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I was reading this Khalil Gibran short story about a woman that left her rich husband to shack up with a poor man and I was like, “that would never be a Black woman!”

And don’t get me wrong, ladies, it’s not like I think you’re all materialistic; let’s get that straight from the door.

Like most men of my generation and the ones that follow it, as a Black man, I’m surrounded on all sides by Black women. I get it coming and going. And trust me, sometimes I am sympathetic to the brothers that say, “You know what? To hell with this!” get them a white woman of any available quality and head off to the hills, laughing like there’s no tomorrow.

But like Martin Luther King during the late ‘60s, I’ve decided to stick around for the long haul.

And I know how deeply you ladies love.

I don’t doubt for a minute that a Black woman could love a poor man enough to leave her rich husband for him.

The way Black women love Black men has kept us all in one piece, if not in one place.

But I know for a fact that the minute Shanita told Towanda that she was leaving LeBron for Tyronne, “Wanda would read ‘Nita an act so Shakespearean that only a n-word could have written it.”

Black women, your friends are horrible! And I hate them for you! They give you bad advice and you should know it by now! They want you to be as miserable as they are.

And you’re accomodating.

I had a girlfriend in college that had our whole lives planned out together—when our marriage would happen, where we’d live, what our kids would be named; everything.

One day, I was listening to Curtis Mayfield’s Give Me Your Love (Love Song) and I got inspired by a line in the song so I asked my girl, “Could you live with me and solitude and need no one else?”

She said, “I’ll always need my friends.”

To this day, I now wonder what she’s up to.


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