WHO FUNDED HARRIET?

WHO FUNDED HARRIET?

Money and Black Liberation

I’ve been thinking deeply about money lately—my relationship to it, my history with it, and its fundamental necessity in the pursuit of Black liberation and the survival of Black businesses.

As a child, I grew up with access and resources. My parents exceeded the lives of their own parents, and because of that, I was able to move through spaces that many Black people were not afforded. But I chose a path that did not follow the traditional blueprint often prescribed for upper-class Black families. Instead of going straight into a corporate career after college, I moved to Italy after graduation and began building small businesses in my early adulthood.

At the same time, I continued my studies at a deeply left-leaning university, immersing myself in the language and theory of resistance, revolution, and the dismantling of white supremacist ideologies and systems. I was surrounded by frameworks that sought to interrogate power, challenge oppression, and reimagine society beyond its current structures. Much of this work included a strong critique of capitalism—its extractive nature, its reliance on inequality, and its historical entanglement with colonialism and racial exploitation.

While I understood these frameworks intellectually and could engage with them critically, I never found myself in complete alignment with all of their assumptions or conclusions. In particular, I often felt that Marxism, as it was presented in those spaces, did not fully account for the lived realities of Black people across the global diaspora. It emerged from a relatively homogeneous context—one primarily concerned with class struggle in societies where racial hierarchies were not the defining axis of power in the same way. As a result, its analysis often felt incomplete when applied to Black experiences shaped by both race and class simultaneously.

To position class as the sole—or even central—conflict, in my view, overlooks how race frequently disrupts and transcends class altogether. Black people, regardless of socioeconomic status, are still subjected to systems and perceptions that are not solely determined by wealth or class position. This creates a layered reality where upward mobility does not necessarily equate to safety, dignity, or true access. That tension was rarely fully addressed in the theoretical spaces I occupied.

At times, it felt as though these frameworks were not offered as one lens among many, but rather as dominant ideologies we were expected to adopt in order to be considered politically or intellectually credible. There was an unspoken pressure to conform—to internalize these theories as complete truths—rather than to question their limitations or reimagine them in ways that centered our own histories, cultures, and lived experiences. For me, that raised an ongoing question: what would it look like to build frameworks of resistance and liberation that are not simply inherited, but rooted in us?

I didn’t struggle to understand the theory—I simply didn’t agree with all of its conclusions. There was always a disconnect for me in the idea that we could remain economically constrained while simultaneously depending on the very systems and people that have historically oppressed us to provide the resources for our liberation. That contradiction never sat comfortably with me.

Then layer in my experience in activist spaces—where money is often framed as inherently evil rather than as a potential tool for freedom—and add the subconscious remnants of slave-era Christian ideology that still shape many of our community’s beliefs about suffering, sacrifice, and worthiness… and what you get is a deeply complicated relationship with making and holding money.

And yet, I have been an entrepreneur my entire adult life.

Most people will never fully understand what it takes to create something that not only sustains your own life, but also becomes the sole source of income for others. Every dollar you live on, you generate. Every payroll, every bill, every emergency—rests on your ability to produce. That is why, in many ways, having a job is easier. It comes with significantly less risk and far less responsibility.

At this point in my career, I have made millions of dollars from my own imagination. Millions. And still, the most financial stability I have ever experienced was when I was making $38,000 a year as a teacher. My life was limited, yes—but my bills were paid, consistently. There is a kind of peace in that predictability that entrepreneurship rarely affords.

I was reminded of that recently during a particularly difficult financial season—one of the hardest I’ve faced. This time felt heavier, likely because I had so many more lives in my hands. And operating in Africa adds another layer entirely. It’s not just about salaries. There is a level of paternalism that exists, where employees often rely on you for far more than their wages. You become responsible, in many ways, for their well-being beyond the workplace. It can be exhausting, but it is also the reality of the environment.

At a certain level, there are no more soft places to land. You become the soft place for others.

After raising significant capital and achieving some major milestones, I found myself blaming myself for a downturn that was far bigger than me—a slowdown impacting even the largest markets, influenced in part by instability coming out of the U.S. economy. Still, I internalized it. I pushed harder. I did everything I could to save the season—to pivot, to adjust, to ensure my staff was paid.

And still, I fell short.

Failure is not something I am used to. In that moment, I even found myself questioning my own integrity—wondering if I had somehow fallen short of my values, despite the fact that I have always paid what I owe, not always on time, but I honor my commitments. That reflection was heavy. But what I came to understand is that I was not lacking integrity. I was not lacking discipline. I was not lacking vision. What I was lacking was access to greater resources—resources that would allow my intentions to fully align with my words and my actions, at the scale I am operating, as most Black businesses.

I realized not only how much I needed those lessons, but more importantly, that I needed to stop playing small—stop shrinking, stop hesitating—and step fully into the level of resourcing my work actually requires. Black people can not be afraid of money.

What became clear is this: I don’t need to retreat. I don’t need to dim my ambition.

I need to make more money.

Not for ego. Not for excess. But because money—when understood, claimed, and directed with intention—is not the enemy. It is a tool. A resource. A form of protection. A means of building, sustaining, and liberating not just myself, but the communities I am responsible to.

And I can no longer afford to be timid about that.