Hibiscus has been grown and brewed across West Africa for over a thousand years. Bissap in Senegal, karkadeh in Egypt, zobo in Nigeria. Wasn’t a specialty item, wasn’t a trend, was just what people drank because it was good and everybody knew it.

It crossed the Atlantic during the slave trade because the people forced to make that crossing carried the knowledge with them anyway. Became sorrel in Jamaica. Agua de jamaica in Mexico. And in America it became the drink at every single Black gathering, whether anybody could explain why or not. Didn’t need an explanation. It just belonged there.

The red isn’t random either. In West African tradition it carries the weight of celebration and life itself, and that meaning survived the ocean without a single page of it getting written down. Just passed along like it was obvious. Because it was.

Science eventually caught up and confirmed hibiscus lowers blood pressure and is loaded with antioxidants. Not exactly breaking news to the people who never stopped drinking it.

Hibiscus syrup, cold cream soda, a half-and-half float, a squeeze of lime. Garnet red before the cream even touches it.

The red drink was always ours. We just put a name on it.