In I Coded My Own AI Bot, Alkēbulan bends the myth of innovation back toward the streets that birthed it. Here stands a figure—half shrine, half machine—with a torso of slick obsidian flesh and a head made from hacked televisions, cassette radios, and melted PlayStation parts. His face is a grayscale broadcast of a boy, calm and unbothered, flickering with a smile the world has never earned. Rainbow signal pours from his mouth like prophecy. This is AfroFuturism with no funding, no permission, no Silicon Valley backing—just willpower, scrap metal, and imagination. He is the local coder, the bootleg engineer, the prophet who taught himself to think in code using only static and hunger. In SHANTYTOWN, the metaverse doesn’t arrive in headsets. It’s built in alleys, wired through prayer, and hosted by avatars made of patched electricity and divine rebellion.