The death of our prophets.

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I was encouraged to write a blog by my students last year. I figured who wants to hear from a class teacher who cannot keep his learners awake just before lunch. I had a profound conversation with a friend who convinced me, to my determent that the world might want to hear what I have to say. A mentor said one day the world will attack so much that I will pick up my sword (pen) and I will fight back. I am a storyteller who believes through stories we are urged not just to listen but hear with our hearts.

The walk is short yet so ever so daunting. This is because my mind is a crossroad of conflicting thoughts. They manifest in grotesque hostility. My mind is disillusioned because the institutions we build dilapidated into the same symbols of oppression with the master wearing a colonial crown. We plunder and purge Africa and give to the West. We have succumbed to standards and procedures not set by us as a unit measurement for sanity and functionality. These standards, when met, make us feel we have worth. The pat on the back as approval from the slave master to the most trusted slave.

I find myself stuck at a crossroad. One signpost spells freedom but it leads to a dead road. The other spells internationalism but has a toll booth and the price is your soul. The other spells outcast and hell. Those who refuse to conform are sent down that path as rebels. There is one narrative that should permeate and it is not her-story or our-story but his-story. The narrative of our ancient kings and great men and warrior women are packed away as fables and dreams our grandmothers fed us as bedtime stories. The voice is constantly shut by arrogance and inferiority that chokes the step in our movement and turns us from brethren to untrustworthy adversaries.

I am comforted by the slow beat of Bob Marley’s redemption song where he asks the pertinent question: How long shall they kill our prophet’s while we stand around and watch? Well Bob we are now doing the killing. We kill them with self-pity and the continuous call for the West to help. We kill them by looting our mother continent and taking the gains into Swiss banks which are an abyss for African treasure. Much has gone in never to be returned. The leaders educate their offspring there while our universities crumble to ashes. They are treated abroad as our hospitals cannot offer a bed yet alone a tablet. They drive in humongous vehicles that are driven by a man who can barely feed his own. The man at the back does not even know his name let alone endeavour to comprehend his reasons for slaving for endless hours. The lack of empathy for a brother is replaced by an unspeakable cruelty to those we consider below the socially acceptable.

We cannot attack white supremacy and win. We have no control over white supremacy. We cannot beg them not to see us as monkeys. We have no place asking white people to accept us. Only the racist can fix the racist. Many have tried and failed. What we can do is look inward. Aristotle said intelligence is self-knowledge. We need to be self-sufficient. We need to stop asking for aid and aide ourselves. We need to hold each other accountable and stop looking for excuses because there are plenty of those on offer. We need black professionals who are unbought, unbound, unafraid, unintimidated to tell the truth[1] . The song gave me hope as the temperature rose to at an alarming rate. The call from Bob Marley to emancipate ourselves from mental slavery. The realisation that “non but ourselves can free our mind.” We have an obligation to kids. We cannot leave the legacy we inherited. We must leave this place better than we found it. We must learn every hour and every minute we are running towards the grave. Every moment could be your last. If it is let it find you in passionate labour.

[1] Professor Cornel West

The death of our prophets.

Image result for bob marley redemption song

I was encouraged to write a blog by my students last year. I figured who wants to hear from a class teacher who cannot keep his learners awake just before lunch. I had a profound conversation with a friend who convinced me, to my determent that the world might want to hear what I have to say. A mentor said one day the world will attack so much that I will pick up my sword (pen) and I will fight back. I am a storyteller who believes through stories we are urged not just to listen but hear with our hearts.

The walk is short yet so ever so daunting. This is because my mind is a crossroad of conflicting thoughts. They manifest in grotesque hostility. My mind is disillusioned because the institutions we build dilapidated into the same symbols of oppression with the master wearing a colonial crown. We plunder and purge Africa and give to the West. We have succumbed to standards and procedures not set by us as a unit measurement for sanity and functionality. These standards, when met, make us feel we have worth. The pat on the back as approval from the slave master to the most trusted slave.

I find myself stuck at a crossroad. One signpost spells freedom but it leads to a dead road. The other spells internationalism but has a toll booth and the price is your soul. The other spells outcast and hell. Those who refuse to conform are sent down that path as rebels. There is one narrative that should permeate and it is not her-story or our-story but his-story. The narrative of our ancient kings and great men and warrior women are packed away as fables and dreams our grandmothers fed us as bedtime stories. The voice is constantly shut by arrogance and inferiority that chokes the step in our movement and turns us from brethren to untrustworthy adversaries.

I am comforted by the slow beat of Bob Marley’s redemption song where he asks the pertinent question: How long shall they kill our prophet’s while we stand around and watch? Well Bob we are now doing the killing. We kill them with self-pity and the continuous call for the West to help. We kill them by looting our mother continent and taking the gains into Swiss banks which are an abyss for African treasure. Much has gone in never to be returned. The leaders educate their offspring there while our universities crumble to ashes. They are treated abroad as our hospitals cannot offer a bed yet alone a tablet. They drive in humongous vehicles that are driven by a man who can barely feed his own. The man at the back does not even know his name let alone endeavour to comprehend his reasons for slaving for endless hours. The lack of empathy for a brother is replaced by an unspeakable cruelty to those we consider below the socially acceptable.

We cannot attack white supremacy and win. We have no control over white supremacy. We cannot beg them not to see us as monkeys. We have no place asking white people to accept us. Only the racist can fix the racist. Many have tried and failed. What we can do is look inward. Aristotle said intelligence is self-knowledge. We need to be self-sufficient. We need to stop asking for aid and aide ourselves. We need to hold each other accountable and stop looking for excuses because there are plenty of those on offer. We need black professionals who are unbought, unbound, unafraid, unintimidated to tell the truth[1] . The song gave me hope as the temperature rose to at an alarming rate. The call from Bob Marley to emancipate ourselves from mental slavery. The realisation that “non but ourselves can free our mind.” We have an obligation to kids. We cannot leave the legacy we inherited. We must leave this place better than we found it. We must learn every hour and every minute we are running towards the grave. Every moment could be your last. If it is let it find you in passionate labour.

[1] Professor Cornel West