OUR MISSION
Redefining the Way
We Move
At Alkebulan’s Abode, our mission is to provide a sacred and supportive haven for melanated individuals seeking spiritual growth, cultural reconnection, and purposeful community. We are committed to facilitating access to ancestral knowledge, healing practices, and empowering experiences that help our people remember who they are and rise into their full potential. Through shared learning, creative expression, and collective care, we honor the legacy of our ancestors while building a liberated and spiritually grounded future.

BEKI KALUME - Founder & Executive Curator, Alkebulan’s Abode
MEET THE TEAM
Guided by Purpose, United in Spirit
Our Journey So Far
OUR JOURNEY
Alkebulan’s Abode was born from a shared vision to create a sacred space where people of African descent could reconnect with their roots, rise in spiritual consciousness, and rediscover the power of community. The seed was planted on July 18, 2024, by our founder Beki Kalume - when along with a circle of pioneers - envisioned a home for melanated individuals on a path of awakening.
What began as a conversation blossomed into a movement—a vibrant, community-driven association grounded in African spirituality, ancestral wisdom, and cultural celebration. From the formation of our WhatsApp group to the development of powerful gatherings like Melanated Then, Now & Tomorrow (MTNT), our journey has been one of reflection, connection, and bold reimagination.
Each department of the Abode—from Heritage and Learning, to Healing and Creativity, to Youth Empowerment—marks a chapter in our collective story. And with every new member, workshop, and gathering, Alkebulan’s Abode continues to grow as a living sanctuary—uplifting, healing, and guiding our community into alignment with our past, present, and future.


PUNISHING THE TONGUE

THE BONE

THE BONE
LESSONS WE WERE TAUGHT NOT TO SPEAK
In many Afrikan schools, children were punished for speaking their own languages. The method was simple and devastating. A token, sometimes a carved disk, sometimes a piece of wood, sometimes a bone, was placed around the neck of the child caught speaking Kiswahili or mother tongue.
The object had to be passed to the next “offender.” Whoever held it at the end of the day was punished publicly. This was not merely discipline. It was a system.
By forcing children to police one another, language itself became dangerous. Fear traveled faster than authority. Shame became communal. Survival meant silence. The bone moved from neck to neck, not as correction, but as conditioning—teaching us that our tongues were liabilities, our words punishable, our inheritance something to escape.
Yet even then, language survived. It whispered in dormitories, laughed in playfields, lived in songs, jokes, and coded speech. What could not be spoken openly learned how to move underground.
This bone is a memory of violence—but also of resistance. It reminds us that what was forced into silence was never truly erased. We are still here. We still speak. We still remember.
















