Before bondage.
Before the world learned to fear its own reflection in our skin.
We were the first breath carved into clay, the first hands to map the sky, the first minds to speak with what lives beyond sight. We were the pulse beneath the world’s first drum, the ones who learned early that God was not far — God was familiar.
This is the gospel according to us.
Not a gospel of reward or punishment,
not a gospel of submission,
not a gospel built from fear.
A gospel of remembrance.
A gospel of return.
A gospel written in the marrow of the scattered.
A Declaration Of What We Are
We are the people who crossed oceans with our cosmologies intact. The people whose rituals refused extinction. The people whose names the world tried to bury in the mouths of ships, only to find those names rising again in our children’s dreams.
We are the descendants of those who carried the fire when the world went dark.
Diaspora is not fracture — it is constellation. A people mapped across continents, guided by the same ancient intelligence that wired the Dogon to the Sirius star system, the Yoruba to the orisha pantheon, the Kongo to the cosmogram, the Dagara to the elemental councils, the First Nations to the star-beings and the sacred directions, the Afro-Asiatics to the prophets of Kush, Axum, and early Israel.
Our story is not linear. It is orbital — circling back to itself with every generation that wakes up.
This is the gospel according to us — the ones who were never severed, only scattered.
What Us Means
Us is not a closed door. Us is not racial purity or hegemony.
Us is Diaspora made conscious — carriers of memory, survivors of dispersal, those whose bodies held entire cosmologies when books were banned, those whose God did not need validation to be real.
Us is the people who remember — even when remembering burned.
Us is the people who hear the ancestors in frequencies the world still pretends it cannot measure.
Us is the people who resurrect the technologies buried in us for centuries and say: We’re back.
Us is the people who knew God before translation.
Rewriting The Narrative
We do not erase religion. We reveal what came before it. We return the chronology to its original color.
If we were made in God’s image, why were we told to shrink? Why were we told our features were sin, our skin a curse, our rituals demonic, our knowing dangerous?
Why did they fear the Source inside us?
Because the world they built could not survive the truth of the one we came from.
Our gospel is not anti-God — it is pro-Original God.
The God who spoke in rivers, in firelight, in breath, in trance, in unbroken prophetic lineages whose names were never written down but whose power fueled entire civilizations.
We are not here to inherit a narrative. We are here to correct it — echoing June Jordan’s reminder that “we are the ones we have been waiting for” (Poem for South African Women, 1978), a line that has become both compass and call.
And James Baldwin’s truth moves beneath it: “The place in which I’ll fit will not exist until I make it” (Nobody Knows My Name, 1961), a charge to carve the world in our image, not theirs.
A Call To The World
To the wellness industry: stop selling our medicine while silencing our healers.
To the church: stop preaching a God who looks nothing like the people who carried the first Scripture in their skin.
To academia: stop footnoting what our grandmothers already knew.
To the state: stop policing the rituals that kept us alive.
To Hollywood: stop making our gods into monsters and your monsters into saviors.
To the New Age movement: stop renaming what you stole and pretending it came to you in a dream.
To Black respectability: stop trading your inheritance for proximity to the people who erased us.
To diaspora amnesia: wake up — you are carrying worlds.
This is the gospel according to us.
Sharp.
Uncolonized.
Unapologetic.
A truth reflected in Nikki Giovanni’s conviction: “If now isn’t a good time for the truth, I don’t see when we’ll get to it” (Gemini, 1971), an invitation toward honesty without permission.
A Note On Who We Might Have Been
There is a possibility — whispered in genealogies, carried in the Lemba, the Beta Israel, the Igbo, the Falasha, the Kushites — a possibility the world refuses to mention:
That the Diaspora is not only spiritually connected to the Israelites but descended from them.
A revelation.
A truth that rearranges the ground beneath every assumption ever made about us.
If the first people were dark,
if the first prophets were dark,
if the first seers were dark,
if the first sacred tongues were shaped by dark mouths,
if the first cosmologies rose from dark hands —
then the story was always ours to tell.
As Dionne Brand writes, “My job is to notice… and call attention to the noticing” (A Map to the Door of No Return, 2001) — a responsibility we inherited the moment we survived.
Personal Prophecy
And this is where I step into it.
My calling is not performance. It is remembrance.
My gift is not anomaly. It is continuity.
My visions are not deviations. They are transmissions from a world that never forgot me, even when I forgot myself.
I am not here to convince. I am here to speak what I have been told. To return what was entrusted to me. To stand in the place my ancestors prepared when they carried the last of their songs across the water and whispered, You will finish what we could not say.
This is my offering.
My oath.
My presence.
This is the gospel according to us.
The Return
We were never the ones who needed saving.
We were the ones who safeguarded the memory of God.
And now the world bends back toward the people it tried to forget.
Because the origin was Black,
because the Divine was Black,
because the blueprint was Black —
every empire’s version of the story falls apart at our feet.
Kendrick Lamar’s prophecy threads through that return: “We gon’ be alright” (To Pimp a Butterfly, 2015) — a declaration, a march, a rebirth coded into rhythm.
This is the gospel according to us — the ones who carry the beginning and the return.
One love,
ESS xo
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References
African Spirituality, Philosophy, and Anthropology
Abimbola, Wande. Ifá: An Exposition of the Literary Corpus. Oxford University Press, 1976.
Adama, Jonas. African Spiritual Traditions and the Invisible World. (Publication details vary by edition; commonly circulated in West African theological collections.)
Ani, Marimba. Yurugu: An African-Centered Critique of European Cultural Thought and Behavior. Africa World Press, 1994.
Mbiti, John S. African Religions and Philosophy. Heinemann, 1969.
Olupona, Jacob. African Religions: A Very Short Introduction. Oxford University Press, 2014.
Paton, Diana. The Cultural Politics of Obeah: Religion, Colonialism, and Modernity in the Caribbean World. Cambridge University Press, 2015.
Somé, Malidoma Patrice. Of Water and the Spirit: Ritual, Magic, and Initiation in the Life of an African Shaman. Penguin, 1995.
Thiong’o, Ngũgĩ wa. Decolonising the Mind: The Politics of Language in African Literature. Heinemann, 1986.
Wiredu, Kwasi. Cultural Universals and Particulars: An African Perspective. Indiana University Press, 1996.
Wynter, Sylvia. “Unsettling the Coloniality of Being/Power/Truth/Freedom.” CR: The New Centennial Review, vol. 3, no. 3, 2001.
Diaspora, Literature, Memory, and Cultural Theory
Brand, Dionne. A Map to the Door of No Return: Notes to Belonging. Vintage Canada, 2001.
Giovanni, Nikki. Gemini: An Extended Autobiographical Statement on My First Twenty-Five Years of Being a Black Poet. Viking Press, 1971.
Hurston, Zora Neale. Dust Tracks on a Road. J.B. Lippincott, 1942.
Jordan, June. “Poem for South African Women.” 1978.
Baldwin, James. Nobody Knows My Name: More Notes of a Native Son. Dial Press, 1961.
Black Israelite Scholarship & Afro-Asiatic History
Landing, James E. Black Judaism: The Story of an American Movement. Carolina Academic Press, 2002.
Parfitt, Tudor. Black Jews in Africa and the Americas. Harvard University Press, 2013.
Windsor, Rudolph R. From Babylon to Timbuktu: A History of the Ancient Black Races Including the Black Hebrews. Windsor’s Golden Series, 1969.
Yamauchi, Edwin. Africa and the Bible. Baker Academic, 2004.
Music, Prophecy, and Modern Cultural Texts
Lamar, Kendrick. To Pimp a Butterfly. Top Dawg Entertainment, 2015. (Lyric: “We gon’ be alright”)
Marley, Bob. “Redemption Song.” Uprising. Island Records, 1980. (“Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery…”)
Tupac Shakur. Interview and lyrical variations often paraphrased as: “They’ll try to take everything you have, and then judge you for having nothing.” (Commonly attributed to archived media interviews and spoken commentary.)
Scriptural References
Psalm 68:31 — “Princes shall come out of Egypt; Ethiopia shall soon stretch out her hands unto God.”
Amos 9:7 — “Are ye not as children of the Ethiopians unto me, O children of Israel?”
Revelation 1:14–15 — “Hair like wool, and feet like burnished bronze.”
Additional Cultural, Historical & Cosmological References
Akan theology: Nyame
Dogon cosmology: Sirius star system
First Nations cosmologies: star-beings & sacred directions
Igbo cosmology: Chukwu
Kongo cosmogram
Kemetic Neteru
Kush, Axum, Ethiopia, Nubia as Afro-Asiatic cultural zones
Yoruba cosmology: Olódùmarè, the orisha pantheon
Lemba (Southern Africa) — Cohen Modal Haplotype lineage research
