Ali

I grew up to scenes of my mama's face lighting up as she told my sister and I stories of "gbish-gbash, and they're down, a knockout, a knockout, just like that".

For me, these stories are memories of a memory, a long chain to beauty, art, grace, poetry, showmanship, and bravado merged into one -of fine footwork, loud boasts, and raw speed -of the greatest boxer that ever lived.

Over time, and after cumulative hours of my eyes glued to black and white clips from YouTube of Ali, the man outside of the ring began to surface, the controversy, the hustle for emancipation of blacks, his Islam, his feuds, his family. He stopped being just a boxer to me and joined the ranks of Thomas Sankara on my list of greats.

Muhammad Ali is gone, a fine pugilist is gone, but memories of him burn bright still, and as fantastic as they are, they hurt, hurt deep. A hero, a legend, a man that held an entire generation on their toes, at the edge of their seats and perpetually wowed.

Like a toddlers feet, in the loose of sands, beneath the skies and chasing the moon
Your fingers smell but a whisk off it
But you know it's gone, gone...

Sunday Evening, The Weekend.
Muhammed Ali, The Legend.