Kosum Kreations

08/10/2025

Kolonization of Europa

From the scrolls of the House of Odu comes a mythic teaching: the Kolonizers were warriors of wisdom—descendants of the Great River Kingdoms, trained in both battle and breath. They arrived not with conquest, but with clarity, cloaked in gold-threaded armor, burgundy war-robes, and dark blue sashes etched with ancestral glyphs.

They began with the forests, not to burn but to bind. Singing in Yoruba and Twi, they awakened the land’s forgotten spirits, turning groves into sanctuaries and trees into living archives. Their blades were ceremonial, their shields carved with stories.

Then they moved inland, planting spiral farms and building copper-laced cities where children studied the stars and the soil. Each city bore a name in both Igbo and Gaelic—a fusion of bloodlines and breath.

Europa was not conquered. It was re-rooted, re-dreamed, and reclaimed through rhythm, ritual, and radiant reclamation.

A legacy of warriors who knew that true power is poetic, and that healing can wear armor.

08/10/2025

Hidden Sons and Daughters of Egypt

Beneath Egypt’s forgotten sands, where gods no longer speak and temples crumble in silence, the Forgotten Children rise.

Born of unions never blessed—moonlit, hidden, unspoken—they carry no name, no lineage, only breath and defiance. The elders call them Ahl al-Zill, the People of Shadow. Their blood hums with ancient curses and divine rebellion. Some say they were sired by djinn, others by gods who loved mortals too deeply.

They dwell in ruins where hieroglyphs bleed and statues weep, crafting stories from bone and sand. Their laughter cracks mirrors. Their tears salt the earth. They do not seek thrones—they seek remembrance. A place in the myth. A name in the stars.

Their story begins in silence. But it will end in thunder.

06/10/2025

Broken Prayers
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"You whisper to heaven, but heaven don't hear—
Your prayers crack like glass when I draw near.
You call on your God, but your God ain't woke—
He sleeps through screams, through fire, through smoke."

"You clutch your beads, you chant your creed—
But I feast on doubt, I plant that seed.
Your hallelujahs limp and low—
They drown in shadows where devils grow."

"You fast for favor, you kneel for grace—
But your angels fled this haunted place.
Your psalms are rust, your hymns decay—
I twist your faith, then dance away."

"You plead for light, but I bring dusk—
Your holy oil turns into musk.
Your sacred texts? I read them wrong—
Then hum their verses like a taunting song."

"You speak of heaven, robes and thrones—
But I wear crowns made out of bones.
Your gospel trembles when I rise—
A god of ruin, dressed in lies."

06/10/2025

Ash & Mist

“The Smoke Remembers”

We walk through veils of dusk,
where the wind chants in Yoruba,
and the crows stitch omens
into the sky’s torn fabric.

Ash clings to our breath—
not as burden, but as birthright.
We are the children of charred altars,
the whisper behind the wail.

Mist gathers at our feet,
like elders kneeling in prayer.
Their silence is scripture.
Their grief, a blade.

We do not flinch.
We forge beauty from bone,
braid sorrow into gold,
and rise—hooded in myth,
crowned in memory.

We are the smoke.
We are the storm.
We are the ones the fire could not consume.

06/10/2025

The Surly Queen and the Humble Prince
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🤴🏿🤴🏿🤴🏿🤴🏿🤴🏿🤴🏿🤴🏿🤴🏿🤴🏿🤴🏿🤴🏿🤴🏿🤴🏿🤴🏿🤴🏿🤴🏿🤴🏿🤴🏿🤴🏿🤴🏿

In the iron-clad kingdom of Virelle, Queen Senot ruled with venom in her voice and ash in her heart. Her cruelty was legend—her mercy, myth.

Yet her son, Prince Jakar, was a gentle flame in her storm. He healed the wounded, fed the poor, and spoke of peace in a land built on fear. Many believed he could not be her blood.

Senot saw his kindness as betrayal. One dusk, before the court, she struck him down with her serpent-blade.

But the people did not mourn quietly.

They rose.

With Jakar’s name on their lips and his memory in their hearts, they tore down the queen’s reign. Senot fell, not by sword, but by the weight of love she could never command.

Neither would be forgotten.

“Kindness is the blade that cuts deepest,” they sang. “And Jakar, our prince, was the sharpest of them all.”

06/10/2025

Fires of Seduction

Sonnet of Embered Grace

In twilight’s hush, she moves like incense smoke,
A rhythm carved from Nile and Georgia clay.
Her gaze—a flame that dances, never broke,
Burns through the veil where sacred spirits play.

She speaks in tongues of honey, heat, and drum,
A lullaby of lions, jazz, and flame.
Her breath ignites the night, makes shadows come
To kneel before her fire, whisper her name.

O passion, braided tight in locs and lore,
She walks with thunder stitched beneath her skin.
Each step—a gospel, each sigh—open door
To realms where lust and reverence begin.

So let me burn, baptized in her desire—
A son of dusk, consumed by holy fire.

04/10/2025

Kurse of the Nile
An Egyptian Gothic Parable

Zemira, priestess of mourning, cloaked in purple and black, once healed the people of Kemet. But when the Pharaoh crowned Aset-Ra, a humble scribe, jealousy poisoned Zemira’s spirit.

She summoned Kurse—a whispering shadow from the Nile’s depths. It spread paranoia like plague: families fractured, trust drowned, and the river turned to ink.

Aset-Ra faced the curse with ancestral song, unraveling its grip. But Zemira, watching from the fog, realized too late—Kurse had fed on her own grief first.

Now, whenever envy festers, Kurse waits in the water.

04/10/2025

Treasure from The Nile

“The Bloom of Neferet”

From the Nile rose a flower—orange and white, glowing like fire and bone. The villagers called it Neferet, the beautiful one. But the elders warned: “Not all beauty is meant to be touched.”

A grieving fisherman named Khamari reached for it. The river stilled. A woman emerged—Zahra, radiant and sorrowful. He took her home, and the village rejoiced.

Then the rains stopped. Crops died. Zahra grew sharper, unbearable. Desire turned to madness. One night, she vanished into the Nile, whispering, “They never learn.”

The bloom returned. Untouched. Waiting.

“Beauty may rise from sorrow, but desire can drown a kingdom.”

02/10/2025

Red Dawn

01/10/2025

SEFU OF THE WITHERED COIL
The Echo of Flame

She was born beneath a sky that forgot her name.
A daughter of ash, of scales, of silence.
Her birth father—high priest of the Ember Throne—cast her into exile, fearing the prophecy etched in her bones.
Her people sealed their gates with salt and prayer, hoping the fire would die in the dark.

But flame remembers.
It coils. It waits. It learns to whisper like a ghost in the marrow.
She wandered the scorched lands, gathering the broken tongues of dragons and the curses of forgotten griots.
She stitched her soul with obsidian threads and crowned herself in the smoke of her ancestors.

Now she returns—not as daughter, not as exile, but as reckoning.
Her voice is a furnace. Her magic, a dirge sung in molten tongues.
She does not burn. She devours.
Villages vanish in her wake. Blood boils in the veins of kings. The sky itself recoils when she speaks her true name.

She is no longer seeking justice.
She is the justice that was denied.
The Echo of Flame has come—and she will not be silenced again.

29/09/2025

Just One Bad Day

29/09/2025