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It’s important to remember the profound religiosity of many Black women. Their lives are deeply rooted in fervent Christian faith. That’s marked by daily prayer, consistent Bible study, and devout adherence to traditional Baptist, Methodist, Pentecostal, and Evangelical principles. Their relative piety is the cornerstone of their identity, the romantic partner they select, and a powerful force shaping their choice and lifestyle. That is probably why uncertainty lingered when Barack Obama emerged as a charismatic figure in 2008. He might have chosen a spouse from another race. Perhaps a striking blonde caucasian bombshell with hazel green eyes? That choice was perceived as a betrayal of his identity.
So, after the revelation of Barack Obama’s wife, a collective jubilation swept through many African American communities. The anticipation was palpable, fueled by oratory skills and a burgeoning presidential candidacy. The unveiling of Michelle, a Black woman, brought relief. That affirmed the shared heritage or cultural continuity. The 2008 election saw many African Americans casting their ballots for a candidate they perceived to embody traditional Black values. President Obama reinforced this perception following the horrific Charleston church massacre in 2015. He delivered a eulogy for Reverend Pinckney, moving the congregation with his soulful rendition of “Amazing Grace.”
The assumption was that the Obamas represented a deeply rooted, faith-centered, Black family structure. However, years later, a shift in black voter allegiance became evident. Many supported Donald Trump. This realignment followed President Obama’s issuing landmark Executive Orders establishing LGBTQIA+ rights and his wife’s embrace of radical feminist ideals. This divergence revealed an interplay between deeply ingrained cultural expectations and evolving secular priorities. This blog’s central theme stems from a perplexing question: Why did not a devout, Bible-believing, traditionally Christian Black wife (Michelle Obama) influence her husband’s decisions to reflect their faith?
It seems counterintuitive. Furthermore, the African American community hoped the first Black First Lady would seek the presidency. Her qualifications and popularity rival those of her husband. I envisioned a resounding Democratic victory if Vice President Harris chose the former First Lady Michelle Obama as her running mate. However, my unwavering admiration faltered after encountering the First Lady’s memoir and Netflix documentary. Her portrayal as a wronged party rather than a decisive Black leader proved unsettling. Black women celebrate themselves as strong, independent, and accomplished. I could not reconcile the image of vulnerability with the inspirational figure I had championed.
Today, whispers have become venomous swarms buzzing over Michelle Obama’s absence from President Carter’s funeral. A snub? A calculated defiance? A personal emergency? The air is filled with unspoken tension. It’s a power play that unfolds in the hushed, opulent halls of power. There should be a customary display of unity, a balm of tradition, or spousal support. However, the most recent election was not just an election. It was a clash of titans and an opportunity for a seismic shift. Remember? I told you that Trump versus Harris was a battle between the patriarchy and radical feminism. Harris’s battle cry, “We’re not going back,” echoed like a defiant scream across the divisive political landscape.
But “NOT going back” to what? America’s traditional Christian tradition? The Biden regime supported nonconformism sanctimoniously. They even targeted African nations, demanding that they cast off ancestrally rooted traditions in favor of a Western secular model. They fueled the relentless engine of radical feminism and demands of the LGBTQIA+ movement, so curiosity-filled suspicions. President Biden, the supposed champion of tolerance, wielding the iron fist of cultural imperialism, backing transgender women dominating women’s sports…? That image burned, a searing brand on the conscience. It wasn’t pro-trans, but the war on souls waged with manipulation and a disregard for religion.
That goes beyond political maneuvering. It’s a battle for the nation’s heart, where silence hangs heavier than any spoken word. The air felt rancorous energy as Vice President Harris descended, an earthly crusader in a tailored power suit. Her eyes were burning with the cold fire of the feminist revolution. Trump, a phantom of a fading patriarchy, loomed on the other side. His presence was a rancid perfume of revived piety and suffocating tradition. He made a desperate attempt to claw back the light of bygone. The Democrats fought Donald Trump, tooth and nail, as warriors for the godless dawn. The hypocrisy stench hung heavily. Radical feminists dominated the mainstream media, the government, and corporations.
During that 2024 election campaign, Kamala Harris’s argument was calculated obfuscation: a word salad designed to taint the well of reason while deflecting accountability. Betrayal lingered acrid, bringing back the memory of Gayle King’s interview into the nation’s consciousness. The callous indifference and cruelty she displayed as she attempted to defile Kobe Bryant’s memory, even as the world wept for the fallen star. The cameras captured raw grief on the faces of his loved ones, juxtaposed with King’s smug, unyielding probe—a viper sting, her words dripping with confusion. Nobody understood what her phrases meant when she quoted them. The ensuing uproar was a deafening tsunami of outrage.
Nevertheless—seven books and seven literary lightning strikes scorched a path from the gilded ambiance of Oxford and London to the vibrant chaos of Cape Town and Johannesburg. The champagne tasted like ashes in my mouth even as I feasted on the spoils. Last Christmas, at home, the scent of pine and cinnamon couldn’t mask the truth. A vital chapter of my life, a love story etched in my bones, lay shattered. That year, I planned a different kind of holiday, a lavish celebration for everyone else. It was a smokescreen for the terror gnawing at me. Two boils. Ugly, festering things that refused to yield, even after the scalpel’s cold kiss of a biopsy in July. By November, the grip of fear had me in its clutches.
The biopsy whispered a chilling possibility: skin cancer. I wasn’t ready for that. It clawed at my throat, a frozen hand squeezing life from me. I wore a mask of composure, a public performance of normalcy. Inside, cold sweat slicked down my back. The image that my mortality was at stake. I saw my life flashing before my eyes, the faces of those dependent on me blurring in a horrifying kaleidoscope of grief. And then—two more doctor’s visits, two agonizing waits, each heartbeat a hammer blow against my ribs. The relief, when it finally came, was physical, a wave of nausea and trembling that left me drained but alive. Folliculitis. It’s just an infection. You cannot imagine how difficult that weighed on me psychologically.
But my pain lingered, a constant reminder of that precipice I stared into. That, my friends, is the truth behind the carefully constructed façade… These blogs, the whispers, and the speculation are mere dancings on a cave wall. It’s entertainment. I am an entertainer. The former First Lady’s absence…? I pray it’s nothing more than an indisposition, a temporary retreat. But the chilling possibility hangs in the air, a palpable dread whispering in the ear. Let us hope our prayers are answered for her and our own sake. When it comes to Gale King, in her situation, instead of issuing an apology, she retreated temporarily from the public. Her silence was a testament to today’s radical feminists’ unshakeable arrogance.
Her reappearance, returning to the haunt, was a mockery of remorse. The smear remained unchanged. She carried on, unrepentantly, her actions as a slap in the face of traditionalism. It was a reminder of the terrifying impunity enjoyed by the powerful. And so the whispers started low, a hum beneath polite courtesy. Likewise, Kamala Harris, a titan in the last presidential race, flitted through the media, leaving unanswered questions. There were no flesh-and-blood interviews, no earnest explanations of her policies, only the echo of free vasectomies and abortions, brazenly offered outside of the Democratic Convention – a blatant, theatrical statement. Was it the Vice President’s silence that cost her election?
The void where her policies should have been? Many suspected a sinister agenda. Similarly, the former First Lady Michelle Obama’s dismissal of Donald Trump’s inauguration is a surgically precise strike without explanation. Feminists don’t explain. The same silence corresponds to the same ambiguity. There is endless speculation, another echo of radical feminism. Are these women powerful, enigmatic, and cut from the same cloth? Are they avatars of the feminist movement so profoundly wounded by defeat that it had retreated into silence–a strategic boycott designed to cripple from within? Michelle’s absence will feel like a declaration of war, waged not with guns and bombs but with strategic omission.
