An Ode on the 9th Year since My Uncle Abdul became Ancestor

It's been 9 years!!!!!!!!!!

The Teacher

by me

You taught me that communication is sacred-

You spoke like a river—

calm, bold, clear.

your words moved like sunlight: soft, steady, urgent.

Even behind walls,

your words found their way to us.

Even behind walls,

your words found their way to us.

You reminded us:

freedom lives in how we love,

how we listen,

how we show up!

not just in the big fights,

but in the quiet, daily choosing of each other.

A family man.

A family man.

A community pillar.

A man from Southside Jamaica.

A man from Corona.

A man from RoseBud T. LaBorde.

You said,

Talk to one another.

Trust one another.

Work together.

Help each other. Mutually.

And Lord knows,

we’re still learning.

But your voice,

your knowing,

it lives in me.

In the way I speak truth,

in the way I hold my people,

in the way I keep going (God knows I am so so tired Lord.)

when it’d be easier to fall back.

You’re not gone.

You just shifted shape.

Now you live in my fire,

in my prayers,

in my purpose.

Nine years later, I still hear you.

In every room I walk into with my head high.

In every letter I write that shakes the table.

In every time I choose love with boundaries,

vision with backbone.

You still build through me.

Thank God for my Uncles.

Free All P.P.O.W.s.

Rest well, Uncle.

You did your part.

Please keep holding my hand because

now I’m doing mine.

It’s been 9 years.

Nine whole cycles of the sun since my Uncle Abdul left this earthly plane. Nine trips around the sun, and yet your presence still echoes through my bones. Your voice still rises in my dreams. Your teachings, your rhythm, your resistance—it’s all still here.

And lately, I’ve been sitting with the number 9.Because something about this year feels more spiritual than sorrowful. More cosmic than coincidental.

In numerology, the number 9 is sacred. It is the number of completion, of culmination, of initiation into something new. It is the elder of the single digits—holding all the lessons, all the battles, all the beauty of the numbers that come before it. It’s the number of the mystic, the humanitarian, the soul who carries deep spiritual knowing.

Uncle, that was you.

You were never just a man.

You were an energy. A frequency.

An archive of resistance, of dreams deferred, of hard-won wisdom spoken between beautiful soulful laughter and smiles from heaven.

---

And now, Victor has joined you.

My cousin. My friend. My mirror.

It still doesn’t make sense—his absence. The way he slipped from this world too soon, too suddenly. But I believe you welcomed him. I believe you pulled him close and reminded him he was never alone, not even in his deepest pain. Now both of you walk with me—not as shadows of loss, but as sharpened spirits, as ancestors who are active, alive, and guiding. Victor’s smile, his birthday texts, his humor—they still live in me. And I speak his name so he stays near.

---

The 9-year mark isn’t just a milestone. It’s a portal.

Nine is the number of endings—but not the end. It’s the bridge between what was and what must become. In this ninth year, I feel your spirit nudging me to finish what was started. To integrate what you gave me. To listen closer. To write more boldly. To live more freely.

Nine years ago, I lost you in the physical.But this year? I found a deeper part of myself.

Because of you.

You taught me about survival, but also about soul. About how to stay rooted in Blackness and brilliance, even in the belly of the beast. About how our stories—scarred, sacred, and unfinished—are the curriculum we pass down.

This is the ninth year. And I’m honoring it not just with grief, but with gratitude.With clarity. With fire in my chest.

I’m not who I was when you left, Uncle.

I’m stronger. Softer. Louder. And in this season of completion, I promise to carry your legacy into new dimensions. To protect the dream. To liberate with love.

Nine years without you, but not a moment without your guidance.This is for you. Always.