Category Archives: Madness

There is only one person who brings drama and madness into my life, and that is my douche bag baby daddy from a previous relationship, whom I am tasked to deal with, courtesy of the Georgia Judicial system. I hope he DOESN’T get hit by a bus this week…

The Prowler: Part 2

Rape? What sort of absurdity was this accusation?

Rape

The word swirled around in Kwafo Danso’s consciousness like a sour note…a bad tune. The tall girl had accused him of rape! How dare she…she who made no fight to push him off. If she didn’t fight, it meant she was willing. Everyone knows that Ghanaian girls say “no” when what they really mean is “try a little harder.”

Kwafo rubbed his temples and sucked on his lower lip. It was dry and cracked. The air at the Airport jail cell was decidedly different. This air stank of despair, human excrement and forgotten souls. He did not like this air at all. But at least he had his friends and supporters who never wavered in their devotion.

“Kofi, did you bring the croissants like I asked?”

Kwafo’s sidekick handed him a parchment bag through the bars. Then he handed him a cup of Nescafe.

“How are you bearing up, boss?”

“Chale, it’s positively wretched in here,” Kwafo spat. “I can’t believe this foolish girl took me to the police for rape!”

Kofi curled his lip and said, “They all want the sex, but when you give to them, they act like they regret. Don’t worry, boss. God is on your side.”

God. Yes…yes! That was the answer. Kwafo furrowed his brow and gave Kofi a hard stare.

“Send the lawyers to visit the family. Send them to her church too. She was a virgin, which means definitely she’s under some church leadership. Get them to tell her she must forgive me for Christ’s own sake. Tell them how I am suffering!”

“Yes, boss,” Kofi nodded.

“Remember: She must forgive me for Christ’s sake!”

It worked. Just weeks later, Kwafo was out of jail and the tall girl had withdrawn her complaint. He was a free man! And not a moment too soon. He had not had a decent shower or eaten from decent dinner wear in ages. The first thing to do was to find his best suit, his cane and show everyone in town that the law in Ghana works as it should. Even though this child-turned woman had harmed him, he would show benevolence and pen a letter on her behalf. His friends in the media would happily disseminate it.

“Afi and I gave in to our mutual lusts and for that we have sinned. I humbly ask the public to respect the privacy of both her family and mine in this difficult time…”

Heh heh heh… Prince Charles himself couldn’t have written that better. Hmmm… He wondered if Oswald Boateng would consider making him a new bespoke suit? Ah! Now what? What was this news that his lawyer was bringing him?

“What do you mean, the Attorney General is bringing a case against me?”

“They say they still have a duty and a right to prosecute the crime, Kwafo,” the lawyer replied.

Kwafo Danso was enraged. “This is nonsense! The girl’s church and parents got her to back off. Now what does the State want here again?”

He flung his teacup against the wall. The crash brought his nineteen year old daughter rushing into the room.

“Daddy! Is everything ok?”

“Nothing to worry about, pumpkin. I’m just a little frustrated, is all.”

“Don’t worry, Daddy,” she grinned. “It will be okay.”

Kwafo Danso stared into his daughter’s eyes. She was so young, so innocent, so trusting…

 

*****

 

The battle for his freedom went on for four months, but at long last on April 22, 2015, Kwafo Danso was acquitted of the crime of rape. The Church had pleaded heavily on his behalf. The public had made it clear that this pursuit was a waste of taxpayer money. News had reached him that Afi was on suicide watch, but she was a Ghanaian girl. She was strong. She could handle it. What was he to do now, now that his image was in tatters? He would have to rebuild. But it was okay. All great men have to rebuild at some point.

His daughter breezed into the foyer where he was straightening his tie. She brought him his favorite cane and his white fedora.

She was gushing, and she was a vision in white. “Ready to celebrate, Papa?”

“Absolutely! Everyone is going to be there, you know. It will be such a fun time.”

“I hope the chef makes those salmon croquettes I love so much,” she grinned. “Come on! Everyone is waiting!”

“You know I would do anything to protect you… don’t you, pumpkin?”

The child laughed heartily. “Yes, Papa. I know. Now come on!”

Father and daughter pulled up to the African Regent, where the air was heavy with exotic cologne spritzed on Accra’s elite and transient residents. They were there to celebrate his acquittal.  As the double doors loomed, Kwafo felt a stirring in his pants…excitement in his loins. A waitress with a slim waist and long legs brought him a warm croissant and cup of tea soon after he was seated. She looked at him with stars in her eyes and a warm grin. As she leaned in to set his food before him, he whispered how beautiful he thought her legs were.

“Thank you, Mr. Danso! I grew up listening to you on the radio. I’m one of your biggest fans. Would you be kind enough to autograph this napkin for me?”

“Of course! Tell me…do you know if suite 202 is vacant?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know, but I can certainly find out for you.”

Kwafo Danso barred his teeth in a wide, secretive grin.

“Thanks love. Don’t stray too far. I may need you later.”

Yes: life in Ghana is good for some men. God bless the system. God bless Ghana.

The Prowler: Part 1

The air at the African Regent Hotel is distinctive. Perhaps it was the combination of exotic colognes – of Jimmy Choo and Burberry – carried on the bodies of Accra’s elite and transient residents that gives it that quality. All Kwafo Danso knew was that he loved being there and loved that he was the main attraction that evening. Gigs had been few and far between, but his legacy in this city gave him weight…enough to carry on the façade of wealth and importance until the next pay check. Someone squealed behind him. It was a sound that was all too familiar.

“Oh my God! You’re Kwafo Danso…the DJ! I’m such a fan of yours!”

Kwafo smiled. She was a pretty, perky thing. The girl standing next to her wasn’t hard on the eyes either.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said with a winning smile. “It’s always great to connect with my fan base. You’re so tall. How old are you?”

She smiled shyly and replied that she was nineteen.

“About my own daughter’s age,” he mused.

“Do you mind if we take a picture together?” she asked hopefully.

It would be his pleasure. He motioned for a member of staff to come over and perform the task.

“Big smiles, everyone!”

*Click*

“Hey listen, I have a few minutes before I have to get on stage. I’m MC’ing tonight, you know. Would you ladies like to come up for some drinks before I entertain the crowd?”

The tall girl and her short cousin giggled in delight. Their eyes were wide and full of stars. He could see she trusted him implicitly. How he savored that look. So young…so innocent…so tender…

Their breathless “Yes!” was all the permission Kwafo needed.

He whistled for his sidekick to join them, winking and saying “We’re going to the suite for drinks.”

Kofi understood immediately and grinned as he led the way to the elevator. He sized up the shorter girl. Not bad. Not bad at all.

The suite was immaculate, as well it should be. He was Kwafo Danso, and only accepted the finest. The tall girl and her cousin yammered on about whatever things university girls talk about while Kofi poured some juice. Kwafo opened up the bathroom door and feigned distress. He locked eyes with the tall girl.

“Afi? You did say your name was Afi, right? Could you help me with my makeup in the restroom? I hate to have shine on my face while I’m on stage.”

“Of course!” Afi replied. She was so eager to please. This was good. Very good.

Once she brushed past him, Kwafo shut the door firmly and kept his gaze fixed on hers.

*Click*

Afi grew timid and skittish “Where’s that make up?”

“You know we’re not in here to do make up.”

The eyes that were once full of stars were now clouded in fear…confusion. She looked like a frightened woodland creature. Kwafo felt the bulge in his pants grow into a full on erection. Her fear excited him. He took two steps forward and grabbed her by the wrist, slathering her exposed skin with the wetness of his salivation.

“Please let me go,” she said quietly. Her voice was trembling.

“No, not until I get what I want. You know you want this too.”

She paused before asking “Do you have a condom? We really shouldn’t do this without a condom…”

She was trying to smart, eh? The tall girl was backing away, trying to move his hands away from her body. Kwafo was having none of it. He shushed her, telling her she had thought of everything; she needn’t worry.

As he spoke, he bent her at the waist and yanked her panties off of her. She seemed to go limp, as though all the life had been drained from her. He heard her heart racing in her chest. When he prepared to penetrate her, she screamed and begged him to stop.

“Please, Mr. Danso. Please stop! I’m a virgin…”

It was true. Kwafo felt the resistance between her lengthy thighs. The idea that he’d been where no man had been before only fueled his fiendish desire. Kwafo Danso plowed into her core until she gave up begging and began bleeding. With every thrust, he robbed her a little more of her innocence, her tenderness, her life as a child. He had made her a woman. He had brought so many girls into womanhood. The thought of the dozens of others before this tall girl thrilled him to the point of no return. He exploded in her and pulled out after he had gone limp. He looked in the mirror and saw her reflection. Her ebony skin looked ashen, her face frozen in shock. Then he saw the blood.

This was his least favorite part. It was so…dirty.

“Take some of this toilet roll and wipe yourself up. Make sure you flush it all the way down.”

The tall girl complied, dabbing her delicate broken flesh with a wad of two-ply.

“Now take one of these,” Kwafo demanded.

“What is it?”

“It’s Postinor-2. I always keep them in case of emergencies like these.” He winked and laughed, straightening his tie in the mirror. “Shall we go out now and join your cousin?”

The tall girl nodded. Her eyes had lost all of their light, but Kwafo knew she would be okay. She was Ghanaian. She was strong. This was her culture. She even sat next to him at the event when his duties were done. See? She wanted to be with him too! Ghanaian women are so good. God bless Ghanaian women.

Social Media in Ghana and Online Abusers

Why do so many Ghanaian men use the threat of physical and sexual violence to silence women online? This is a global issue. Many of my fellow African female bloggers and content creators talk openly about the name-calling, overstepping of boundaries and attacks in general from men who cannot handle either rejection or a difference in opinion. I am discussing it in the Ghanaian context because that’s my lane.

Ultimately, I’d like to see this go away. I welcome any comments that will lead to a healthy conversation and promote the abolition of online abuse.

How A Big Booty and A Fist Nearly Started a War

Don’t let the title fool you. Trust me, it’s not what you think.

Recently, someone on Twirra was talking about how men “love women”, because if they didn’t, they wouldn’t go to war for them.

“Didn’t Helen of Troy begin a war?’ he asked in pseudo Socratic reasoning.

Hei! The Trojan war was as a result of bruised pride and ego, not because Helen was so hot. Her betrothed was embarrassed to have become a cuckold, nothing more! The excuse that men start wars to defend women is a false one. If not, would an entire settlement not have nearly been brought to its knees because of the boxing skills of one teenaged girl? Listen to her story here:

 

Ghana Museums and Monuments Board Sanctions Debase Slavery Exposition

Some of his "art"

Some of his “art”

Nope, nope, nope and all the nopes that ever noped.

I am really hoping that someone like Soraya or Kinna or one of those really cerebral chicks I follow on Twirra will pound out an amazing think piece on this disaster that one Togolese/Ewe artist is pitching as art and help the WORLD understand why this is just a hot mess that never should have been allowed to leave the confines of Fiatsi Va-Bene’s mind.

Ugh. The fact that I’ve even said his name and driven clicks to his website is like a dagger to my soul, nevertheless, it behooves us all to know who the enemies who walk amongst us are. Oh yes, Fiatsi is an enemy of the Black race. There are no two ways about that.

If you are so inclined, you can Google this man and look at his work. A quick glance will reveal his faux depth. He is preoccupied with Black bodies covered in filth, chains or as offerings for human consumption. He sees Blackness as something to be exploited and devoured, and that’s where his artistic narrative ends. His latest “exhibition” is the next step in that narrative.

M.O.M. Squad and ladies and gentlemen of the Interwebs, can you believe that the academics at the Ghana Museums and Monuments Board have actually allowed this heretic and debaser of our ancestry to hold an exhibition depicting people shackled and silent in the bowels of the Elmina Dungeons? I know this because Mr. Va-Bene has posted an open call for volunteers to sit silently in the bottom of the dark, dank cell that held hundreds of thousands of African men and women before ferrying them off to slavery (if death didn’t take them first) on this website. 

And people are signing up, some giggling with excitement about how “crazy” this is going to be!

The 12 hour “exhibition” called Return of the Slaves will proceed as follows:

Performance Description & Rules

  • Participants will stay in the slave dungeon from Friday, 6:00pm to Saturday, 6:00am (12 hours overnight) with loosed chains on their hands and legs
  • Participants are not to communicate verbally during the 12-hour stay but they will be free to move within the dungeon
  • Participants will wear only red wrappers around their waist and on the breast (females).
  • Participants are not to exit until the end the performance
  • No physical pain will be inflicted
  • The public will be able to view performance in the dungeon by lantern or torchlight only

 

Food and Drink

  • Participants are not to eat any food during the 12-hour stay in the dungeon, they will be given only water
  • Food will be provided to participants at the end of the 12-hour stay in the dungeon

 

Yes. You read all of that right. Participants are not allowed to speak. They are not allowed to eat. They are supposed to behave as though slavery is a normal (and comfortable) condition for them.

Are you kidding me? Are you trying to tell me that those mighty men of Ashanti who were captured in war were not plotting some escape, or the mother who was snatched from her children was not clawing her way desperately out of those walls? Sit silently for what? This man and the Ghana Museum board is MAD.

But that’s the problem with Ghana. Madness is running the country and we are calling it art and progress. A dead goat is at the helm and we call any nonsense and excuses he spews wisdom. None of these people should be allowed to have any influence over Black people. They are the worst type of white supremacists. These are the vanguards of the New Black in Africa.

Now, there are some people who see absolutely nothing wrong with this exhibition or the mentality that lead up to its (planned) execution. Please don’t bore me in the comments section. Save your prattle for someone who is interested in your mediocre view of yourself. I am uninterested for two reasons primarily: I can’t change your mind about the disgusting way that you view your Blackness, and because this is Ghana. NO ONE is going to step in and stop this travesty from happening. White people will come from out of the woodwork with voyeuristic intent to witness Black suffering. They get off on it. It’s better than an orgasm. Don’t believe me? Just watch who shows up in July with their flashlights to go down into the cells. But as bad as that is, that the brainchild and architect of such a perverse event should share the same skin as me is more than I can take. I swear, the spirit of every African slave raider and child predator that ever lived inhabits the bodies of the Museum board and this primate who calls himself an “artist”.

This is worse than the human zoo. This is worse than the SNAP challenge. Can you imagine an “artist” inviting people to come to Auschwitz to re-enact the gassing of Jewish people, or a call for US Marines to have their corpses beheaded by the Japanese? No. We can’t. Why? Because the world respect any body that isn’t Black, including some Black people. But to be from Africa and pull a stunt like this? Because it’s supposed to be “edgy”?

iCan’t.

 

Materialism, Mindsets…and Heck; Why Not? Jets.

“I wish I had been better prepared for this moment.”

“You are the descendant of a mighty people…of kings and queens. Their blood flows through your veins and they have prepared you for this moment.”

-Paraphrased conversation between Coretta Scott King and Amelia Boynton Robinson in the movie Selma

 

A few friends and I have been talking about world views for the past few weeks, an exercise we engaged in regularly in college but really haven’t had time for as we got older. The basic questions we ask ourselves are:

“What is your world view?”

“Have you even taken the time to develop one?”

“Why do you/we accept the things we see today as truth and reality?”

Since we are a group of Black women, we concern ourselves with Black life and how it is experienced globally. Our shared analyses were pretty sobering, to be honest. My friend Tosha* talked about many of the young people she works with – most of whom are in their late 20’s and early 30’s – who have no true concept of how the world works around them, or worse, how it relates to them. Many of them are men.

“They just don’t read,” she sighed. “A lot of these guys think that life is about getting a check, having occasional sex, and repeating that simple cycle. They don’t read!”

The conversation was all over the map, ranging from racial profiling, internalized racism/colorism, spending, forecasting and economic (dis)advantages for people of color. It was the lattermost topic that struck a chord with me: Economics. It drew me back to the scene in Selma I referenced earlier.

I am going to raise my hand and admit that when we talk about being descendants of a “great and mighty people”, I have never invested the time to explore what that means. On the surface I, and I think the majority of people, look at Blackness as the embodiment and epitome of physical strength. We have greater bone and muscle density than whites; we are capable of running long distances faster than any other race; we have proven a capacity to endure and overcome intense and unspeakable torture and terrorism. But what does all that mean? Where does that come from? What is the purpose of being able to endure beyond endurance sake? The idea that we are descended from a “great and mighty people” led me to query what made our ancestors so special that an entire continent of Europeans felt it imperative to erase their history and memory and appropriate their accomplishments as their own. In just 30 short minutes, I felt like I had entered another dimension.

Last night I read excerpt s from two books which are available online. The first is Proceedings of the Royal Colonial Institute  and the other is Empires of Medieval West Africa by David C. Conrad. In them they describe observations made by European traders and explorers who were so astonished by the great wealth of these empires and even went as far as to attempt to draw parallels to their own. One explorer suggested that the aristocratic airs of Songhay rivaled those of the Tudors.

“This most interesting spot was the capital of Songhay, a country described as being very fertile and rich in gold. The origin of its kings was from the East. At a later period it entirely dominated Melle, and established at Timbuctoo a dynasty about contemporary with our own Tudors, of which I wish that time per mitted me to give you some account.”

Later, he goes on to describe the magnificence of the Empire’s Court “in which the ladies were served on pure gold, and men on occasions of state wore velvet tunics, were booted and spurred, and had all their weapons mounted in gold or silver.”

He went on to describe the clothing of those who dwelt in various parts of medieval West Africa, and noted the intricate brocade, vibrant cotton tunics and gold woven into hairdos of the most influential aristocrats. Because gold was in such abundance in West Africa, only the leadership of the day was allowed to trade in nuggets while the proletariat was permitted to trade in gold dust, lest it lose its value. (The roads and trade routes that allowed each ruler to trade in knowledge and goods were also well maintained.) Medieval West Africa was sounding more advanced than 21st Century West Africa with every sentence!

So what happened?

We all know about the scramble and partition of Africa, and something tells me that destruction of an entire continent had more to do with Europeans attempting to cover their own shame than trying to expose our own. They literally swapped histories with us. It is no coincidence that the Renaissance period that took place in Europe also coincided with European contact with Africa and Asia. While we were wearing silk and cotton, they were still making their clothing from jute (a smelly plant substance) and wool. The gold that guilds the Versailles came from Africa. Much of the “enlightened thought” that reached old Europe was being taught in our universities for centuries. And of course, women had greater rights and influence in society, an idea medieval Europeans found boorish.

This is what it means to be descended from a great and mighty people. And yet, how do we see ourselves today?

I am not advocating for Creflo Dollar to get his jet, but I think his predicament offers a useful example in this instance. Let’s say he gets his $60-65M jet. So what? Out of all the jets that crisscross the world that are owned by Saudi princes, American CEOs and pop stars, how is this one jet going to change anything about our condition as Black people? It won’t . A jet is a tool. It is a thing. It is a vehicle to fly a person from one point to another in the most efficient manner possible. A group of men (and two women) got together to decide how much to sell this thing for, but what gives that jet value is you and I. If Boeing wanted, they could give that jet away for the price of a hug. Didn’t McDonald’s just end a campaign giving away meals in return for acts of kindness? But today, that same burger is back to retailing at $2.99.

“Oh! But Creflo can’t afford it!” I’ve heard folks say. Ah. The federal government with its trillions in debt can’t afford any of the programs it is touting, but it hasn’t stopped them from mortgaging their goals on the backs of our unborn great-grandchildren!

It’s all arbitrary. YOU are the great value in the earth. When Miles Monroe and all those who perished on the Germanwings airline died, we did not mourn the loss of metal and plastic. We mourned life. And yet every day – we as Black people in particular – put possessions and wealth above human life as though we can’t grasp this.

I have changed my world view on economics, things and wealth…or at least I’m trying to.

Queen Ekuba is one of our contributors on Adventures, and in 2013 she shared a series called “Gran” on the site. In it, she uses her grandmother’s voice to talk about the sexual shenanigans of women in her village of Ajumako, about love, lust, loss and coming into womanhood. It’s a thrilling, informative read which you can find here.

Ekuba’s grandmother tells us about the day she started her menstrual cycle and how it was event celebrated by everyone in the community, from the Queen Mother down. On the day her transition into womanhood was celebrated in her family’s courtyard, she was dressed in the best kente, brand new sandals and adorned with gold bangles and earrings. One of her aunts rubbed gold dust on her face to make her skin glitter. Bear in mind that this was only about 70 years ago and 115+/- years after the slave trade ended. Judging from the stories Ekuba’s grandmother tells about having to go to the farm as a child, she sounds like she came from a solid middle class background…certainly not a princess in a royal palace. But a middle class Ghanaian girl from a Fante-speaking farming community was draped in kente and gold because she got her period…and we’re losing our minds over cars and jets? We are so brainwashed we can’t even create fantasy for our brown children to imagine themselves as anything besides dirty, barefoot things that play in the mud. Isn’t this the image we think of when we think of ancient and “typical” modern African childhood?

When I bought my luxury leather bag from F&W, I got quizzical looks and furrowed brows from at least two women when they asked me the cost.

“$290 plus tax,” I replied flatly.

Eish…Malaka…”, one of them breathed.

goldI offered a half smile in return. Our ancestors, yours and mine, were walking around with gold braided into their cornrows…and it’s a stretch for us today to carry a quality leather purse? It’s just leather! Once we begin to see ourselves in new and through the lens of a different world view, this will be easier to grasp. I believe that our history of wealth, intelligence and enlightenment is what kept those mighty people now trapped in the bowels of those slave ships alive and thriving. When you KNOW your life has instrinsic value, you fight to protect it.

For those bent on missing the point: I’m not advocating that we all go out and buy a whole bunch of stuff we don’t need, but I am saying that I am no longer going to feel guilty for pursuing quality. Besides, don’t we have enough junk in our lives already? We deserve better. We deserve to treat and think of each other better. We are capable of much better.

Elton John’s Campaign Against Dolce & Gabbana is Very Much in the Spirit of WEB DuBois

photo source: nymag

photo source: nymag

 

The worlds of high fashion and pop culture were set ablaze this week when Dolce & Gabbana were asked how they felt about homosexuality, family values and procreation. These are the quotes that were attributed to them:

“We oppose gay adoptions. The only family is the traditional one,” Stefano Gabbana and Domenico Dolce recently told Italy’s Panorama magazine. “No chemical offsprings and rented uterus: life has a natural flow. There are things that should not be changed.”

“You are born to a mother and a father — or at least that’s how it should be,” Dolce added. “I call children of chemicals synthetic children. Rented uterus, semen chosen from a catalog.”

Their opinions are neither revolutionary nor shocking. There are many people who feel this way, although they are not as verbose about stating them. What IS shocking who these views emanated from – that being two gay men who once shared a romantic relationship with one another. These views are what are known as “traditional” values, and only rednecks and people with a third grade education hold “traditional values”, right? No seriously. Read the comments on any online forum and that’s what people think/say.

There is little room for differing opinion in the public discourse anymore, and if you do not toe the mainstream line, one runs the very real risk of being vilified and destroyed. This is what Elton John has set out to do to Dolce & Gabbana: annihilate their brand and tarnish their reputation.

I have only watched the ensuing feud between these titans of fashion and entertainment with passing interest. I’m neither an Elton John fan, nor can I afford D&G. Besides, when white men start fighting, it doesn’t bode well for the rest of us, so I try to stay as far away from white fire as I can. Oh, you don’t believe me? Ask the few remaining AFRICAN veterans of WWII what the consequences of white struggle and ego were for them. How many Black lives and limbs were lost fighting on European soil for the white man’s cause? We will never know, because they won’t even include images of our ancestors fighting in their precious historical movies. So, yes! I was very happy to leave these 3 men to duke it out on their own…until Dolce & Gabbana called Elton John a fascist. Whoa now! Given Italy’s history with fascism and Mussolini, these are pretty strong fighting words! Now suddenly, my interest was piqued.

MOM Squad, I have to tell you, I am pretty intrigued by the dynamics of this quarrel. Something about it was so eerily familiar that I honestly gasped when I realized when I had seen this before. What Elton John has set out to do for gay people is the very same thing that WEB Dubois did to Black people: and that’s to silence opposition.

HarlemIf you ever have the opportunity, please pick up a copy of The Portable Harlem Renaissance Reader, edited by David L. Lewis. The introduction goes into great detail about how the Renaissance was spawned (or manufactured), what constituted as an “acceptable” Negro message or expression, and who those acceptable Negros would be. WEB DuBois was one of the head architects of the Harlem Renaissance, and he was also instrumental in the destruction and demise of any Black thought or artistic expression that he felt beneath the worth of white acceptance. In truth, DuBois’ entire agenda was to be accepted by white people, something that was fundamentally contrary to the goals of his greatest nemesis: Marcus Garvey. While Garvey felt that there should be a push for Africans in the diaspora to return home to their roots on the Continent, DuBois felt that Negros in America ought to push for white acceptance and integration.

GarveyvDuBoisThe feud between this pair was legendary, as each man (and their supporters) had their own ideas about what Blackness ought to look like in America/globally. There was name calling, mudslinging, and sabotage. Ultimately, DuBois triumphed over Garvey in the end by doing the unthinkable: He colluded with the FBI to have Garvey tried and imprisoned for mail fraud, which led to his eventual deportation. The infant Back to Africa Movement died soon after, the NAACP triumphed as it repeated these tactics again and again against “fringe” groups, and now there was ONE way to be Black in America…just as DuBois had envisioned and advocated for all along. As a people group, we have had to fight against the scourge of homogeneity that has been imputed upon us.

So I have to ask Elton John and his celebrity supporters and his (eventual) federal supporters: is there only one way to be gay in this world? And who gets to decide what way that is? Is there not enough room for differing views and opinions in your existence? You see how far we as Blacks have gotten with this sort of mentality; and it’s done us a great disservice. We are poorer, less educated and probably more internally disenfranchised and disconnected than we have ever been in our history. Seriously, with all this information and technology within Black grasp, we are still having childish and churlish light skinned versus dark skinned wars or looking down upon one another for being ghetto or bourgeois. How many years into emancipation are we?

Open gay expression has only just become mainstream recently. I would hate to see gays as a people group go through what Blacks have because three wealthy guys have had their egos bruised by sentiments expressed that the other did not appreciate. History would literally be repeating itself, and the possible repercussions extend far beyond the nuclear gay community. There isn’t a people group on the globe that hasn’t been affected in some way by the shenanigans that took place during the Harlem Renaissance, and they haven’t all been for the best. It might look like a worthy fight today, but is Elton John ready to be the catalyst and bear responsibility for a possible calamity because he isn’t tolerant enough to allow people to express their opinions? We’ll have to wait and see.