It has been barely 24hours since the post triggered by the murder of George Flyod, an African-American, in the United States of America.
Today was tough, the oppression and hate closed in, I could almost cut through the cloud of heaviness. How from 1619 when the first slave ships sailed off the coast of West Africa till 2020, 401 years later, with a hypocritical conglomerate of democracies that make up the United Nations, we wine and dine with very despicable people who are an embodiment of hate.
There was I struggling through the morning, so I immersed myself into work, reassuring myself over and again that we cannot succumb to hate. It was agonizing. It is not maturity, it is pain. You experience trauma when you against all odds stretch out a hand of fellowship to people who consistently stab you and tweak the wounds. With one policy, they subjugate nations. Was it not just a couple of day ago that France decided to grant “independence” to francophone African countries? The news triggered me.
I stepped down to fetch my mails from the mail box, and opposite my mail box, a neighbour put up an advert to sell a desk – a colonial desk. I was triggered again.I took some steps away but I returned to the post and studied it intently. A colonial desk? Someone decided to name a desk a colonial desk and there are buyers this terminology appeals to? This was not a random occurrence on the street, this was in my apartment complex. I grabbed my mails and returned to my apartment, a bit shaken, wondering if I live with people who could break into your home and kill you for eating popcorn while watching TV. I remembered how badly shaken a friend was and would not return to certain jobs because her African accent was mocked daily at work by racists with American accents.
I wrapped the day with prayers, prayers for a couple of things. My heart was so heavy that I lingered on the plight of black people in the United States of America. I could not effectively rid my heart of the agony, so I stayed on the subject till I felt some relief. I could not explain why Geroge Floyd’s murder drilled into my spirit, but I held out hope that the conscience of our collective humanity will be spoken to and black people will know some respite. I had dinner after prayers and decided to rest for the day when I saw snippets all over the internet:
An African woman was thrown off a balcony in Toronto, Canada by the Police.
Police says she committed suicide.
“Yeah it is around the clock”
I was reminded of the response I got from an African American yesterday on the incidences of the murder of black people by racists. Racists enables, empowered, and emboldened by the system. We will not ask why investigations are still on going when the body cam could have revealed the truth. We will not bother with political condolences and more crocodile tears.
I have no well-crafted words nor coherent thoughts. These are not words. This is an expression of sorrow, mourning our skinfolk and documenting it in the annals of history.
The cost of prejudice : REGIS KORCHINSKI-PAQUET