For Black people, business has never just been about chasing a bag. It’s always been about chasing freedom. Every shop opened, every contract signed, every storefront claimed has been a declaration of independence in a world that constantly tries to make us dependent.

That’s why the phrase Black business is Black liberation isn’t hyperbole—it’s history. Marcus Garvey knew it. Greenwood proved it. And today’s moguls, startups, and mom-and-pop shops are carrying the torch.

When Marcus Garvey launched the Universal Negro Improvement Association (UNIA) in 1914, he was radical not just for his fiery speeches, but for his insistence that liberation required economic autonomy. The UNIA created co-ops, newspapers, factories, and even a shipping company—the Black Star Line.

Garvey wasn’t just building a business portfolio. He was building a vision: a self-sustaining global network where Black people could trade with one another, circulate wealth within their communities, and detach from oppressive economic systems that profited off their exclusion.

His critics called him unrealistic. But Garvey’s central point—that political freedom without economic power is incomplete—still hits today.

By the 1920s, Greenwood in Tulsa, Oklahoma, proved Garvey’s ideas weren’t a fantasy. “Black Wall Street” thrived with everything from luxury hotels to barbershops, all Black-owned and supported by a community determined to create its own economy.

But prosperity made Greenwood a target. In 1921, white mobs looted and firebombed the district, killing hundreds of residents and destroying more than 1,000 businesses. Planes even dropped incendiary devices from the sky—the first aerial bombing on U.S. soil.

The Tulsa Massacre wasn’t just about race hatred; it was about power. The destruction of Greenwood was an attempt to annihilate the idea that Black self-sufficiency was possible. Because if Greenwood could happen in one city, it could happen anywhere.

After Tulsa, Black business owners across the country still built grocery stores, funeral homes, insurance companies, and record labels—but under the constant shadow of systemic sabotage. Segregation meant Black entrepreneurs had a “captive market,” but Jim Crow also meant they were locked out of loans, real estate, and mainstream trade associations.

It was a rigged game: build your own, but only within the fences white America allowed. And yet, from Madam C.J. Walker’s haircare empire to Motown’s music machine, Black entrepreneurs turned limitations into legacies.

Fast forward to today. The barriers look different, but they’re still there. Black founders receive less than 2% of venture capital funding despite a surge of Black entrepreneurship in tech, wellness, and consumer goods. Banks still discriminate. Supply chains still gatekeep. Corporate contracts still favor “the usual suspects.”

But here’s what’s changed: cultural clout. Black culture is no longer just influencing—it’s driving global trends. That’s why when Rihanna drops Fenty Beauty, it doesn’t just become a billion-dollar brand; it forces the entire cosmetics industry to rethink inclusivity. When Tyler Perry buys 330 acres in Atlanta and builds a film studio on a former Confederate base, it doesn’t just make him rich; it rewrites Hollywood’s power map.

And yes, when E-40 launches ON1 Infusion Wine, it’s not just a flavored Moscato—it’s a declaration that hip-hop isn’t just in the club, it’s in the vineyards, the distilleries, and the boardrooms.

Here’s where we need to get real: “Buy Black” is necessary but not sufficient. Yes, every time you choose a Black-owned product, you’re circulating dollars within the community. But true liberation means building infrastructure.

That means:

• Black banks that can actually lend at scale.
• Black venture funds that can take founders from idea to IPO.
• Black-owned logistics and supply chains that keep our products moving.
• Black accelerators and incubators that create pipelines for the next generation.

Buying Black is the spark. Building Black is the revolution.

There’s also an emotional and cultural layer to this conversation. For too long, Black labor has fueled industries we didn’t own. Cotton, music, sports—you name it. We’ve been the engine, but not the owners of the car.

When we own, we don’t just change who profits—we change who decides. Ownership allows us to set the terms, tell our stories authentically, and build generational wealth that outlives hashtags and political cycles.

This is why representation matters, not just in politics or entertainment, but in economics. A Black child walking into a bookstore and seeing shelves stocked with Black authors from a Black-owned publishing house—that’s liberation. A Black family banking with an institution that doesn’t redline them—that’s liberation. A Black startup getting Series A funding without code-switching its vision—that’s liberation.

Marcus Garvey mapped the vision. Tulsa proved the possibility. Jim Crow tried to crush it. And today, from billion-dollar moguls to corner-shop entrepreneurs, Black ownership is the throughline that ties history to hope.

Because Black business is never just business. It’s defiance. It’s resilience. It’s a middle finger to systemic exclusion and a love letter to community survival. Every LLC, every brand launch, every studio lot, every coffee shop is proof: we are still here, and we are still building.

Black business is Black liberation. And the only real question left is: are we just applauding it, or are we investing in it?