Greetings, Blessings, and Peace
I'm a husband, a writer, a published poet, a dog dad, a grandfather, and someone who has never met a stranger he didn't want to turn into a friend. I love a conversation with some depth to it, a laugh that catches you off guard, and that rare, specific magic of meeting someone and feeling, within minutes, like you've known them for years.
My favorite color is red. I'm an Aquarius, born February 10, 1970, and I wear every one of those years proudly — not despite what they cost me, but because of what they taught me.
I grew up in Bedford Stuyvesant, a neighborhood of Brooklyn, New York. I moved to Atlanta, Georgia in 2005, and it's been the best decision I ever made. New York City will always be in my blood, but Atlanta is home now. I like to refer to myself as a “Papple” — combining my roots as a Big Apple kid with the Georgia Peach I've become. LOL.
My life has held love and creativity in one hand and hardship, mistakes, grief, and healing in the other. I've found that you rarely get to keep one without the other. Both hands built the man standing here.
The Village That Raised Me
My parents were Pauline and Lester Hicks, and my favorite aunt was Audrey Wynder. The three of them were the best — they put me first, every time, in ways I'm still unpacking the full generosity of. They weren't wealthy people. But they made certain I had everything I needed, and they rewarded me with the things I wanted whenever I'd earned them, which taught me the difference between the two long before I could have explained it myself.
They gave me travel, art, family, laughter, and something harder to name: the freedom to go exploring and actually discover who I was, without rushing me toward an answer. From dictionaries to computers, from art classes to learning my way around a keyboard, they kept feeding my curiosity in whatever direction it wandered. Christmas meant gifts galore. My education was simply paid for, as a given, not a negotiation. My parents and my Aunt Audrey showered me with a love I still haven't fully gotten over, and I wish, more than almost anything, that I'd had the chance to tell them so properly.
But the love that shaped me didn't stay politely inside the walls of our house — it spilled out into a whole village of aunts, uncles, and family friends, far too many to list here, each one leaving a fingerprint on who I'd become. When I think about my own capacity to love, to connect, to show up for people, I can trace most of it straight back to them.
At forty-four, I learned something about my own story that I had never known: I was adopted. A cousin, without quite meaning to, handed me the truth.
I wasn't angry. If anything, I felt something closer to gratitude — the realization that I hadn't simply been born into my family, I'd been chosen by it, crowned their son on purpose. That single fact didn't rewrite my childhood; it deepened my appreciation for it.
That sense of belonging never left me — it just found new addresses. Today it lives on in my friendships. I don't believe in rationing yourself to one best friend when the world has been generous enough to give you several tribes of them, people I trust completely and love without condition. Having people I can laugh with, be fully honest with, and feel entirely safe with is one of the great, quiet luxuries of my life.
Chuma with his parents, Pauline and Lester Hicks (left), and with his aunt, Audrey Wynder (right) — the people who raised him.
Writing Has Always Been Part of Me
Long before I ever helped someone find their next home, I'd already found a home in words — and it started, quite literally, with a gift. My parents bought me my first typewriter and dictionary, and that machine is where my writing life actually began. There's something about watching your own thoughts turn into letters, line by line, that makes a kid believe he might have something worth saying.
I've practiced spoken word poetry for years — sometimes with real devotion, sometimes drifting away from it before life pulled me back. But writing itself never left; it just waited patiently for me to return. I've published two books of poetry, The Third Eye of a Butterfly and The Affectation — Overcoming Shame and Removing the Mask, and at one point ran two publishing companies — Pauline Publishing, named after my late mother, and ChumaSpirit Books — printing my own work and helping other artists get theirs into the world, too. Both are now defunct, but I still carry what they taught me.
One of my proudest moments as a poet was being part of Nubian Voyager: Poetry and Music from the Urban Edge, a spoken-word and music anthology produced by Les Nubians as part of their Echoes series. My poetry colleague Fisiwe and I recorded a spoken-word duet called “Heaven” for that project — a piece I still think about whenever I'm reminded how far a few honest words can travel.
Writing is how I translate love into something you can hold, how I explore a life that doesn't always explain itself, how I find language for feelings that resist being named out loud. More often than I'd like to admit, I only learn what I actually feel once I've written my way to it.
That same creative instinct still shows up everywhere — in how I tell a story, in the ideas that keep me up well past a reasonable hour, and in a stubborn, lifelong desire to make something meaningful and hand it to someone else.
Chuma's published work: The Affectation, Nubian Voyager, and The Third Eye of a Butterfly.
What I Have Survived and Learned
Some of what follows isn't easy to tell. I share it anyway, because it belongs to my life just as fully as anything else here.
I survived a ten-year, emotionally abusive relationship. The person I was with introduced me to crystal meth, and I am a survivor of that addiction, too.
I've also undergone six spinal fusion surgeries to correct severe scoliosis — the first at forty-five, the last at fifty. Those years reshaped my health, my working life, and the future I thought I'd already mapped out.
I spent twenty-seven years in the legal field, then three more at Apple as a Remote Senior Tech Support Advisor — a stretch that let me put my problem-solving instincts to work in an entirely new way before I eventually became a Realtor. Changing careers more than once meant figuring out what came next while carrying the physical and emotional weight of everything happening around it. Each transition taught me something about resilience, about adaptability, about the particular courage it takes to begin again.
I've made mistakes. I've disappointed myself and people I care about. I've made choices I imagine some would judge. Over time, I've learned to take responsibility for them, to extract the lesson, and to carry that lesson forward rather than let it anchor me in place.
I also experienced a relapse. Roger stood beside me through it. His love, his patience, his steadiness reminded me that recovery is rarely a straight line, and that I never had to walk that particular stretch of road alone.
I try to practice grace and forgiveness toward myself, and I try just as hard to extend other people the same room to grow that I've needed for myself. These experiences have deepened my compassion more than almost anything else in my life. We rarely know the full weight someone is carrying the moment we meet them — I certainly didn't want mine assumed, and I try never to assume anyone else's.
The Love That Grounds Me
My husband, Roger, is my everything — and I don't say that as a figure of speech.
Chuma and Roger
I believe in manifestation, in visualization, in the quiet power of the words we choose to speak over our own lives. One of the clearest examples I can offer began with a soul mate list.
I wrote that list on a Monday. I met Roger that Friday. I believe, without much room for doubt, that I manifested the love I had put into words.
But what makes our story worth telling isn't the beginning — it's everything that came after.
Roger has stood with me through the hardest stretches: through surgeries and health scares, through the end of a twenty-seven-year legal career, through the uncertain pivot to Apple, through the leap into real estate that he helped carry financially while I found solid ground. He has supported me emotionally, mentally, and spiritually in every way a person can be supported.
He also stood by me when I relapsed. In one of the most difficult chapters of my recovery, he kept choosing to show up with love instead of walking away. His presence reminded me, at a moment I badly needed reminding, that I was still worthy of compassion, of accountability, and of another chance to move forward.
Through our marriage, I also gained three stepdaughters, one son-in-law, and four grandchildren, all of them woven into my "why." Roger, especially, is at the center of it. I want to give back to the man who has given me so much, to keep contributing to the life we've built together, and to help our grandchildren chase down whatever futures they're imagining for themselves.
Chuma's family — the people his "why" is built around.
When I think about what success actually means, I don't think about numbers. I think about what it lets me do for the people I love.
Home, Water, and Our Fur Babies
My favorite place has always been the beach, within sight of the ocean. I've wanted to live near water for as long as I can remember.
Today, thanks to Roger, I live in a lake house — water as part of the everyday scenery rather than something I have to travel toward. It's a dream fulfilled, and not a day goes by that I take it for granted.
Our dogs, Dallas and Paula, are family in every sense that matters. I'm an unapologetically proud fur-baby parent, and my love for animals runs deep enough that it's already shaping what comes next: one of my dreams is to start an animal rescue, a place where animals can find safety, real care, and people who will love them the way they deserve.
Chuma at home with Dallas and Paula.
My Relationship With God
I don't subscribe to a particular religious affiliation. I subscribe to the relationship I have with God — the infinite source, the creator of everything — and that relationship keeps growing, continually reshaping how I understand myself and my purpose.
I believe in manifestation and visualization. I believe our words carry real weight, including the ones we speak quietly over ourselves, our relationships, and our future, and I try to be intentional about what I give my attention to and what I allow myself to speak into existence.
I also believe our blessings arrive disguised as our gifts. Writing, connecting, encouraging, teaching, caring for people — these are gifts I intend to keep putting to use. For me, giving them away is simply what gratitude looks like in practice.
Giving Back and Serving Others
I've served as co-chairperson of the Bayard Rustin Society-Atlanta Chapter, and I intend to keep serving the Rustin Institute for Leadership Development.
Inspired by the legacy of civil rights leader Bayard Rustin, the Institute develops leaders across generations who work to advance justice and human dignity through nonviolent change, coalition-building, and community care.
That work matters to me on a personal level, not just a civic one. I was raised by a village. I've been carried through genuine adversity by the people around me. I've known the joy of being entrusted with a young life, and the particular grief of losing it too soon. Giving my time and my gifts to help other people move forward isn't charity, as far as I'm concerned — it's simply returning the favor.
Chuma with friends and fellow community members of the Rustin Institute.
Why I Care So Much About What I Do
My years in the legal field taught me to pay close attention, to ask the right questions, and to understand just how much the small details can matter to someone's life. My time at Apple sharpened my ability to listen carefully, solve problems under pressure, explain complicated things simply, and support people through moments that felt anything but simple to them.
Those same habits walked with me straight into real estate. So did my curiosity about people.
"What's changing in your life that's making you want to move now?"
The answer tells me almost everything I need to know. There might be excitement in it, or uncertainty, a growing family, a fresh start, or a dream someone has been quietly carrying for years. I want to understand what actually matters to them, because that's the only way I know how to help someone move forward with confidence instead of guesswork.
The same care shows up in my work with business owners and with people dreaming up a custom home from scratch. I genuinely enjoy helping someone sort through their questions, connect with the right people, and finally see a clear path in front of them.
My own life has required me to begin again more than once. So I understand, from the inside, that a new chapter almost always arrives carrying hope and uncertainty in the same hand.
What I'm Looking Forward To
There's still a great deal I want to do.
I want to keep writing and publishing — to speak to audiences in ways that teach, encourage, and still leave room for laughter. I want to create books, videos, and resources that help people walk into big decisions feeling genuinely prepared rather than merely hopeful.
I want to keep growing my business the old-fashioned way, through relationships built to last, and help more people build wealth, step into ownership, and bring their own ideas to life. At the same time, I don't see tradition and innovation as opposing forces. I've been deliberate about incorporating artificial intelligence into how I operate, and I intend to keep applying myself to the advancing frontier of technology — not as a substitute for the relationship-driven approach I value, but as a discipline that sharpens it, giving me a deeper, faster, and more informed way to serve the people who trust me with their biggest decisions. I want to keep serving my community, and I want to finally make that animal rescue dream real instead of theoretical.
I want to keep enjoying life with Roger, to keep showing up fully for our family, and to help our grandchildren pursue whatever futures they're brave enough to imagine.
And I want to keep honoring the people who changed my life along the way. I want to live in a way that reflects love, wisdom, courage, and gratitude in roughly equal measure.
Through all of it, I want to keep learning, keep extending myself grace, and keep making good use of whatever gifts I've been given.
Chuma — always finding reasons to celebrate.
I hope this page has given you some sense of the person behind the name. And if we ever get the chance to sit down together, I'll be just as eager to hear your story as I was to tell you mine.