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Bahji Steele

Bahji Steele

CommentaryNewsU.S.

Use of Force, the Long American Tradition

by Bahji Steele & Orisha Lamon 04/13/2026
written by Bahji Steele & Orisha Lamon

In only 7 months under the Trump administration, over 200,000 people have been deported by ICE. Hundreds of people get arrested, deported, and separated from their families every day under this administration, and thousands more are placed in detention centers. The late January greenlighting of ICE raids in sanctuary cities and the increasingly violent stealth tactics are leaving many immigrants in this country fearful. Fear of ICE has already taken a toll on industries heavily reliant on immigrant labor like hospitality, agriculture, and construction. 

ICE violence feels all too familiar for the Afrikan American community. Since 2020, police brutality has been a headline in all news stories, but this was never new to Black Americans. Growing up Black means hearing seemingly countless stories of peers being brutalized and killed. And each name echoed through the media, each father, mother, and child that gets killed leaves a scar on the heart of communities who just want to exist and feel safe. 

This physical and psychological violence is all rooted in the American worship of the use of force. Law enforcement is protected by the shield of this phrase. Claiming that innocent persons pose imminent danger to others, utilizing deadly force, and reframing the narratives later for self-preservation. And when applied to those without the protection of citizenship, we have seen unorthodox and inhumane tactics. 

The Afrikan population falls disproportionately through the cracks when it concerns the use of force. Use of violence and force after all is intrinsic to our being. To be sought and to be brutalized is simply a globally accepted facet of Blackness. With 20% of those held in ICE detention facilities being Afrikan, despite being 7% of the “non-citizen” population, the enhanced policing and monitoring of violence still is informed by an anti-Black project that has socialized enforcers of force to attack and criminalize on a racialized basis. 

Whether it is ICE or the police precincts besieging communities across the United States, policing entities are one and the same in their use of force. They serve to preserve a hierarchical system that benefits state agents through subjugation, driven by an intrinsic connection to globalized anti-Blackness and violence against those challenging such hegemony.

The ideological alignment with forceful and peaceful expression has also presented itself through the passivity of movements that require escalatory modes of action. In movements that are to be labeled as peaceful therein lies a harsh reality that the entities being protested are not, and violence is intrinsic to their existence. Amerikkka’s inception has a basis of force through justice and freedom as a justification of violence against Indigenous peoples of the Americas and Afrika. The use of force is now a pillar in how we are made to be passive in the face of state and structural violence as it actively harms and kills, through slow and rapid machinery. 

The militarized use of force from extensions of federal deployments, police, and immigration enforcement are at a height of violence and criminalization that those made victim of its inception must be fought, humanized, and organized for. In rejecting displays of passivity, we may find ourselves deepening our work in prioritizing the lives to be lived for those incarcerated. Rather than remembrance, we work toward a material emphasis on care and collectivist practices for the futures we imagine. The work done in firstly interrogating why communities in the imperial core are so served on bases of racialization and class, and how we develop material solidarity within and on a global level, starts with the community patrols, mutual aid, and social organization that is intrinsic to a transformative struggle. There is power within grassroots organizational capacities and escalatory capacities seeking to educate and actively contribute toward building a world that will value humanity. 

When violence is exacerbated through means of militarized control and capture such as the white militias of immigration enforcement, the extraction and sanctioning of the Caribbean, the obvious coups in South America (most recently Venezuela) to fuel a chase for geopolitical power, alongside the instigated warfare in West Asia and across the Global South in an attempt to preserve democracy, it creates networks spreading these colonial forces thin. Within a racial capitalist regime—one in which class and constructions of race are wagered, one in which there are entities and aristocrats that are aligned with this aforementioned cannibalistic system of wealth and control—these colonial networks will soon perish and find themselves pumping out of a dead carcass.

04/13/2026 0 comments
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Arts & EntertainmentCulture

A Night with Willow Smith at Blue Note Jazz Club

by Bahji Steele 03/05/2026
written by Bahji Steele

On Monday, February 16th, at Blue Note Jazz Club, Willow Smith offered a small audience an intimate first listen to her newest album, “petal rock black.” Known for her unique vocal style, Willow used the legendary jazz venue to introduce a project that leans fully into jazz techniques while maintaining her grungy roots. The setting felt intentional. Blue Note’s Los Angeles location, newly opened this year, joins a lineage of rooms that have hosted icons like Stevie Wonder, Liza Minnelli, and Dizzy Gillespie—a fitting backdrop for an artist stepping deeper into her musicianship. This venue is also very collaborative, with past other artists coming to enjoy but also jumping on stage when called upon to create something new. 

She opened with “hear me out,” live-layering her vocals in real time, building the song piece by piece before the audience. It immediately showcased her control and experimentation: stacked harmonies, airy runs, and complex vocal jumps. Sparse arrangements defined the night, honoring the Jazz Club environment, with her drummer and pianist taking extended, expressive solos that transformed the set beyond just a standard album preview. Her drummer, in particular, earned a standing ovation for a solo that felt emotionally raw and intense.

When the album officially dropped days later, the feature list added a new dimension to what we had heard live. The project includes Kamasi Washington, George Clinton, and Tune-Yards—a diverse lineup. Tune-Yards’ scattered, rhythm-forward sound feels similar to Willow’s. George Clinton’s presence carries historical weight: a revolutionary force in funk and R&B, he narrates a poem on the opening track, “petal rock black,” with lines that echo later in songs like “ear to the eocoon.” 

Live, “Sitting Silently” was a standout, with its haunting staccato piano and vocals, and “ear to the cocoon” followed with a sense of grandeur and joy emanating from Willow’s performance. However, “not a fantasy” is the track I will be replaying for the coming weeks.

The Blue Note performance didn’t feel like a promotional stop but a statement. Willow Smith is expanding her artistry in real time, honoring jazz traditions while reshaping it through her own alternative lens. In a crowded room in Hollywood, I felt like I was discovering a small artist for the first time, not the global star that we know Willow to be.

03/05/2026 0 comments
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Black HistoryPoetry

The Creator

by Bahji Steele 12/06/2025
written by Bahji Steele

I never wanted to be an envious person
I never wanted to think I wasn’t content
But I find myself being very critical 
Because that is all I am, a critic
A critic and a consumer

Most of us are not encouraged to create
We are only allowed to consume
And the few of us who do create 
I am told that it only matters if
It’s widely absorbed
can be sold
can trend

Yet in my culture, we are special 
My culture is an export
My culture is commodified  

The most  absorbed music in the world is ours
Our sound is learned and regurgitated back to us and called “pop
Our jokes, our slang learned and traded and abused
Our dances learned 
and relearned 
and taught 
and retaught
Until everyone can move and sound like us 
Even if they don’t know us

Our bodies are glorified for our athleticism
We are a spectacle
Costumed and competing for top spot
Fetishized on courts and stage

We entertain the world
We make the world move, and somehow we can’t afford to dance

Where is the spirit of my ancestors
Who could turn hunger into harmony?
Why haven’t I “broken through”
Why can’t I be an entertainer

Can I create freely as one
But I don’t create to feed the machine
Expression is not my currency 
The richest creators are the most consumed
I create just like I breathe

But the air is dense, and I have asthma 
Where do I find time to create when I can’t access nature
Where do I find space in my soul when it’s aware of its own suppression
Where do I find peace in my mind when I am focused on survival
How do I create with a heavy soul

12/06/2025 0 comments
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Bloodied football player raises his arms, behind him a man opens his eyes wide, flashing his red eyes and golden rings.
Arts & EntertainmentBlack HistoryCulture

I’m Him

by Bahji Steele 10/16/2025
written by Bahji Steele

I’m sure everyone who’s a Jordan Peele fan—or just a movie enjoyer in general—was excited for this film to drop. Justin Tipping’s Him came out this past September and left many Peele fans disappointed, even though Peele only has a producer credit. Walking into the theater I did not know what to expect, I had heard mixed, leaning negative, reviews from viewers, but I was pleasantly surprised when I left. 

A crucial moment that, in my opinion, set up the rest of the story beautifully was Marlon Wayans’ first scene. He plays the mentor to Tyriq Withers, a young athlete whose promising football career is cut short by an injury. His character’s first appearance on screen shows him preparing and shucking an animal hide while delivering a monologue about why we play football. He recounts the story of the Carlisle Indian School—famous for its football team’s invention of classic moves like the forward pass and the spiral throw. Most historical accounts celebrate the Carlisle team for their innovation, but what’s often overlooked is that the school itself was designed as part of a colonial effort to strip Native people of their culture and force Christianity onto them. Football became a way to “civilize” Indigenous youth, teaching them a version of masculinity rooted in colonial ideals. On the field, this looked like white Ivy League players performing acts of so-called “savagery,” unleashing violence against Native teams for sport. The real reason behind those “innovative” plays wasn’t athletic brilliance—it was survival, a way to counter the brutality of the white teams they were forced to play against.

After that scene, so much of the film’s imagery began to click for me. Most notably, the recurring pilgrim mask. By the end of the movie, Tyriq is told to place the mask on his head as part of a ritual to join a team not-so-subtly called “The Saviors.” Seeing how this film intertwines the commodification of Black bodies in modern sports like football with the historical violence of colonialism was fascinating. A sport whose classic plays originated from Native innovation has become a stage for white supremacy and Black performance for white audiences.

And yes, this movie was campy, chaotic, and complicated—just as reviewers say—but to me, it wasn’t far off from the kind of campiness we see in today’s horror, including Jordan Peele’s own films. From vomiting chains to terrifying pom-pom monsters and undead cheerleaders, Him was no more over-the-top than I expected. What sold me was sitting in a theater watching a big-budget film that unapologetically made fun of America’s favorite sport. Now, I’ll be honest—I don’t know much about football. And from what I can tell, neither does Tipping. That’s exactly why I think this movie was made for people like me. Him holds up a mirror to American football and exposes its terrifyingly tangled roots in the legacy of American racism.

It deeply offended football fans—especially those unwilling to confront how toxic masculinity shapes their beloved game. The film boldly exposes the absurdity of the narratives fed to young men, particularly Black men, about manhood and its supposed connection to violence. The title Him itself cleverly mocks the popular phrase “I’m Him,” a staple in the alpha-male, red-pill corners of the internet. As I said, I’m not a football player, and I’ve always disliked the sport for its violence. This movie, I believe, was made for softies like me—people who don’t see brainless displays of testosterone as the only way to express manhood. On top of that, I loved how the film portrayed women. In the world of football, women rarely exist beyond cheerleaders or party accessories—dangerous, tempting distractions that “real men” must resist to achieve greatness. Him exposes that absurdity too, showing just how ridiculous and fragile that version of masculinity really is.

10/16/2025 0 comments
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CommentaryOpinion

A New Lens: Afrikan Ways of Knowing in the Amerikkkan Classroom

by Bahji Steele 06/02/2025
written by Bahji Steele

There’s a peculiar kind of tension that settles in your chest when you sit in a room built to inspire ambition—but only for those who were always meant to succeed.

This quarter, I enrolled in my first class toward the entrepreneurship minor with the UCLA Anderson School of Management. As a humanities student, I carry the quiet burden of that ever-present whisper: make yourself marketable, do something that pays, there are no guarantees. It’s a whisper that’s easy to ignore—until the rent is due.

So I sit there—back straight, face blank—as the professor extols the genius of the McDonald’s franchise model. He calls it beautiful. Efficient. Replicable. I grit my teeth as his guest speaker casually diminishes the value of manual labor: “None of the people in this room will have to work blue collar jobs.” Meanwhile, my mind is caught in protest. My Public Affairs training is screaming. I see not beauty but bureaucracy; not genius but the logic of a machine designed to turn people into parts and land into profit.

The professor chuckles at his own misogynistic jokes, flaunting the kind of self-satisfaction only a man rewarded by capitalism can afford. He speaks like someone who has never had to question his place in the world—only how to expand it. And I’m told this is the path to security. He had a home in the Palisades—had, because it burned down. But the system that built it still stands.

This is the contradiction I’m forced to hold. I want stability, yes. But I also want dignity. I want to create, to redistribute, to dream—without becoming the thing I oppose. I want to be of use to others without assuming I know what they need. And so, in this article, I turn away from the empire and toward the village—from franchised ambition to ancestral wisdom. I look to Indigenous Afrikan governance structures to imagine what entrepreneurship could mean if it wasn’t built on extraction, but on reciprocity.

The Kenyan ethic of harambee—“all pull together”—offers a sharp contrast to Western business ideals rooted in individualism and profit. Instead of celebrating competition and personal gain, harambee prioritizes collective responsibility and mutual aid. Success is measured not by wealth accumulation, but by how well a community thrives together. Applied to Western entrepreneurship, this philosophy challenges the myth of the self-made founder and urges a shift toward businesses that are relational, redistributive, and rooted in care.

06/02/2025 0 comments
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CommentaryHealthLifestyleNewsPolitical EducationU.S.World

Afrikan Agarianism – Subcultures 

by Bahji Steele 03/10/2025
written by Bahji Steele

For over 400 years, our hands tilled the soil, not by choice but forced through our captivity in chains. Promises of reparations crumbled, leaving us landless in a country we built. It’s no wonder that when you hear “Afrikan Amerikkkan” and “farmer” in the same sentence, optimism feels out of reach. This is especially true in hyper-developed cities like Los Angeles, where many of our ancestors fled after emancipation, seeking freedom beyond the fields that once enslaved them. Denied our 40 acres, shut out from land ownership, and systematically displaced, we’ve been pushed further from the idea of cultivating our own ecological balance. But what if we reclaimed it? What if the soil was always ours to begin with? 

Tucked between two weathered apartment buildings, just off the roar of the 91 freeway and Rosecrans, lies Compton Community Garden—a hidden oasis of renewal and resistance. Here, in the heart of a so-called food desert, life blooms. Temu, a Compton native and horticulturist who helped bring CCG to life, poses a powerful question: “Compton has the most ideal weather for organic gardening, yet we’re still considered a food desert? How did we get here? Is this by accident? We have the chance to change the narrative—to restore balance, heal ourselves, feed ourselves, employ ourselves, and build collective wealth.” A garden may seem simple, but in a world designed to keep us disconnected from the land, it’s nothing short of revolutionary. It’s a space to nourish bodies, reclaim community, and cultivate a future rooted in self-sufficiency.

“For our ancestors, farming was not a symbol of oppression, but rather a symbol of resistance and freedom. Every time we plant a seed, we are committing an act of sovereignty.” 

These words from Leah Penniman, author of Farming While Black, reframe farming as a means of liberation. As each seed is planted, so is the possibility of a new reality—one where food justice, sustainability, and collective power take root in Compton and beyond.

03/10/2025 0 comments
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Black HistoryCommentaryCultureNews

God is Change

by Bahji Steele 03/10/2025
written by Bahji Steele

Since the LA fires started, me and I’m sure many other readers of Octavia Butler’s Parable series felt a sense of déjà vu. The neighborhood of Altadena has a rich black history that began after the civil rights movement. Before civil rights, this neighborhood was full of white ranchers and business owners. When Black/Afrikan and brown families began to move in, many white families moved out during the period, a phenomenon commonly known as “white flight”. White families did not welcome diversity in their neighborhood and their departure left opportunities for the diverse Altadena community we see today to bloom and grow. Octavia Butler grew up in Altadena. Her mother worked as a maid in wealthier white homes south of Pasadena proper. Butler received her associate’s degree from Pasadena City College and studied writing, anthropology, geology, and much more at UCLA. This was the same route of schooling my grandmother took when she came to California for college to become a nurse which led my family to settle in Altadena. Butler attended John Muir High School the same as my mother and her brothers and ironically my college roommate, an Altadena native, and his mother and generations of black families like ours. This beautiful neighborhood in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains has always been home to my family. One thing that I always particularly loved about Altadena was seeing a thriving Black/Afrikan community in LA with an abundance of green space, something most black communities in LA aren’t so fortunate to have. Altadena was always a beautiful neighborhood with its overhangs of oak trees, beautiful, lush mountains, an abundance of hiking trails and waterfalls. Altadena was the only place I wanted to dream of settling in when I grew up.

“We had fire today” reads a February 1st, 2025 diary entry in Butler’s Parable of the Sower. In the story, Lauren, a girl from the LA area living in 2024, is forced to live inside a community gated by large walls to protect herself from desperately poor starving people and a band of criminals high on a drug called pyro causing them to have arson addictions. Looking back at this story now is haunting as we enter only a few days into 2025 and the Eaton Fires have leveled the majority of the Altadena homes. The childhood home of Butler, where her grave, minimally burned in the fires. 

Earthseed is the community that Lauren dreamed of, the sanctuary not only physically safe from the harshness of the outside world and the fires but a spiritual space for people. Altadena was my Earthseed, as my grandpa was escaping gang violence in Watts and my grandmother an abusive orphanage in Boston, they both came to settle in Altadena for refuge, similar to the many Altadena residents that found their way escaping the Jim Crow South. This neighborhood was a sanctuary for us and it lives on. These fires have come as a result of long-standing climate injustice and extractive practices of capitalist consumption that do not engage with the Earth in regenerative ways. However, I believe the soul of the community members of Altadena will not so easily be turned to ash.

Etched in the gravestone of Butler reads the famous quote from Parable of the Sower, “All that you touch, you change. All that you change, changes you.” In the pulse of Altadena, Los Angeles, and beyond, the world now breathes the change she foresaw—a change that echoes through the shifting climate, the very manifestation of Butler’s prophecy. Written in 1993, her vision stands, astonishing in its clarity. Renowned for grounding the realms of Afrikan/Black science fiction and Afrofuturism, after the tremors of early 2025, one cannot help but ask: Is this fiction—or the future? She is the living word, embodying NOMMO, and with each story, she wields the griot’s power—the power of the word, the power to shape reality.

03/10/2025 0 comments
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CommentaryNewsU.S.World

Technology is Never Neutral

by Bahji Steele 11/10/2024
written by Bahji Steele

The adoption of generative AI presents both significant challenges and potential benefits for Pan-Afrikan communities in the United States. A recent McKinsey report, The Economic Potential of Generative AI: The Next Productivity Frontier*, highlights the technology’s global economic impact, which could reach up to $4.4 trillion across industries. However, as organizations begin to explore AI’s applications, concerns are rising about its effects on Afrikan employment, particularly for Afrikan men.

A separate McKinsey report, The Future of Work in Black America, paints a grim picture of AI’s potential to disproportionately impact Afrikans in America. The report finds that Afrikan workers are overrepresented in jobs at high risk of automation and underrepresented in roles more likely to remain secure. Due to state and institutionalized racism, the job market has historically been harder for Afrikan men to succeed and make a living. It also reveals that half of the top 10 occupations held by Afrikans pay below the federal poverty line for a family of four, and all pay less than the national median salary of $52,000. Many of these jobs, predominantly held by young Afrikans without college degrees, are also among the top 15 occupations most at risk of AI-driven job loss.

The racial wealth gap further complicates the situation. A 2016 study by the Corporation for Economic Development and the Institute for Policy Studies found that, if current economic trends persist, it would take 228 years for the average Afrikan family to accumulate the same wealth as the average white family.

Yet, if approached with an equity lens, AI has the potential to help close this wealth gap. By investing in reskilling workers for non-automatable roles and promoting emotional labor jobs over physical or manual ones, AI could create new opportunities for Afrikans in Amerikkka. Furthermore, generative AI holds promise as an educational tool, a crucial factor given that a lack of higher education is a significant barrier to upward mobility for many Afrikans. If implemented thoughtfully, AI could be a catalyst for economic inclusion rather than exacerbating racial disparities.

11/10/2024 0 comments
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Latest Posts

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