Last Saturday, June 20, I witnessed something quietly powerful on the trails of Bonshaw Hills Provincial Park on Prince Edward Island (PEI). I was one of fourteen men — joined by two young boys, including my own nine-year-old son, Pious. Most of us gathered first at BIPOC USHR offices in downtown Charlottetown, our regular home for monthly BIPOC Men sessions, before carpooling out to the park. Members from Summerside in Prince County met us directly at the venue. We laced up, loaded up on water, sunscreen, and mosquito repellent — and hit the trail. What followed was storytelling, laughter, and the quiet gift of people getting to know each other — many for the first time, others reuniting. We came from Uganda, Ghana, Nigeria, Kenya, Rwanda, India, Iran, Mauritius, The Bahamas, and Canada. We hiked. We played an unplanned, fiercely competitive soccer match that ended 1:1. We barbecued. We played badminton. We shared our stories. And in the sharing circle afterward, I watched one brother offer another a job opportunity — right there, on the grass. A third stepped in to refer a friend. That is what happens when you create genuine space for people to be human together. That is community. That is belonging made visible. Honouring Father's Day The timing of this gathering carried its own quiet significance. With Father's Day just twenty-four hours away, this felt — in many ways — like a celebration of fatherhood in its fullest sense. I brought Pious along and watched him run the trail, take photos, kick the soccer ball, play badminton, get on the swings, and look up at a circle of men from across the world who were laughing and belonging freely. It made me proud — of him, and of the kind of man I hope he is becoming. Some of the men present were fathers. Others carried fatherly roles without the title — mentors, uncles, big brothers, trusted elders who simply show up. I see myself in that description too. To be a BIPOC father or father figure in Canada is to hold something both beautiful and heavy. It means raising children to love who they are in a world that does not always reflect that love back. It means modelling strength and softness in equal measure. And it means building spaces where the next generation can see men who look like them laughing freely, competing joyfully, and belonging fully.

Six years later… and the pain still echoes across humanity. Six years later… and the cry for justice still refuses to die. Six years later… and the world still wrestles with the same haunting question: How many more lives must be lost before the dignity of Black lives is fully protected, respected, and valued? This week marks the sixth anniversary of the murder of George Floyd — a moment that shook the conscience of the world and forced humanity to confront the brutal realities of racism, abuse of power, systemic injustice, and the dangerous dehumanization of people because of the colour of their skin. And yet, more than ever, we must not forget what happened. More than ever, we must not become numb. Because unfortunately, these tragedies continue to happen. On May 15, 2026, ten days to the sixth anniversary of George Floyd's murder, Yves Sakila, a 35-year-old Congolese-born man, was strangled by private security guards in Dublin, in the same devastating manner as George Floyd was. Another Black man murdered by law enforcement officers. Another Black child made fatherless. Another Black family is devastated. Another Black community traumatized. Another painful reminder that the struggle for justice, equity, accountability, and human dignity is far from over. This is not merely about one man. This is not even about being Black. This is about humanity. This is about conscience. This is about the soul of our societies. This is about whether we will continue to tolerate silence, indifference, hatred, and systemic injustice in the 21st century. THIS is why we must continue to educate, empower, unite, and speak. TODAY, RIGHT NOW, Thursday, May 28th, from Noon to 2 PM EST, we invite you to join us for a powerful Memorial Lecture marking the sixth anniversary of George Floyd’s passing. Register NOW at https://us02web.zoom.us/meeting/register/C0debnWUQp2VnSyvP9O7kQ This virtual gathering is FREE.

Ok people, I hope you are all doing well. I’m asking this with intention. And with care. QUESTIONS FOR THOSE COMFORTABLE SHARING How did you receive the racist image of the Obamas that was posted by that individual? What did it stir in you—emotionally, mentally, physically? Because for many, this was not “just an image.” It landed as trauma. It reopened fear. It reminded people—especially Black people—that no amount of excellence, dignity, brilliance, or service inoculates you from hatred. WHAT MAKES THIS WORSE I understand he has since made a video taking responsibility, while simultaneously insisting he has nothing to apologize for. That matters. Because responsibility without remorse is not accountability. Ownership without empathy is not growth. Free speech without conscience becomes violence—slow, corrosive violence. WHERE DOES THAT LEAVE US? Not just Black people. Everyone with a living conscience. Because when racism is dismissed, rationalized, or laughed off, it doesn’t only wound its immediate targets. It deforms the moral spine of a society. Let’s be honest: Some consciences are not merely asleep. They are deadened. Repeated exposure without consequence does that. FOR THOSE FEELING SHAKEN Your reaction is valid. Your anger is valid. Your exhaustion is valid. You are not “too sensitive.” You are responding appropriately to dehumanization. Silence doesn’t keep the peace. It keeps the wound open. So I’m asking again—because this matters: How did you take it? And what do you think we owe one another in moments like this—if we claim to be human, if we claim to have conscience? I’m listening.