(A Poetic Declaration of the Institute of the Episterresurrecist Arts (IEA)

Mother,
I have changed my name!
No longer shall I answer
To “Renaissance Remnant,”
Or “Revival Seedling” of borrowed tongues.

I am not
A footnote in Europe’s chapter!
I am not
A festival puppet with Ankara skin
Dancing to Shakespeare’s tambourine!

No!
I am the drum they tried to mute
With white chalk and infested libraries!
I am the name buried in broken syllables
But I have returned,
Armed with fire from forgotten tombs!

I no longer wear
The borrowed robe of “Initiative.”
No more shall I beg for a seat
At colonial roundtables
Where our ancestors were menu,
Not guests!

From today,
Call me by my true name:
Episterresurrecist Arts!
I do not revive—I resurrect.
I do not mimic—I restore.
I do not worship their genius—
I remember ours!

I walk with the bones of Imhotep,
Whose pyramids still sizzles to stars!
I sit at the feet of Queen Nzinga
And drink from the gourd of Shonghai’s scribes!
My syllabus is not in Oxfords
It is etched in Nubian stone!

Tell the West:
We are not your students
We are your teachers who remembered their names!

From this soil,
We will build a house of thought
Where Kemet meets Congo in the corridors.
Where Benin bronzes debate with Dogon stars.
Where Black children,
Cheated of their brilliance,
Will meet their gods again
In their own mirrors!

So mother,
Do not call me “literary baby” again.
Do not say “initiative” like I just started.
I am not a seed—I am the harvest!

Call me by my true name:
Episterresurrecist Arts.
The choir of bones has risen.
And we…
We are writing our gospel
In our mother’s tongue!