The Murder of Black Women; The Apology Have a seat sister; this may
take a while. Don't be afraid. The two pistols you see smoking in
my hands are harmless now. Both clips are empty, much like a Larry
Elders speech. And even though I was aiming at the System when I
first unloaded shots into the air, I see now that I missed the
target. The System remains intact while you sit wounded and
battle-weary from decades of bullets being lodged deep into your
heart and soul. I murdered you many times. Still, you didn't die:
not even once. I apologize for abandoning you and leaving you to
fend for yourself in a world as cruel as it is cold. I should have
supported you when you offered to be apart of the struggle. But the
struggle was an internal one as well as an external one, and I was
losing on both fronts. I got mad at you for straightening your
hair, for slow dancing in the arms of white men, for challenging my
manhood and comparing it to other races. I hated the way the System
divided us by promoting you and demoting me, but instead of uniting
with you and having your back, I attacked you and left you alone in
your grief. I apologize for flaunting white women in your face as
soon as I got money or fame. I was suffering from a mental illness
that had me believing that my self-worth had to be approved by blue
eyes. I know it hurt you to see me betray you so quickly, so
easily, and so often. I had you feeling as though you were not
worthy to be in my arms when the opposite was true. I was not
worthy of yours. I apologize for calling you a "%#&@$!" and a
"hoe" and treating you like a sexual object in my music, and in the
streets, and amongst my homeboys. I felt powerless and frustrated,
lost in maze of self-hatred. I raped you, and pimped you, and beat
you, and cursed you, and tried to destroy you in the same way I
felt destroyed. The pressures of society triggered the implosion
that almost destroyed everything inside of me. And you got caught
up in the blast because you were always so determined to stand
firmly by my side. I murdered you many times. Still, you didn't
die: not even once. I apologize for cheating on you, abusing you,
and leaving you as soon as you got pregnant. I pretended like the
child wasn't mine. I even asked you to kill the baby because I knew
I wasn't responsible enough to rear him/her properly. When you
refused, I reluctantly tossed you a few dollars each month and felt
like that's all I had to do to be a father. I apologize for turning
you into a single mother instead of a happy wife. I apologize for
selling drugs and going to prison and using the streets as an
excuse for my failure. I didn't want to be like the honest folks in
my hood who worked hard and had nothing to show for it. I wanted
more out of life but didn't have the courage or the insight to
follow the path of the brothers who worked hard in school to build
stable futures and lives for themselves. I grew up angry at the
world and my environment. But instead of using this anger in a
constructive manner, I beat down and shot up the first brother who
stepped on my shoes in the club. I apologize for dying so young in
the streets. I just wanted respect. I just wanted power. And the
only people in my hood who possessed these qualities were the
gangsters and thugs and dealers. You warned me to be careful. You
begged me to slow down. But I didn't listen. The respect of the
street was all I had. It was something I was willing to kill for,
to even die for. I was fighting a war against myself, and dying for
a cause that didn't exist. I apologize for breaking your heart and
betraying your trust and hurting you so badly that you became
almost as racist as the System. You started calling all black men
dogs and writing cruel little Waiting to Exhale type books that
spent too much time degrading me instead of explaining that good
black men are the majority. Your anger and books flew high, like
African Jehaka birds, towards the tree branches of my soul. But
instead of forgiving me and attempting to rebuild your nest, your
anger and books became woodpeckers and pecked away at what was left
of me. You screamed out that good black men were hard to find and
blamed me for your actions when you held white men in your arms. I
tried to tell you that I was the minority, and that good black men
were everywhere, but it was easier for you to point fingers at me
than it was to give these brothers a chance. I should have treated
you like the queen that you are so that other black men wouldn't be
falsely accused of my emotional crimes. I murdered you many times.
Still, you didn't die: not even once. I apologize for encouraging
you to be materialistic. I dumped my money into the same System
that was destroying me and tried to impress you with expensive
cars, platinum jewelry, and Polo gear. I fooled you into thinking
that the measure of a man was in his bank account or in the size of
the knot in his front pocket. You jumped into the front seat of my
Lexus, happy because your friends were now envious of you, as we
both sped down a dead end road at one hundred miles per hour. As a
result, many black men who didn't own a Lexus were ignored and even
dismissed by you. I had you believing that your love came with a
price tag. I apologize for the late night booty calls. You wanted
to talk, to cuddle, and to explore the depth of my character. I
only wanted sex. I called you when I was horny and only reached out
to you when I saw that you were slipping away. I should have talked
to you and opened up to you. Instead, I trusted only my homeboys
and factored you out of the equation. And I apologize for turning
you against your friends and family members. I was jealous of their
influence over you. I was afraid that you would listen to them when
they told you that I was not good for you. I didn't have a job, and
when I did, I used it as a weapon against you. When wise sisters
told you to raise your standards, I persuaded you to lower them. I
had you thinking that you had to have a man, any man, to be
complete. And I apologize for that. I murdered you many times,
sister. Yet, incredibly, amazingly, you didn't die. Not even once.
And this serves as the ultimate testimony to your true greatness
Omar Silk feat. Turbulence Music Video
