“Don’t let our history die.” ~Edward Scobie
Kentake Page was founded on December 12, 2012—the day the world was supposed to end. What began as a literary blog soon evolved into a platform dedicated to my true passion: Black history. In delving into Black history, one inevitably will cherish the scholars, writers, poets, musicians, and artists who ensure that our story will never die. For this reason, I feature biographies alongside historical events, art, poetry, and quotations.
I am fascinated by the minds of our deepest thinkers and seek to highlight the lives of those who demonstrate—against all odds—our intellectual depth, creativity, resilience, and defiance. I hold to Miriam Makeba’s insight that, if given the choice, Black people would nine times out of ten choose to be oppressed rather than become oppressors. Such wanton violence and greed do not appear to be intrinsic to our nature or consciousness. In the words of Kwame Ture, we are “the most just people on the planet.”
Kentake Page is guided by many quotations, most notably the words attributed to Queen Hatshepsut: “I have restored that which was in ruins. I have raised up that which was destroyed.” My aim is to restore our history from a place of “historylessness” and to uplift that which was lost before Arabs and Europeans arrived on our lands. Our continent and its history have long been caught between these religious forces.
Kentake Page is also inspired by the proverb: “Until lions have their own historians, the tale of the hunt will always glorify the hunter.” Too often, African and Black history is written from the hunter’s perspective. As Jamaica Kincaid observed: “For isn’t it odd that the only language I have in which to speak of this crime is the language of the criminal who committed the crime?”
Over the years, as I have read and grown, I have made a conscious effort to distance myself from the language of the hunter—a language that so often diminishes us. I intentionally avoid using the “s-word” to describe our ancestors who were swept up in the period of our history that began with the arrival of Europeans in the early 1400s. For over 2,000 seasons, our minds, bodies, spirits, and lands have endured relentless warfare. I also refuse to legitimize those whose histories are marked by land theft and claims of false authority (such as “Founding Fathers”). Turtle Island (North America) is stolen land; so too is the north of Africa.
This awareness makes me attentive to the words I choose when telling our stories. It is essential that we do not mimic others’ language or adopt terms that leave our mouths full of blood. Yet I acknowledge the complexity of language: I still use the borrowed term “Diaspora,” as African scholarship has contested, stretched, and redefined it, and it connects me to broader Black and African intellectual traditions.
My orientation to life is deeply spiritual, NOT religious. I follow the Ifá tradition and maintain an altar to my ancestors. Kentake Page is therefore also a praise song to the Ancestors, who are, in the words of Mazisi Kunene, “the mystery that envelops our dreams, the power that shall unite us, the strange truth of the earth, and are from the womb of the universe…” My recent mtDNA results have revealed why the Yoruba Ifá sacred science called to me many moons ago and continues to ground me: the woman who was taken out of Africa 500 to 2,000 years ago was Yoruba.
As a child, when I first learned about the captivity of our ancestors, I did not feel shame; instead, I was filled with awe. I argued passionately with my teachers—European nuns at the Catholic school I attended—insisting that Europeans had acted wickedly. From those cold his-story lessons, I discovered that tears are salty as they wet my face. I cried not only for the brutality my people endured, but also for the Taíno people, the island’s original inhabitants, who named Jamaica “Xaymaca,” meaning “land of wood and water.”
Even then, I sensed that I was being taught falsehoods and began questioning everything. How did the Taíno people die? How could Columbus “discover” an island that was already inhabited? How could anyone claim that my people were lazy or unintelligent? How could people identify as “white” when they did not resemble that colour? I was overwhelmed with questions: How? How? How?
I still find it difficult to write about Europeans as “white.” Long-time readers of Kentake Page may have noticed that my phrasing has evolved—from “white,” to “whyte,” and now to European.
As a child, I was suspended from school many times. There were countless days when I could not wait to return home and sit with a single question: “How did they survive, so that I could be born into the world?” At six years old, I spent weeks trying to understand how my ancestors endured such relentless cruelty, especially when the Taíno people did not. When I could not find an answer, I reached a simple conclusion: my people must have been strong.
This early experience ignited my passion for reading. In high school, faced with the choice between Caribbean and European history, I chose Caribbean history and earned an A. By the time I moved to London, I knew Caribbean history like the palm of my hand. In London, my understanding broadened to include the histories of Black British, African, and African American people. In my twenties, I had the opportunity to study African World Studies with Femi Biko. I also began an undergraduate degree in African Studies at SOAS, but left after a year. Years later, I completed a degree in Psychology.
Kentake Page is an outgrowth of this lifelong passion and my commitment to preserving our history and ensuring that our stories endure for generations to come.
When the youngest son of my three sons reached adulthood, I returned to formal study and began a Master’s degree in African History in September 2023. Unfortunately, the university suspended the program in July 2024—just six weeks before I was due to finish. I had received distinctions for both of my written assignments and was on track to graduate with distinction, pending completion of my dissertation on the impact of the Haitian Revolution. My mind and spirit have yet to fully recover from this profound disappointment. Even the joy of visiting the motherland (Ghana) for the first time in 2025 could not ease this pain.
I am currently writing my debut book on the Maafa. I understand the Maafa as a great catastrophe that shattered the sacred calabash of Being, scattering its fragments across bodies, memory, social structures, and the spiritual field. My writing seeks to gather those fragments—honoring the Ancestors, affirming the wholeness of the Living, and repairing our covenant with those yet to be born.
Kentake Page is therefore more than a Black history site; it is an altar to the Ancestors, grounded in the belief that our story stretches across worlds—and that the afterlife of the Maafa must be confronted if balance is to be restored. However, as my understanding of this history has deepened, so too has my sense of responsibility. The story of the Maafa does not exist in isolation; it is entangled with the histories of Indigenous peoples across the Americas and beyond—peoples who also endured invasion, dispossession, and attempted erasure.
I recognize that telling our story with integrity requires acknowledging these shared and intersecting histories. In this spirit, Kentake Page seeks not only to honor African and diasporic experiences but also to respectfully engage with and highlight Indigenous histories. In many ways, this evolution honors the “little girl” in me who first recognized that Taíno and African histories met in struggle and survival.
Kentake Page is therefore expanding its scope to include Indigenous histories as part of a broader commitment to truth-telling, restoration, and intellectual and spiritual solidarity across communities whose pasts and futures remain profoundly interconnected.
I dedicate Kentake Page to my mother, Delores Anderson, who insisted that I carry too much knowledge in my head and must share it with the world. Since childhood, I have been an avid reader. I read every day—books, articles, essays, and poetry. My home has often been compared to a library. I read not only Black fiction and history but also self-help, spirituality, astrology, and biographies. However, the majority of my books are on the Maafa—the genre of Black history in which I have planted my feet. It is also the prism through which I view everything that happens.
I joined Substack on April 17 after it was recommended to me following my cine-essay on Sinners. I find it a useful and cost-effective way to communicate with Kentake Page subscribers. If you have completed the form on the website, I will now be in touch via Substack.
Kentake Page requires significant time, energy, and financial resources to maintain. In honour of those taken into captivity, this website contains no advertisements. Therefore, I am deeply grateful for any support. If you would like to contribute or sponsor the platform, please contact me at meserette@kentakepage.com.
Through Kentake Page, I remain committed to restoring what was lost, honoring our Ancestors, and ensuring our stories endure for generations to come. My writing is a tribute to our resilience and a pledge to keep our history alive—may it inspire and empower all who encounter it. Preserving our history is an act of both love and defiance; Kentake Page stands as both altar and archive for the stories that matter most. I invite you to join the conversation, share your own stories, and become part of this ongoing journey to honor our past and shape our future together.
Meserette Kentake
24th May 2026