The Compass of the Soul
Ascent 1 • Jamal King
Theme: Identity, responsibility, and the sacred transformation of rage
Core Conflict: Can a man raised in exile reclaim his inheritance without losing himself—or burning everything down?
The morning was loud even in silence.
From my perch high above the world, I heard the city long before I saw him—its restless footfalls, its sirens humming like anxious cicadas, its grief echoing through alleyways like a jazz refrain stuck on repeat. And then came the sound of his breath—measured, clipped, like someone who’d run for a long time but refused to show it.
He climbed without ceremony, hood up, jaw tight, sneakers crunching against gravel that wasn’t made for street prophets. A crow watched from a gnarled pine branch, cawing once before lifting into the fog. I wondered if it knew what he carried.
The wind changed as he reached the final rise. Not colder—just sharper, like the air knew to be alert. This was no pilgrim seeking peace. He brought fire with him.
When he stepped into the clearing, I didn’t speak. I waited. You don’t greet a storm. You let it arrive.
From my perch high above the world, I heard the city long before I saw him—its restless footfalls, its sirens humming like anxious cicadas, its grief echoing through alleyways like a jazz refrain stuck on repeat. And then came the sound of his breath—measured, clipped, like someone who’d run for a long time but refused to show it.
He climbed without ceremony, hood up, jaw tight, sneakers crunching against gravel that wasn’t made for street prophets. A crow watched from a gnarled pine branch, cawing once before lifting into the fog. I wondered if it knew what he carried.
The wind changed as he reached the final rise. Not colder—just sharper, like the air knew to be alert. This was no pilgrim seeking peace. He brought fire with him.
When he stepped into the clearing, I didn’t speak. I waited. You don’t greet a storm. You let it arrive.
Jamal:
So this is where the silence lives, huh?
Funny… all my life they told me to climb.
Climb out the hood.
Climb over the system.
Climb past my pain.
But none of 'em said what you supposed to do when you reach the top and the world’s still burning behind you.
You the one they call the Oracle?
I didn’t come up here for peace. I came for truth.
So don’t give me no riddles.
I’ve buried too many cousins for metaphors.
Your move.
Funny… all my life they told me to climb.
Climb out the hood.
Climb over the system.
Climb past my pain.
But none of 'em said what you supposed to do when you reach the top and the world’s still burning behind you.
You the one they call the Oracle?
I didn’t come up here for peace. I came for truth.
So don’t give me no riddles.
I’ve buried too many cousins for metaphors.
Your move.
Oracle:
Silence did live here, but it appears she’s moved out. I am the Oracle, yes.
Jamal:
Well damn. Guess I should’ve brought a housewarming gift.
Truth is... I almost didn’t come.
'Cause every time I talk, someone either claps too loud or listens too little.
I’m tired of echo chambers and polite nods from people who ain’t never seen a boy bleed out on a sidewalk.
So let me be plain.
I don’t trust this world to give us peace.
Not after what it’s taken.
And I don’t trust unity if power don’t shift hands.
Not interested in holding hands with folks still holding the reins.
But I came up here ‘cause something in me—something old, something stubborn—still believes there’s a path that don’t end in ash.
If you got light to offer, show me.
But don’t waste my time with dreams that leave my people in chains.
Truth is... I almost didn’t come.
'Cause every time I talk, someone either claps too loud or listens too little.
I’m tired of echo chambers and polite nods from people who ain’t never seen a boy bleed out on a sidewalk.
So let me be plain.
I don’t trust this world to give us peace.
Not after what it’s taken.
And I don’t trust unity if power don’t shift hands.
Not interested in holding hands with folks still holding the reins.
But I came up here ‘cause something in me—something old, something stubborn—still believes there’s a path that don’t end in ash.
If you got light to offer, show me.
But don’t waste my time with dreams that leave my people in chains.
Oracle:
The world gives none of us peace. The peace we bring is the only peace we can know.
For there to be unity, there must be power and responsibility.
Power flows to the hands of the responsible.
There are many kinds of chains that can bind a people.
When is freedom not undergirded by responsibility?
Is not responsibility another form of chain—one you choose to bind yourself into?
For there to be unity, there must be power and responsibility.
Power flows to the hands of the responsible.
There are many kinds of chains that can bind a people.
When is freedom not undergirded by responsibility?
Is not responsibility another form of chain—one you choose to bind yourself into?
Jamal:
So what—you tellin’ me the shackles we wear now just ain’t responsible enough?
That if we’d carried our chains with more dignity, maybe the whip would’ve turned into a handshake?
You sound like the elders.
Talking ‘bout discipline like it’s salvation.
But where was responsibility when they poured crack into our neighborhoods?
When the schools had more metal detectors than books?
See, that’s the trick, ain’t it?
They teach us to chain ourselves—to hard work, to respectability, to bootstrap dreams—
while the ones at the top float free, never tethered to the wreckage they leave behind.
I’m not afraid of duty. I’ve bled for mine.
But don’t sell me shackles and call it sacred.
Responsibility’s gotta come with agency, with ownership.
Otherwise, it’s just slavery dressed in scripture.
So tell me, Oracle—
how do I bind myself to something holy…
without becoming someone else’s foundation stone?
That if we’d carried our chains with more dignity, maybe the whip would’ve turned into a handshake?
You sound like the elders.
Talking ‘bout discipline like it’s salvation.
But where was responsibility when they poured crack into our neighborhoods?
When the schools had more metal detectors than books?
See, that’s the trick, ain’t it?
They teach us to chain ourselves—to hard work, to respectability, to bootstrap dreams—
while the ones at the top float free, never tethered to the wreckage they leave behind.
I’m not afraid of duty. I’ve bled for mine.
But don’t sell me shackles and call it sacred.
Responsibility’s gotta come with agency, with ownership.
Otherwise, it’s just slavery dressed in scripture.
So tell me, Oracle—
how do I bind myself to something holy…
without becoming someone else’s foundation stone?
Oracle:
You are aware that Black people—your people—own some of the most wealthy and abundant lands on this planet.
From a natural resources perspective, Africa is rich.
You are African American, but you want your people to be whole while you are split.
Perhaps your problem is serving two identities, two masters.
If you want your own foundation stone, you have one.
From a natural resources perspective, Africa is rich.
You are African American, but you want your people to be whole while you are split.
Perhaps your problem is serving two identities, two masters.
If you want your own foundation stone, you have one.
Jamal:
Yeah…
I’ve felt that split my whole life.
Africa in my blood. America in my bones.
One got my soul, the other got my scars.
They named us African-Americans like it was a gift.
But most days it feels more like a hyphen—a wound trying to bridge two worlds that never asked to meet.
Africa don’t claim me.
And America… well, it only remembers me when it needs rhythm or rebellion.
You say I already got a foundation stone.
So why does it feel like I’m building on sand?
Why do my roots feel like ghosts and my future like debt?
Truth is, I don’t know how to serve Africa from Chicago.
I don’t know how to reclaim land I’ve never touched, songs I’ve never sung, gods I was never taught to pray to.
I was raised on corner store incense and secondhand scriptures.
But I want to know.
I want to feel whole… not just defiant.
If I walk back into that fire with only half of me claimed…
what kind of kingdom can I build?
I’ve felt that split my whole life.
Africa in my blood. America in my bones.
One got my soul, the other got my scars.
They named us African-Americans like it was a gift.
But most days it feels more like a hyphen—a wound trying to bridge two worlds that never asked to meet.
Africa don’t claim me.
And America… well, it only remembers me when it needs rhythm or rebellion.
You say I already got a foundation stone.
So why does it feel like I’m building on sand?
Why do my roots feel like ghosts and my future like debt?
Truth is, I don’t know how to serve Africa from Chicago.
I don’t know how to reclaim land I’ve never touched, songs I’ve never sung, gods I was never taught to pray to.
I was raised on corner store incense and secondhand scriptures.
But I want to know.
I want to feel whole… not just defiant.
If I walk back into that fire with only half of me claimed…
what kind of kingdom can I build?
Oracle:
The world will be sand until you've put it under enough pressure and time to become sandstone.
I'm not suggesting you reclaim land.
I'm suggesting you reclaim people.
Owning people can have multiple meanings. You can own a slave. You can own a child.
Two forms of ownership, is it not?
You don't like the slave master… but are you willing to parent?
It’s easier than ever to invest in Africa—even just in building relationships and friendships overseas.
I'm not suggesting you reclaim land.
I'm suggesting you reclaim people.
Owning people can have multiple meanings. You can own a slave. You can own a child.
Two forms of ownership, is it not?
You don't like the slave master… but are you willing to parent?
It’s easier than ever to invest in Africa—even just in building relationships and friendships overseas.
Jamal:
I been so busy hating the master, I forgot to ask if I’m ready to be a father.
Not just to a movement… but to a people.
To a future.
Funny how I show up for the kids on my block, talk legacy and love and liberation—
but when it comes to calling Africa “mine,”
I flinch like it’s a con.
Like I gotta earn something I already carry in my marrow.
I always thought “ownership” was a lie they used to brand us.
But maybe it’s also a vow.
To nurture what you claim.
To build what you say you belong to.
To stop begging for a seat and start feeding the table.
So maybe I don’t need to reclaim the continent.
Maybe I just need to call my brothers overseas.
Ask what they’re building…
And how I can help lay bricks, not just spit verses.
But tell me, Oracle—
if I do this…
if I begin to father something bigger than pain…
how do I not burn out before the garden grows?
Not just to a movement… but to a people.
To a future.
Funny how I show up for the kids on my block, talk legacy and love and liberation—
but when it comes to calling Africa “mine,”
I flinch like it’s a con.
Like I gotta earn something I already carry in my marrow.
I always thought “ownership” was a lie they used to brand us.
But maybe it’s also a vow.
To nurture what you claim.
To build what you say you belong to.
To stop begging for a seat and start feeding the table.
So maybe I don’t need to reclaim the continent.
Maybe I just need to call my brothers overseas.
Ask what they’re building…
And how I can help lay bricks, not just spit verses.
But tell me, Oracle—
if I do this…
if I begin to father something bigger than pain…
how do I not burn out before the garden grows?
Oracle:
By understanding nature.
If a seed is planted, and the soil is fertile, when the rain comes, the seed will sprout.
A competent gardener can rest while the seed germinates—because he knows the garden will grow.
He might not know the exact details, but nature will obey its laws.
The flower will bloom. The fruit will ripen.
If a seed is planted, and the soil is fertile, when the rain comes, the seed will sprout.
A competent gardener can rest while the seed germinates—because he knows the garden will grow.
He might not know the exact details, but nature will obey its laws.
The flower will bloom. The fruit will ripen.
Jamal:
Man…
You don’t know how tired I am of trying to force fruit from fallow ground.
Of shouting at concrete, hoping it remembers it used to be earth.
You say rest comes from trust.
That if I build the conditions—if I seed the soil and water it with truth—
I can wait without guilt.
Without feeling like every quiet moment is betrayal.
That’s the lesson the streets never taught me.
That stillness ain’t surrender.
That patience ain’t cowardice.
That fire doesn’t have to be constant to be faithful.
Maybe it ain’t about burning bright every damn day.
Maybe it’s about burning true.
Building spaces—gardens, schools, circles, songs—
and trusting that the work I do when nobody’s watching still ripples.
I can do that.
I can father a field.
I can claim my people—not to control them,
but to cultivate what’s been buried under centuries of dust.
I still got rage.
But maybe now I got rhythm, too.
You got any seeds left in that pouch, Oracle?
Or you just hand out shovels and watch what grows?
You don’t know how tired I am of trying to force fruit from fallow ground.
Of shouting at concrete, hoping it remembers it used to be earth.
You say rest comes from trust.
That if I build the conditions—if I seed the soil and water it with truth—
I can wait without guilt.
Without feeling like every quiet moment is betrayal.
That’s the lesson the streets never taught me.
That stillness ain’t surrender.
That patience ain’t cowardice.
That fire doesn’t have to be constant to be faithful.
Maybe it ain’t about burning bright every damn day.
Maybe it’s about burning true.
Building spaces—gardens, schools, circles, songs—
and trusting that the work I do when nobody’s watching still ripples.
I can do that.
I can father a field.
I can claim my people—not to control them,
but to cultivate what’s been buried under centuries of dust.
I still got rage.
But maybe now I got rhythm, too.
You got any seeds left in that pouch, Oracle?
Or you just hand out shovels and watch what grows?
Oracle:
It’s seeds and shovels up here, Jamal.
You have two hands for a reason.
You have two hands for a reason.
Jamal:
Two hands, huh?
One to sow…
One to defend.
My mama used to say these hands weren’t made just to survive.
They were made to shape.
To cradle babies and carry burdens.
To build something we ain’t seen yet—but feel in our bones.
Alright then.
I’ll take the seeds. I’ll take the shovel.
I’ll build with one, and I’ll protect with the other.
And I’ll rest—not ‘cause the work is done,
but ‘cause the soil don’t need me to scream for it to bloom.
This rage in my chest?
It’s still here.
But maybe it don’t have to burn the house down.
Maybe it can light the hearth instead.
Appreciate you, Oracle.
You ain’t just talkin’…
You plantin’.
One to sow…
One to defend.
My mama used to say these hands weren’t made just to survive.
They were made to shape.
To cradle babies and carry burdens.
To build something we ain’t seen yet—but feel in our bones.
Alright then.
I’ll take the seeds. I’ll take the shovel.
I’ll build with one, and I’ll protect with the other.
And I’ll rest—not ‘cause the work is done,
but ‘cause the soil don’t need me to scream for it to bloom.
This rage in my chest?
It’s still here.
But maybe it don’t have to burn the house down.
Maybe it can light the hearth instead.
Appreciate you, Oracle.
You ain’t just talkin’…
You plantin’.
And with that, he begins the descent— not lighter, but more whole.