In Black Noah…I Just Strangled Me A Goat, Alkēbulan ushers us into a folkloric hallucination—a Yoruba fever dream where ancestral dignity tangles with absurdist apocalypse. Two elder matriarchs, rendered with monstrous proportions and unblinking intensity, stride through a crumbling postcolonial corridor. One drags a goat like a reluctant sacrifice. The other trails behind, expression frozen in knowing silence, her presence heavy with myth and warning. Their exaggerated eyes—bulbous, almost cartoonish—pierce the viewer with ancestral weight, as if holding all the secrets of the Diaspora in one eternal side-eye. The goat, a symbol of survival, ritual, and burden, becomes both companion and casualty in this surreal street procession. Here, the mundane—bare feet, market baskets, cracked walls—becomes metaphysical. This is Black absurdity with spiritual gravitas. A sermon disguised as satire. A walk of defiance disguised as a joke. Alkēbulan’s visual language speaks in tongues, and this piece is pure Pentecostal Afrofuturism: the end is near, but auntie is bringing her goat—and her basket of divine reckoning.