My Story

I did not arrive at this work through academia. I arrived through curiosity, contradiction, and the long, quiet discipline of trying to understand why I was the way I was.

I was never the strongest student in school, and by my own account I am a university dropout. I began a degree in psychology and criminology, but before the first year was out I found myself disagreeing with many of its underlying principles. I moved into a second year of anthropology and did not complete that either. The issue was never laziness — it was a fundamental disagreement, this time with the origin theories being taught. I was told that all human intelligence traced back to the Greeks, a claim that did not hold up against what I already knew of ancient Kamit. I was taught that the base nature of African people was hunter-gatherer, when in truth that shift came after invasion and colonisation. So I left formal education behind and turned toward my own study — which, ironically, suited me far better than being asked to nod politely at things my spirit was already side-eyeing.

It was during that first year that a woman from the Nation of Islam gave me Message to the Blackman by Elijah Muhammad. That book rearranged my reality and sent me down a rabbit hole I never fully came back from — and to be honest, I stopped looking for the exit. Through conspiracy, esoteric philosophy, Egyptian magic and eventually astrology, my thinking shifted in a way that carried directly into my decision to leave academic study behind.

I felt different from most people around me. Being black and Jamaican, and later coming to understand my own sexuality, made me feel like something of an outcast before I even had the language for it. As a child I gravitated toward the X-Men, convinced on some level that I carried a hidden power — something that, once understood and trained, could help heal the world. Looking back, that was my first real introduction to spirituality, wrapped in fantasy long before I had any formal framework for it.

Before I had the language of spirituality, creativity was the first place I learned how to survive myself. Music, songwriting, singing, rapping, dance, poetry and drawing became more than talents — they were my escape, my expression, my medicine, and a way of giving spirit a body. Those gifts grew into a serious path. I used creativity not only to express myself, but to speak into places where people were often unheard: performing on and contributing to socially disadvantaged projects, giving voice to the homeless, to young people, to those carrying criminal records, and to those displaced by systems that had already decided who they were before listening to what they carried. In hindsight, that creative current was never separate from my spiritual path. The more I created, the more I realised that art was not a detour from the work — it was one of the earliest forms it took.

There was anger underneath a lot of this. Rage, if I am honest. The first real inner work I ever did was trying to understand that anger and trace it back to its roots: my relationship with my father, with my own identity, and with my sense of not belonging. That inquiry sent me into a much deeper study of what things like sexuality, power and the forbidden actually are beneath the surface — and how much of what a culture buries, it buries out of fear rather than truth.

The deeper I studied, the more I understood that this intensity was never only mine to carry. It was inherited. One of my grandmothers was gifted and versed in what Jamaicans call Obeah — African-derived systems of magic — hailing from St Elizabeth, with ancestral roots linked to the Igbo people of Nigeria. My spiritual capabilities were innate, lying dormant, awaiting activation and mastery. What had once been restricted or silenced in my lineage was never destroyed, only buried, waiting to resurface.

By my twenties I had discovered the Metu Neter series by Ra Un Nefer Amen, and from there a wide range of Afrocentric scholars covering history, spirituality and cultivation. But it was the Tree of Life that stopped me in my tracks. Out of every system I studied, it was the only one that did not just offer belief or ritual. It offered a blueprint: what you actually are, how to step into what you are, how to activate it, and eventually how to become it.

During a period when things at home became difficult, I made the decision to leave. I spent a few years living in a hostel, in a season of real transition, and used that time almost entirely for study. That period, more than any classroom, is where my real education took place: Hellenistic astrology, medical astrology, Ancient Egyptian spirituality and history — always in service of the deeper spiritual principles underneath.

Somewhere in all that study, a question kept surfacing: why do people pray to gods they cannot define? What is God, really, if the word itself explains nothing? This is what drew me so strongly to Kamitic spiritual science. In that system, deities are not distant beings to worship. They are aspects of the self — intelligences and energetic principles that can be invoked, studied, and mapped onto psychology and behaviour. Instead of fantasising about a mysterious god outside of me, I realised I could awaken that same power within myself, and understand exactly what psychological and behavioural work was required to do it responsibly. That became the whole quest: not belief, but self-study as a technology.

The Chart Beneath the Work

I understood my purpose more clearly the more I understood my own natal chart. For me, astrology was never fortune-telling — it was a map of tendencies, pressures and gifts I could learn to work with consciously.

My Pisces nature gave me access to feeling, imagination, permeability, and the need to merge with something larger than the personal self. My Virgo ascendant, ruled by Mercury, taught me that creativity was not only performance — it was craft, devotion, repair and discipline.

Mercury in Aquarius in the sixth house gave me a mind that wants to break everything down systematically and turn insight into service, intensified by a tight aspect to Pluto. That same Pluto conjunct Saturn in Scorpio in my third house — the house of mind and communication — explained my early clashes with education and authority, but it revealed something older too: an ancestral relationship with knowledge that had once been restricted, guarded, or hidden away out of necessity. This was not only personal anger. It was inherited intensity — ancestral memory.

Scorpio sits on my Imum Coeli, the fourth-house cusp of ancestry, root and inherited foundation. With Saturn and Pluto rooted there, I came to understand that my ancestors were likely spiritually powerful people who lived under enormous pressure around taboo and forbidden expression. Saturn suggests the restriction placed on that power; Pluto suggests it was never destroyed, only buried, waiting to resurface. I later learned that Scorpio is also the rising sign of Jamaica itself — so my sense of being outcast was never only personal. It was cultural, ancestral, and written into the architecture of the land I come from.

That same fourth house curls into Sagittarius, where I carry Jupiter — dignified in its own sign — conjunct Uranus: expansive, philosophical, naturally suited to teaching and higher understanding, and made restless and non-conforming by Uranus. My lineage carried not only spiritual power but a nomadic, questioning spirit — ancestors who moved, who did not sit comfortably within fixed structures — along with the very pattern of disruption and exile I would go on to live myself.

Mars and Venus sit conjunct in Aries in my eighth house, with my Part of Fortune between them: fire meeting desire meeting fated purpose, concentrated in the house of intimacy, taboo and transformation. That placement explains a great deal — passion and aggression running hot with nowhere structured to go, entangled with questions of sexuality, power and what society decides is forbidden. And because Pisces, my own sun sign, rules that eighth house, dissolution and transcendence are woven directly into my relationship with sex, death and transformation. It sent me into a much deeper study of what sexuality actually is beneath the surface — and of how much spiritual technology has been suppressed rather than lost.

The more I traced these patterns, the clearer it became: the work I now teach may have been waiting inside my lineage all along, ready to be reclaimed rather than invented from nothing.

Where Hous of Nu Was Born

The more I understood my own chart and esoteric patterns, the more I understood my role, my tendencies, and my purpose. For years, that understanding lived through one-to-one divination work — tarot, Hermetic tarot, oracle systems and astrology — not as fortune-telling, but as a way of identifying the energies currently shaping someone’s life, and showing them where they still had choice, will, and the power of conscious awareness to shift direction. Consciousness, to me, is not an abstract idea. It is a force that moves energy, and helping people see their own cycles clearly is often the beginning of real healing.

Over time, that work evolved from individual readings into something more structured — courses, frameworks, and a complete teaching system. This is where the Living As Ausar manuscript came from. It is my attempt to take wisdom from many cultures and centuries and synthesise it honestly into one coherent map. For me, that map is the original Tree of Life, the Paut Neteru — not the Kabbalah, though I recognise how the two are connected.

This work is not an Afrocentric movement in the exclusive sense. It is an act of exposing the esoteric realm and making it accessible to everyone, regardless of background. What I offer today comes directly from that long personal journey: from a curious, angry, searching child into someone who eventually built the very system he was once looking for.

Learn what Hous of Nu offers, and how we work, on the About Us and Services pages.