Thank you, Beyoncé

I wasn’t supposed to see Beyoncé perform in Paris.

I was supposed to be in Tokyo, planning a trip I’d been dreaming about. But if you read my last post, you know — that plan quickly dissolved.

Seeing Beyoncé live felt like more than a privilege.

It felt like a pilgrimage.

There’s been a lot of conversation throughout my life about the “power” behind Beyoncé — and whether it’s overrated, as critics (read: haters) like to say. But as a first-timer attending a Beyoncé performance — no, a Beyoncé art show — I can tell you: “overrated” is a word I’d never use to describe her artistry.

From the moment I landed in Paris, it was “Beyoncé-ville.” Everyone, everywhere, everything was celebrating Queen Bey. And as a die-hard Cowboy Carter fan? Every bit of it felt necessary.

Beyoncé isn’t just a pretty girl who sings in gowns.

She is a showstopping performer.

A force of nature.

I spent my downtime meeting fellow fans — my East African sister who drove from Amsterdam, my West African brother who attended all three Paris nights. Hearing what those past shows were like told me I was in for something bigger than a performance.

Now, I’m not the biggest concert-goer. Outside of a few shows in Accra. My last in the US, was J. Cole’s Forest Hills Drive tour — which was great, but let’s be honest: it was a concert. Beyoncé? That’s art. She is truly 1 of 1.

Walking to the stadium that day, I felt it. My body buzzed with queen energy. This wasn’t just a show. It was curated, sacred, specific — her final night in Paris. And I was in for a treat.

One of my favorite things about travel is meeting people like me and unlike me — strangers who I may never cross paths with again.

So when I stood in the disabled line (my favorite line, by the way), I noticed another amputee. She’d lost her leg young, like me. And like me, she’d struggled to find peace with this new identity. I shared how reclaiming mine helped me see my prosthetic not as a burden — but an extension of self.

Beyoncé’s music does that:

It hits each person differently.

For me, she’s been there through my constant fight to survive.

For others, she offers permission to exist as they are.

And for this sister in line with me, she offered something sacred. It was an honor to hear her story.

Now listen — if you’ve never been to a Beyoncé show, you need to know: the Beyhive does not play.

The second the gates opened, people ran to the stage.

Being that I’m aware of how thirsty some folks can be — I knew I needed a seat. A safe one. And the moment I saw feet, elbows, and faux dreads, flying past me while I navigated steps… I knew I made the right choice.

Let me be clear:

Beyoncé worked her magic to get me there.

I was not supposed to attend. I had no tickets. I had begged Beyoncé and Mama Tina on social media to add more dates. None of that happened. But somehow… the stars aligned. I was in Paris. And it was her final night.

Beyoncé did that for me.

Fight me if you want.

I showed up expecting two things: a fan and a sash.

No one told me the sashes were online exclusives or that fans sold out before I landed.

So imagine my surprise when I spotted a bedazzled Cowboy Carter sash… just laying on the ground. While everyone else ran to the front?

Thank you, Beyoncé.

Before it got wild, I managed to get a few floor pics. And wouldn’t you know — I stumbled into the France Beyhive Club President, who took my photo and gave me a Beyhive badge. Small moment. Big deal.

Eventually, I made it to my seat. I was ready.

And I want to say this plainly:

We must stop calling Beyoncé’s performances “concerts.”

I’ve been to a concert.

This is not that.

For three hours, I was engulfed in her world — her sound, her vision, her spirit. Seeing her perform live felt like more than an experience… it felt like I was called to be in that room.

The visuals spoke to the little girl in me who once stood on stage singing “America the Beautiful.”

The same girl who believed in the myth of freedom — before learning that America was the one who took it in the first place.

That betrayal? Beyoncé understood it.

She understood what it means to grow up pledging to a flag whose only connection to you is its “red.”

She didn’t just sing — she named my anger. She moved it. She transformed it.

And then came the Jay Z surprise performance — EVERYTHING I didn’t expect but everything I needed. Another wink from the universe: I was meant to be in that room.

When it ended, it still wasn’t over.

I floated between merch carts, chatted with fans, heard their stories — each one touched, seen, held by her music. Albums, verses, visuals — Beyoncé had been a balm for us all.

People love to ask:

“How much did you spend?”

Honestly? I don’t know. I’m not counting.

But whatever Beyoncé took from my account?

It was worth it. Tenfold.

In fact, I wish I’d seen her again.

Her music has always changed me.

But this performance? It transcended me.

I came to Paris expecting to see Beyoncé the performer.

But I left full — overfilled — by Beyoncé the woman.

The advocate. The voice. The mother. The American. The Inspire-er.

Each version of her echoed louder and louder.