Hmmm… I think Ambolley wants me to write about Monsanto. Done!

Does Ghana – or Africa as a whole, for that matter – have anything to fear from Monsanto? The short answer is “yes”. Anytime a huge US conglomerate takes an active interest in developing nations or any geographic area perceived as being bereft of privilege, there is cause for concern.

I first heard about Monsanto while watching the documentary Food, Inc. I have to be honest: it was pretty terrifying stuff. The idea that one company had the power to change the face and nature of the types of food we eat, dictate how our crops are planted, and make farmers solely dependent on their agricultural products because the very nature of that product (i.e. seeds) had the capacity to alter the state of the very soil it was planted in so that nothing else but genetically modified seed could thrive there is a little disconcerting. The antics of the Greek god Ares come to mind, for some unexplained reason. I visualize carnage… carnage everywhere.

To hear a number of American farmers tell it, they feel “enslaved” to Monsanto. No doubt this sentiment arises from the voluminous contracts the company is the habit of handing out to those who be willing to make a deal with the Dark One. (You can read about it here.)

In fairness to Monsanto, the company has done some unquestionably impressive things in the realm of science since the company’s inception in 1901.  Some of its more harmless achievements include creating and selling the artificial sweetener saccharin to Coke; it became the first company to start mass production of (visible) light emitting diodes (LEDs); and it gave us AstroTurf, which is an imperative must at the Super Bowl.

However, some of its more sinister inventions include DDT (which eliminated malaria in America, but destroyed bald eagle shells, sending the population into decline), Agent Orange (the toxic effects of which still persist 51 years later) and lastly, genetically engineered seed.

It is the last component that I am most concerned about with regard to Ghana in particular and Africa as a whole.

There is no doubt that Africa has a problem feeding itself. It is estimated that every 5 seconds, a child dies from a hunger related disease.  As usual, and as it is with every African crisis, our leadership looks outside of its borders, way across the sea and into some Westerners science lab of carpeted office for solutions to the same problems that these labs and offices created. Enter Monsanto. And Bono. And Kofi Anan. And President Obama.

Looking at the lineup, we should trust all of the gentlemen. They are Nobel Laureates and by the world’s standards, very intelligent and well-meaning individuals. The trouble is none of these guys are farmers; for if they were farmers, they would know better than to engage in this sort of sanctimonious frivolity which has gotten the Western world nowhere but fat, sick and nearly dead.

We don’t have to go very far into the past to see the future effects of genetically modified food. Take a stroll around Any Mall, USA, and you can see the direct effects of bovine somatotropin, a hormone injected into cows pituitary glands to increase milk production. Bigger udders on cows = bigger boobs on little girls. Throw a Σ and a few Ωs in there, and you’ve got yourself an equation for disaster. Other unforeseen consequences of genetically modifying our foods in such an aggressive manner include indecent acts against these unnaturally buxom young ladies of the R. Kelly variety, which then translates to increased prosecution rates and overcrowding of our prisons.

But for the purposes of our discussion today, we are looking to Africa’s fertile land scape… not the waxy surfaces of North Point Mall.

From the little that I have read on genetically engineered seed (GES), I have learned that these plants are extremely aggressive. They take over native crop varieties and either strangle them or at best, cause them to mutate. There is also the alarming phenomenon of Monsanto seed – marketed as ‘Roundup’ – causing glyphosate resistance, whereby overuse of Roundup creates aggressive, herbicide-immune super-weeds. In turn, these super resistant weeds require more toxic chemicals in order to suppress them. It’s the agro-equivalent of Super Gonorrhea.

Ghana, along with Tanzania and Ethiopia, has signed on for Phase 2 of the so-called Green Revolution, which in simplest terms in the business of creating ‘higher yielding crops’ (not necessarily higher quality) in Africa.

This is where I get stuck… because it’s obvious that someone in the Kufuor/Mills/Mahama administration did not do their homework before inking this deal (as usual) and putting the farmers – our country’s backbone – at risk. I smell a kick back.

I can’t speak for other African nations, but the fact is, Ghana’s feeding problems have less to do with output than how to get the product to market. How often have you driven through a village and seen women and children scrambling to sell their wares to passers through? Depending on the topography, they will all be carrying similar items: okro, garden eggs, tomatoes, and/or pineapples. People in the villages who carry out subsistence farming eat very well. Ironically, they produce more than they need to get by. The failure of the government, private industry and other stakeholders has been in engaging these farmers in a meaningful way, and helping them bring their goods to market in an efficient and cost effective manner.

Ghanaians die not only from hunger, but from malnutrition in alarming and needless rates. Because the cost of transporting food is so high, our diet is severely limited to basic carbohydrate saturated staples like kenkey, gari, rice and over fried fish, when we need to be eating more greens, fruits and legumes – which are grown in abundance.  Tragically, every few months there are reports of crops tumbling from the sides of tipper trucks en masse, or worse, being left to rot in one production center or another because the lines of transportation were either ineffective or broken. Truthfully, there is no reason that a country that harbors iron ore in its hills and oil in its seas should not have an advanced rail system at the ready.

And now Ghana is going to let Monsanto come in with its high-bred GMOs to devastate the soil, alter our environment, and cause genetic mutations in our population because Obama and Bono said it’s an excellent idea? Tell me, someone, how do the major players plan to distribute this new-found genetically modified manna? On the wheels of ‘hope and change’? Pshaw!

Agriculture is big business, and there are billions of dollars at stake whenever these sorts of deals are hashed out. But at the other end of that of those negotiations also sits a mother who is trying to feed her family. How much consideration is she being given?

*****

I know that there are quite a few scientists and health professionals that read MOM but rarely comment. Don’t make me call you out *cough* Stella and Karimi! *end cough*.  Would you be so kind as to share your views on GMOs, either good or bad, and enlighten us all here?  I’m only writing about it because Gyedu asked me to.

I know that Misty (yes, I called you out) is also a big champion of organic food. I’d like her and other parents like her to share what influenced her to make these choices.

Oh heck. Everyone just speak all at once here ↓

There’s a pair of Reebok’s on sale at the shoe store I work at. Garish, in-your-face little things, they are. I typically wouldn’t even look at a shoe like this, but it’s one of the few for sale in my store with a pivot ball on the sole – which, if you do Zumba, you know is really good for dancing. The colors are bright enough to allow me to cra ft an entire 80’s outfit around them, and perhaps spend an afternoon in pretend proficiency in breakdancing, if I ever chose to.

They were too expensive though. I waited for them to go on sale, and last week they finally did. At 30% off, I could easily afford them now…but then I read the news and discovered that I didn’t even WANT them.

It’s been all over the news for the last 2 weeks or more: Rick Ross’ pro-rape lyrics in the song U.O.E.N.O. (which I have no idea what is abbreviated for and have no interest in discovering.) One verse in particular had women’s rights and advocates for rape victims in arms and engaged in battle. In my view, their reaction was apt and warranted.

That nigga sold you that re-rock, you ain’t even know it
I die over these Reeboks, you ain’t even know it
Put Molly all in her champagne, she ain’t even know it
I took her home and I enjoyed that, she ain’t even know it
Got a hundred acres I live on, you ain’t even know it
Got a hundred rounds in this AR, you ain’t even know it
Got a bag of bitches I play with, on cloud 9 in my spaceship
Zoned out but he stay fresh from Zone 1 through Zone 6
Bricks all in my blood, birds all in my dreams
Boats all in my yard, lemon pepper my wings
I’m bout to get you f*ck niggas wacked, you ain’t even know it
Your main nigga bout to turn his back, you ain’t even know it

This is my first time actually looking up the lyrics outside of the reference to drugging his date and raping her while unconscious. I’m a bit perturbed by the rest of the content. Like most Top 40 rap today, it’s nothing more than gibberish about flaunting wealth, bagging b*tches and killing other Black guys. You know, just your run of the mill hood jingle. The only thing that distinguishes one rapper from the next is some gimmick he is forced to employ, and so you have L’il Wayne sporting nut hugging leopard print pants (which he has the audacity to sag) and a portly Rick Ross exposing his grotesque belly at every opportunity. The point is, if you’re looking for a song for which to use as a protest against the myriad of ills that plagues American society, this one certainly qualifies.

U.O.E.N.O has now earned the shameful moniker of “Rick Ross’ date rape song”, something I’m sure he never imaged when he penned his “lyrical masterpiece”, and yet there you have it. My problem with the song is not that he wrote it, or even put it to music. It’s that all the adults in the room listened to each syllable and didn’t find anything wrong with it. This is an issue that is playing itself out in music studios all across the nation: there is no sense of accountability. None whatsoever.

In the wake of Steubenville, the rape and impending suicide of Audrie Pott and hundreds of stories of rape that we will never hear about, Rick Ross’ situation becomes particularly poignant. Rick Ross is not a role model for anyone under the age of 40, but he does possess the same privileges and certain the same platform of the cherished title American society has heaped on the gaggle of hapless dimwits we love to idolize.

He is a musician, and music is –and always will be – influential.

I’m guessing the average consumer of Rick Ross’ music is young, male and urban (or wannabe urban). As was exhibited by the case in Steubenville, most of this segment of society doesn’t have the sense of a boiled crab. When you make suggestions of this sort – that you can drug a girl and take her home, and “enjoy that” without her even knowing it – and don’t follow up with the possible consequences of this action, which include arrest and incarceration, well then that makes you dangerous.

As predicted, several members of the hip-hop community like Drake and Tyga came out in defense of Rick Ross, citing freedom of speech and artist oppression. They said activists and righteous groups were grasping at straws, using anything they could to quell the message of hip-hop.

“I mean activists, and all those righteous groups. That’s what they do, they probably don’t even listen to Ross’s music. I know they don’t know who Rocko is,” said Tyga.

No one needs to know who ‘Rocko’ is. I believe celebrities have a right to privacy. He’s an entertainer, and all we need to judge him by is his product – and at the moment, he has produced a song that glories date rape (along with owning a plantation and murdering other Black men. But that’s a discussion for another day.)

Tyga’s utterances are problematic, because they convey and are rife with a pervasive notion of entitlement: That one is entitled to say and do whatever they want for any reason they can conjure – or not conjure. After all, this is America. No one really has to give an account for why they do one thing or another, or so we’re raising this generation and those that follow to believe. Ask Rick Ross why he thought it would be okay to violate a woman in a state of unconsciousness and then write a song about it. Bet you he looks at you with that blank stare my 4 year old gives me, shrugs and goes “I dunno.”

I have discovered that rape is not only about power, but also a false sense of endowment. Men and boys who disseminate and consume poisonous lyrics like these grow up more and more convinced that they have the right to harass, belittle, and rape whomever they wish. I can’t say that they are only to blame. Video whores who have sold out the gender for fleeting fame have contributed to this new idea of capturing the moment on camera and spreading the images around. The only difference is, they get the benefit of being aware and complicit in their actions. The Steubenville victim and Ms. Pott did not.

Ultimately, I’m glad that Reebok decided to drop Rick Ross from its endorsement deal, but I feel like it was too little too late. Their lack of a swift reaction says to me (and many others) that the corporate brand was waiting to see if this whole “date rape thing” would just blow over. If the company felt strongly about what it is supposed to stand for – the health, fitness and wellbeing of its consumers – they never would have chosen such a slovenly, oily, misogynistic representative in the first place. For Heaven’s sake; Even Nike dropped Tiger Woods from its endorsement deal without prompting, and all 4,853 of his sex-capades where consensual!

I’m not saying Rick Ross can never make another date rape song again if he wants to – I’m just saying we don’t need to reward him and other foolish people like him. He has a right to free speech, and I have a right not to give him or his sponsors a rusty red cent if it’s going to send our society further into the bowels of Hell.

So discuss, discuss! What do you think?

Today, millions of Africans around the globe are lamenting the loss of Chinua Achebe. I am one of them. There is something eerie that goes on in the soul of a (presumed) writer when a fellow leaves this realm. It’s hard to explain, but it’s like that intense emptiness that rushes over you while watching your best friend get into a moving van relocate across the country. You wonder how you’ll ever survive, but in time, you figure out how.

I was not an early fan of Achebe. My education was fiercely Eurocentric, and when I switched secondary schools in sixth form I was bombarded with unfamiliar (and admittedly, uncomfortable) Afrocentrism. In my literature and higher English classes we were being ask – or required, rather – to read works of authors who were not White, male and dead…and I resented it. I would have rebelled completely, but 30% of my grade rested on completing a 500 word essay on either the works of Okot p’Bitek (Song of Lawino), D T Niane (Sundiata: An Epic of Old Mali) or Chinua Achebe (Things Fall Apart). I chose Song of Lawino, not because it was a literary masterpiece, but because it was the shortest book of the three. After all, what could a man who was neither dead nor White have to say of substance?

At prep time, the majority of the other literary nerds from the junior classes would gasp audibly and give each other shocked or amused glances, daring only for a moment to look up from their copies of Things Fall Apart. Talking at prep was forbidden.

“Things fall apart,” one of them would say.

“The center cannot hold,” the other would reply.

Ah. What inside joke was this? I wanted in. Achebe shamed me into a mental revolution and freed it with his simple but profound words. He left an indelible impact on me as a teen.

Achebe’s influence extends far beyond rectangular cement structures that house pupils in Africa or grandiose university lecture halls. His effect is felt even in hip hop, dating back to 1999 with The Roots entitling their fourth album with the same appellation of Achebe’s most renown work Things Fall Apart. One of my favorite songs on the album, also entitled Things Fall Apart/You Got Me, features Erykah Badu:

We knew from the start that things fall apart

And tend to shatter

She like that sh*t don’t matter

When I get home get at her…

I loved that verse because it was so gritty and real.

It never occurred to me to wonder what Dr. Achebe thought about The Roots’ flagrant use of the title he’d coined 40 years before, but I do know he didn’t care for 50 Cents attempt to do the same in 2011. He sued the rapper/actor for plagiarism and won. Fiddy must have thought he was dealing with a small boy. He tried to settle out of court, offering the Chinua Achebe Foundation $1 million to use the title, but the Chinua Achebe Foundation turned down the offer.

“The novel with the said title was initially produced in 1958 (that is 17 years before rapper 50 Cent was born), [is] listed as the mostly read book in modern African literature, and won’t be sold for even $1 billion,” Achebe’s legal reps said.

I don’t know what words Achebe whispered to Fiddy, but before you could say “It’s your birthday!”, the title was changed to All Things Fall Apart. Hei!

You guys know that I am a bush girl masquerading as a learned lady. And it is for this reason that this will always remain my favorite memory of Chinua Achebe: Hardcore Literary Gangsta!

As the tributes pour in for Chinua Achebe he will be remembered for many things: For being a man of the people, an unflinching voice of truth, a brave and unapologetic witness to Africa’s greatness and condemner of the follies of its leaders – a roaring voice of the people.

Now that my grief has subsided in part, I can finally offer my sincere thanks to you, Chinua Achebe. Thank you for telling your stories – our stories – so beautifully and inspiring generations and generations yet to come to do the same.

Every once in a while, someone will randomly add me to group on Facebook or throw a link on my wall expecting me to read/watch its contents. 97% of the time I do not. There’s just too much “stuff” competing for my attention in the social media realm However when Amma Bonsu raises the alarm for a cause, I know it’s worth investigating.

Amma is the curator for the blog www.ammazingseries.com. Though we attended the same school, we could not be more dissimilar. She has an affinity for weaves, while I have an aversion for them. She adores and dotes on Barack Obama, while I am skeptical about every word that falls off his lips. We are both ‘Black’ and female, but the way we perceive the world is as different as East is from West – except for one thing: we are resolute in our love for Africa. In light of that, all of our dissimilarities become trivial.

Amma added me to a group that she started called Racist Utahns poison Ghanaians & Discovery Channel Watches. Ouch. It’s unlike her to throw out the “r” word so carelessly, so I figured this warranted some looking into. I mean, the Discovery Channel is supposed to be the arbiter for good global stewardship. Surely they wouldn’t sit by and watch three white men pollute any part of the earth for profit, let alone film, market and broadcast it for profit, would they? I clicked on the link she included on the group’s page: http://dsc.discovery.com/tv-shows/jungle-gold

I was immediately crestfallen. Alas, these were Africans, not polar bears and therefore did not meet the requirements for sympathy. Add the screeching monkey and drumbeat sound effects that precede each segment and its even easier to dismiss the atrocities altogether.

The three alleged racists are from Utah. After going bankrupt following the real estate crash in 2008, they turn their sights on Africa, Ghana specifically, for a solution for their financial woes. There is an unregulated gold rush in Ghana that has been going on for years now, locally known as ‘galamsey’. Hoards of people – local Ghanaians, Chinese and even a few Black Americans – have torn through the countryside decimating forests and farmland, polluting waterways and Ghana’s fertile soil. These unscrupulous men are amongst that hoard. In one part of the video, the White and Chinese miners exchange gunfire in order to intimidate each other.

The cynic in me was saddened, but unmoved to do anything in an activist’s capacity. After all, the government is well aware of these goings-on and is idly twiddling its thumbs, waiting for the next election or check to pocket. Ghana’s government has the resources to stop galamsey in its tracks…it just refuses to do so. So I did what all sophisticated Africans do when they are “outraged” about something: I sent a tweet of the offending video, made a comment, and left it at that. To my utter surprise, George Wright tweeted me back.

Their company was 100% legal, he claimed. They pay farmers for each tree they fell. 5 times the value of crops for a year even! They even reclaim [the forest].

Somehow, I doubted that. I took a bite from my butter pecan ice-cream. The tweets kept coming. “We are similar to their Ghanaian friends whom they have helped to come to America for work. Two great countries with many opportunities.”

Heh. Was he asserting that helping Kofi Baboni come to America to do janitorial work was appropriate recompense for destroying my native land? I slurped my ice-cream a little louder.

He went on to say that he loves the people of Ghana.

“There is a saying, you may know it, Gye Nyame. A wonderful sentiment that has unified both @JungleGoldScott and I w/ Ghananian ppl.”

This is the part where I lost it. This foolish man! Does he think that I am one of those village girls who is easily impressed because a White man has picked up a phrase in local vernacular? And to add insult to previous insult, “Gye Nyame” is neither a saying nor a sentiment. It means “Only God”. This fool was confusing it “Ubuntu” (which by the way is a sentiment borne from South Africa). I wanted to find him and break his legs for insulting me, my community, our intelligence and our land.

But why should I be angry with him? A White man is going to do what comes naturally to him, as what came naturally to his ancestors. He will exploit everyone else for his benefit. End of story.

No. The blame for this whole fiasco falls on our elected leaders and elders. They are too scared to protect the country from all enemies, both foreign and domestic. They have refused to look at the long term effects of their short-sighted decisions, selling off many of our assets to draconian companies like Monsanto and anyone in a button down shirt and blond hair.

There is an old tree next to the highway on the way to Larteh and Akropong. Its trunk is riddled with lesions and oddly shaped globes. You can’t miss it. I asked my dad about that tree just a few years ago, after passing it without question for many decades. He told me about the slave raids and Samori, a notorious local slave raider who captured his neighbors and sold them to the invading Whites. He told me about how the mountain people fought back against their would-be colonial masters.

“There was a battle in this area and the Guans won,” he said. “They took the guns of the White men and fired all the bullets into that particular tree. Over time, the tree healed itself but you can still see the scars from where the bullets entered the trunk.”

I was amazed. I had always assumed that Ghanaians were docile cowards who up until Kwame Nkrumah were happy in their servility to the colonialist. History until that point had been taught in a very Eurocentric view, so I had no reason to believe otherwise. My thoughts were broken by my father’s grunt of disgust.

“Do you know where the word “abrochi” came from?” he asked me.

Of course I didn’t. I barely speak any Twi at all…how then could I tell anyone of root words and origins in the language?

“It came from the word “aburafuor”. Destroyers. That’s what they called the British when they came here. Wherever they set their foot, they destroyed the land,” he said darkly. “It’s just over time they changed the name to abrochi to mean “abroad”. They changed it into a positive.”

As I sit here in my comfortable home, knowing full well that Jungle George or Tarzan or whatever they call themselves are preparing to rape and raid my native land again as they shoot their second season, I have to wonder: will there be a tree to bear the scars of defiance in the face of environmental rape? Who will take up the mantle to make sure that illegal mining in Ghana stops? When will we compel our leaders to stop their ignorant, harmful ways? What, if anything, is to be done?

“Dude…I have to go get duck-faced this afternoon.’

“Dude, are you serious?”

“Yeah man. It’s that time of year.”

“I guess that means it’s almost time for me to get duck-lipped too.”

“Yup.”

“Well, don’t let me know how it does. I hate that thing man. It’s so – weird.”

“Hahaha!! Alright. Talk to you later.”

*Click*

That’s a conversation my sister and I used to have every year when it was time for our annual pap smear. We call it getting “duck-faced” or “duck-lipped” because of the cold metal apparatus that the OB/GYN inserts into the vaginal opening in order to get a swap. It literally looks like the bill of a mallard duck. As much as we kvetch and complain about having our insides probed and prodded, we understand that getting an annual exam is an important part of monitoring our health as women. We live by the motto that prevention is better than cure. Unquestionably, prevention saves you a lot of money, and my sister and I are unabashedly frugal.

As citizens and residents of the United States of America, we also have come to understand that we are very fortunate to enjoy the healthcare options available to us at this stage in our lives. I never heard about pap smears or vaginal exams as a teenager growing up in Ghana. I was never taken to a doctor for any sort of annual exam, save for that one time I nearly died from malaria. The one time I read about breast examinations was when I picked up a Cosmo magazine from the desk of a friend who had access to foreign magazines in those days. I grew up woefully unaware about the need to care watch over those parts of my body: the budding breasts that men stared at and this vagina that a baby would one day be expected to be delivered from.

What I did grow up with was a healthy dose of shame. Shame plays a major role in every facet of Ghanaian society.

Heh! You failed your exams! Oh shame!

Oh don’t mind that foolish boy. I know he stole my KK Kabobo cassette tape. He can’t even look at my face because he is ashamed!

You see that small girl walking? She’s trying to hide her pregnancy. 33n kraa, I’m sure she is ashamed.

With a population obsessed with and fed such high dosages of shame, the only logical step would be to do as much possible to cover the stain of your offences. I imagine that this is why this quack doctor in Ghana was able to coerce hundreds of victims into the act of “consensual rape”, if such a thing even exists.

What on earth are you talking about, Malaka, you ask. What sort of foolishness is “consensual rape??”

Well, in early October a friend of mine inboxed me a link and asked me to watch it. Being warned that it contained footage of a “doctor” who was raping his patients, it took me well over a month to gather the stones to view it. I’m irrationally sensitive when it comes to sexual violence against women and children. I lied to her, telling her that I had seen it and it was indeed sick. But it wasn’t until last week when I saw with my own eyes how disgustingly heartless Dr. Joshua Drah actually is. If you care to have your stomach turned, you can watch his sadism in action by clicking this link:

Abortionist rapes patients

His victims are young women who look to be in their early to mid-twenties. It is estimated that he has performed countless thousands of illegal abortions in the 10 years his clinic has been in operation. Before any medical procedure is performed, the patient is required to pay a fee of GhC50 – 100 ($26 – 52) upfront. Once inside a dark and dingy room at the rear of this clinic, ‘Dr’ Drah begins his examination of the patient. He never has any other medical staff assisting him. Soon and quite suddenly, the girls go from patients to victims.

Explaining that their “things” are too tight for the fetus to come through, and that the only way to open it up would be to have sex with them. Instinctively, the girls know that this can’t be right and object. One girl wept, shouting “no, no!”. Not so easily dissuaded, Drah shames her into submission, asking her if it’s not the same sexual act that led to her unwanted pregnancy anyway? What would be the difference? He mutters something about a “membrane” and an “opening” and mere seconds later he is penetrating her – without protection, might I add. I nauseously watched him empty his semen into one of his victims before pulling up a stool, spreading her legs, and yanking a fetus out with some unsterilized metal object that was sitting in a plastic bucket on the floor next to him.

No one really knows how many of his victims have died from complications following his botched operations. My heart aches for these young women who have been so utterly degraded. I can only imagine how frightened they must have felt: going in for a procedure that is already deemed a sin but seeing it as the only course to preserve your honor, only to be violated even further. For some, this will have been the first medical procedure they have ever had. For others yet still, it will have been the last, as death waits for them on the other end of Drah’s forceps. None of them could have imagined what they would face that day.

My BFFFL Nana Darkoa will be doing a write up on Dr. Drah and the system that allowed him to flourish for so long. There are many issues at play, which she will discuss in great detail. The two that anger me the most are the lack of education and the abundance of shame. If Ghana is to achieve any sort of prominence in the new century, we would do well to experience more of one and less of the other.

Hopefully, this will be a lesson for all young women in the country. The title of doctor, lawyer, officer, or whatever does not give another human being the right to violate you in any regard. Run, scream, make noise, tell someone! You are not responsible for the burden of blame.

Side note: Ghana reporters. The music. Really? We’re not watching a concert. We’re witnessing a crime! Yesu…

Unless you’re one of the 47% and/or living under a bridge downtown, you probably watched last night’s debate. Why would a 47%er need to watch their candidate debate a guy they have no intention of voting for anyway? Besides, BET had something far more interesting on the tube…like The Game…or something. 47%ers like The Game.

Anyway, if you missed the presidential debate for any reason, you missed an incredible show. It was absolutely full of surprises. The polls had Barack Obama favored to win by 56%. I myself was certain that the President was going to completely trounce Mitt Romney. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Mitt Romney looked like a caged mountain lion, waiting to attack his hapless prey. President Obama looked absent. No really. It was like he wasn’t even really there.

For those of you who follow fashion and celebrity, this is the best analogy I can provide. Think back to the Golden Globes, 2007. Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt showed up on the red carpet arm in arm. Pitt was congenial and all smiles for the cameras. Jolie on the other hand looked like she’d been sucking on acid for the duration of the limo ride to the event. Her expression was dour…almost angry. The fashion police were livid.

“Look at her face!” cried Joan Rivers.

“If she didn’t want to be there, she never should have come!” spat the tiny gay dude who sits on her panel.

We found out days later that Jolie’s mother was gravely ill. She died shortly after that. Of course, all was forgiven soon thereafter, and everyone raved how ‘brave’ it was of Angelina to show up at this event in the face of such horrendous tragedy.

That was our president: Showing up at an “event” in the midst of some unknown tragedy instead of fighting to keep his job. I know it was his 20^th anniversary and he would have much rather have spent it at dinner with his wife rather than debating Mitt Romney, but you’re the president! Snap out of it!

The whole affair was less of a debate than an exercise in pure comedy. The debate was “moderated” by Jim Lehrer of PBS, who did less wrangling of the event and more watching. It was like watching two toddlers fight viciously for a turn at bouncing a rubber ball at the city park while grandpa looked helplessly on.

“How can I make them mind me?” read Lehrer’s expression.

Yes – how indeed? Perhaps Gwen Eiffel could provide a few pointers for the next go round, Jimmy.

There really is no way to convey all the highlights from the debate, but there is one in particular that struck a chord with Gen Xers across the country: Mitt Romney’s pledge to put Big Bird out of work.

Not to be undone, President Obama invoked Donald Trump – or at least a reference to his penis.

“I don’t think Donald Trump would describe himself as a small business man. If fact, I don’t think he would like to be described as a ‘small’ anything!”

Mmmhmmm, Mr. President. We can read between the lines!

Then…THEN he lied to Jim Lehrer.

“I don’t know how much of a good job I did moderating here tonight…” said Lehrer, his voice trailing off as though anticipating an interruption.

The president jumped in right on cue.

“No, no Jim! You did great!”

LIAR! Jim Lehrer sucked! Don’t give that old man pity just because he’s OLD. Make him earn his wages like the rest of us!

Look. The fact is, Republicans are jubilating today because Mitt Romney put on the better show. He was able to sway an impressive number of swing voters with his performance and mastery of his delivery. He seemed to present his ideas as facts. He was aggressive and steered the course of the debate. In short, he showed leadership and decisiveness. President Obama was much too sheepish for my taste, and that’s not the incumbent the nation has come to know. His performance was disappointing, plain and simple. I honestly think he’s resting on his laurels and riding his waning wave of success via 2008.

But enough of my gibber. What was YOUR favorite part of the debate? Did either candidate say anything to sway you one way or another? And who else is ready for the unleashing of Joe Biden?!? I hope he drops a deuce or an F-bomb or two while he’s on stage. Those are always quite fun.

Isn’t politics great?

I’m always so excited when I get articles from Field Ruwe. His insight and observations are always timely and bring me back into focus. He is a true son of Africa, whose heart and mind is never far from the Continent. Am I gushing? Undoubtedly, and without shame. The man is an excellent writer and I love great writing. Here’s his latest, MOM Squad, hot n’ ready!

Are We the People God Forgot?

By

Field Ruwe

Gripped by a sense of failure, I sat on the bench and stared at the horizon in the direction of my motherland. A jab of pain couldn’t let go.

“Are we the forgotten people?” I asked.

I felt my eyes fill, but fought back tears. The smile on the white people in the hall is what had brought me here, to consult with God. I stepped out because I could not share their happiness; their joy, and their pride as a people. They were happy that I had come to see what had made them exceptional.

The guest speaker had bruised my self-worth with his words.

“There’s nothing we have failed to achieve,” he said in his speech. His pose exuded a calm confidence. “We’ve explored, discovered, and invented. We’ve built a rocket to take us far and beyond…to our neighbors in the universe, and now we have this baby here to take care of Mars.”

In the middle of the hall was a model of NASA’s rover named “Curiosity.” Currently on Mars, the six-wheeled robot is helping scientists to study habitability, climate, and geology of Mars.

“Because we are a curious people, we have named him Curious,” the speaker said. “It’s the curiosity in us that has produced geniuses of this world, among them, Isaac Newton, The Wright Brothers, Albert Einstein, Bill Gates, and Steve Jobs. We can drive, fly, and tweet. Now, Curious here is trying to make it possible for us to colonize the red planet.”

“God bless America!” someone in the audience shouted.

The hall rang with applause and cheers. I couldn’t partake. I knew what the speaker meant by “we.” I knew it the moment I had entered the hall and set my eyes on the robot. It was an ingenious piece of work that evoked the graffiti I had read on a dilapidated building across my street: “Why do you blacks think you are entitled to a free ride through life?”

“Indeed why?” I asked myself. “What is wrong with us? Aren’t we entitled to the same curiosity, the same happiness?”

“Yes you are.” I thought I heard a voice. “Happiness is everyone’s responsibility. The happiness of your life depends upon the quality of your thoughts.  The white people in the hall are happy because they have resolved to keep happy. Their success is their happiness. They are not sitting on a bench of failure like you blacks.”

“We’ve tried,” I said. “Each time we try, we are dragged down by the very white people you are talking about.”

“Rubbish! That’s the most damn thing I have heard in a long time. You ought to be ashamed of yourself blaming whites.”

“It is their fault,” I insisted. “In their effort to dominate us, they keep undermining our intelligence. They have put us at the top of the worst of mankind. Look at all the statistics. We are at the deep end. We’ve been at the bottom since we came into contact with them. They actually insist we are the worst.”

“And you believe them.”

“The world believes them and because it does, we are held in suspicion by all non-black people. When we present our ideas, they toss them out.”

“Have you tried to pick up the rejected ideas, brush off the dust, develop them yourselves to prove a point to the world?”

I hesitated.

“Well until you do, you will be blaming happy people for your bad statistic. They laugh when you blame slavery, colonialism, and all the baloney. Get off that bench, you lazy pessimistic whiner, and do what other non-white people are doing, creating their own happiness. Oh, one thing, happiness is hard work, remember that.”

I got up. There was no way I was going back in the hall. It was Saturday afternoon. I wearily jumped into my car and headed for my local.

It is a rendezvous for my people, a kind of intellectual center for African-Americans and Africans in the diaspora. Every Saturday evening we mingle, drink and laugh, and often entertain visiting academics, African politicians, and cultural figures.

Set in bistro style, it is our version of Speaker’s Corner in London’s Hyde Park. I call it a dynamic mirror of black consciousness. Anyone can get up and say what is on their mind as long as it is not a load of bull.

It is here I learned how splintered and greedy a black people we are. I learned that just because African-Americans are black does not mean they embrace us as their own. Riding on white success, African-Americans believe they are miles ahead of us. Actually, many do not see themselves as Africans.

“I am a black American,” one professor keeps saying. “I have no African ancestors or relatives that link me to Africa. It was damn of Jessie Jackson to coin that African-American crap.”

I also learned that black islanders do not think much of Africans. No matter how much hurricane Isaac pounds them, they are glad they are not on the most impoverished continent.

Of course North Africans are ashamed to be called Africans. And although Ethiopians, Somalis, and Northern Sudanese are part of sub-Sahara, they too carry with them their own prejudices. Sadly put, we are no one wants to be.

When I walked in, a bearded black man was on the podium talking about Obama.

“Like Biden said, if you don’t vote for him, they gonna put you all back in chains,” he told a small crowd of blacks seated in a well lit room.

I sat next to Diallo, an accomplice from Senegal and whispered a “hi.”

The speaker acknowledged my presence and continued. “I’m told a group of African-America pastors is calling on blacks to give Obama a ‘no’ vote for his support for gay marriage. They want to take us back to the Bush-bush days. For four years we black people have walked tall…”

I had jumped from the frying pan into the fire. Here the mood was that of a black on black exasperation. Black blood was at hypertension level. But again that’s where it’s been in blacks around the world.

We are ever bombarded by melancholic issues like racism, hunger, conflicts, poverty, disease, dictatorship, corruption, back-stabbing, blatant lies, and empty promises by our political leaders.

“How do we as a people become as happy as them?” I asked myself as I watched the bearded speaker blast black conservatives in the Republican Party—Colin Powell, Condoleezza Rice, Clarence Thomas, Michael Steele, Herman Cain, Alan Keyes, Ron Christie, and all.

“They make black unity difficult to achieve,” he said.

I nodded.

I closed my eyes and felt my anger climbing in tandem. I was thinking about my own people in sub-Sahara Africa.

It is in black Africa that failure is deeply entrenched. It is here that 854 million blacks are locked in a time warp, content to live in anarchic and deplorable conditions. It is in Africa that the dream of a united Africa under one government, common citizenship and common destiny has eluded our political leaders.

Curious was still bothering me. All sorts of thoughts ricocheted through my mind. I felt the urge to speak and took to the podium as soon as the bearded man was done.

I spoke: “White people created their power on ideas. Why can’t we? Are we so lazy, we’ve left our plight in the hands of God? Are we to believe that this is who we are, a people without ideas?”

I paused. The audience was attentive.

“Let me ask an outrageous question. I have so often heard hardcore racists say that we are the cursed descendants of Ham, the “black” son of Noah. Are we really? Can someone please tell me we are not? If we are then it explains why we find ourselves in this abyss. But even if we are, we can pull ourselves out in the same way as other non-white people.”

I was expecting a comment or some sort of denunciation. There was none.

“Let’s forget the Ham nonsense and look at ourselves as a black people. Although black is no one’s favorite color because it symbolizes darkness, sorrow, and the primordial void, it is a color of power. It is authoritative. How then can we take pride in this color and be psychologically driven to become a happy and respected powerful people?

“I’ll answer. We must begin to convert physical power into mental power. Muscle power into brain power. That’s all we need to do. That’s what all successful people have done, Jews, Asians, and others.

“Today, Jews, victims of anti-Semitism, dominate most of the important institutions: academics, politics, the media, and sciences. Their success is the result of their own effort.

“Why can’t we, victims of racism, do the same?” I asked.

I insisted that the factors that work together to create Jewish wealth can be applied to blacks.

“First, like Jews, we must develop a culture of sticking together, hard work, education, and deferred gratification. We already have created an artistic community. We must now go scientific. Our children must enter college in significant numbers to study the sciences. We must produce scientists, engineers, and more doctors. We must have our own cars, trains…”

“We’ve heard that one before,” someone cut in. “It won’t work.”

“It’s a pity, isn’t it?” I responded. “Nothing works, so we don’t bother to try. In the Jewish community billionaires like De Beers’ Nicky Oppenheimer, New York mayor Michael Bloomberg, computer mogul Michael Dell, Google co-owner Sergey Brin, and Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg invest in the ingenuity and creativity of their own people. Why can’t our rich black men and women do the same?”

The 2012 Forbes magazine features an African as the wealthiest black. Nigerian Aliko Dangote has a net wealth of $11.2 billion. Also, Nigerian Mike Adenuga is worth $4.3 billion, and South Africa’s Patrice Motsepe is at $2.7 billion.

The U.S. has black billionaires among them Oprah Winfrey ($2.7 billion) and Bob Johnson of BET fame ($1.1 billion). There are hundreds of black millionaires in the movie, entertainment, and sports industries like Spike Lee, Denzel Washington, Will Smith, musicians Jay-Z and Beyoncé, and golfer Tiger Woods. By last year the salaries of black athletes in the NBA, NFL, and MLB totaled over $5 billion.

“Ladies and gentlemen, black wealth in the world is estimated at more than $100 billion,” I said. “Our children need just a portion to elevate our race to acceptable standards. Let’s invest in their ingenuity and create happiness of our own.”

Field Ruwe is a US-based Zambian media practitioner, historian, and author. He is a PhD candidate at George Fox University and serves as an adjunct professor (lecturer) in Boston. ©Ruwe2012

This week a woman named Samantha Brick sent the internet into a tizzy when she wrote an article entitled ‘There are downsides to looking this pretty’: Why women hate me for being beautiful.

She asserts that while she is no Elle Macpherson, she “is tall, slim, blonde and often told, a good-looking woman.” She continues to say that she knows how lucky she is; but there are downsides to being pretty “— the main one being that other women hate me for no other reason than my lovely looks.”

I read the article in its entirety, and walked away with a profound sense of confusion. You see, this is Samantha Brick. And as she rightly says, she is tall and blonde…but she is hardly pretty. Cute in a scullery or milk maid sort of way – sure – but not as ‘hot’ as she would have us all to believe.

I am not one of those women who has a problem pointing out and praising another woman’s looks.

Gabrielle Union is gorgeous.

Sofia Vergara is muy caliente.

Eva Longoria: smokin’.

Aishwarya Rai. Need I say more?

Samantha Brick? What are you ON sister?!? You’re not even playing the same sport as these women, let alone the same league!

After publishing her article, poor Samantha found herself at the center of a commentator firestorm so fearsome that the Daily Mail has disabled comments for the first time in its history. People have been downright vicious towards this woman, and I don’t blame them. It is human nature to attack what we don’t understand…and what people don’t get is that Samantha is a hot woman trapped in an average (and I mean like a low ‘C’) woman’s body.

Samantha bemoans the burden of living the life of a pretty woman, flush with bottles of champagne sent to her table and cab fare being paid for by complete strangers. She also says that she has been passed up for promotions by female bosses because they were threatened by her looks as their own “bloom had begun to fade.” Our tall blonde protagonist has never been asked to serve as a bridesmaid in any of her friends’ weddings, a reason she is confident lies in their belief that her stunning looks would upstage them on their wedding day.

Samantha, Samantha.

Have you ever considered that no one invites you to be a part of the wedding party because of your stank, conceited attitude? Which may also be attributed to why you were passed up for promotions? Which in turn may be the same reason you got all those free drinks! Fact: Men at the club love to buy the most overt stankiest skank a drink. They think it’s a door opener to a romp in a back seat or dark alley somewhere. Wake up my sister, wake up!

Judging from her article, I will say that Samantha has achieved all that she has, not because of her exceptional beauty (for she is NOT exceptionally beautiful), but because of her gift: she is an excellent writer. She clearly has a good work ethic, and cares a great deal about her career. If she has received any special favors, it’s not because of how she looks…an honor reserved only for the Zac Ephrons and Victoria Beckhams of this world…the truly (freakishly) good looking people of this world. No, no. Her promotion has come from 20 years of hard and steady work – and that is the burden of the average looking woman. We have to work hard at what we get. Nothing is ever handed to us.

You hear that Samantha Brick? You are AVERAGE, just like me! Plain ol’ African ME. You might as well start calling yourself Sista Bonsu. There is little difference between you and a villager – except the blonde hair, of course. But even that kraa is not special. It can be bought at any local beauty supply chain for $10.99.

But in all seriousness, I do pity Samantha Brick. It must be difficult to have the paradigm through which you viewed your whole existence shattered within a matter of hours. How dreadful it must feel, to pounce on your keyboard and pound out a forceful declaration to the world:

“Hey universe! Stop hating me because I’m beautiful!!”

only to have the ENTIRE world shout back:

“Hey Samantha! We don’t hate you ’cause you’re beautiful. We hate you ’cause you’re a b*tch!”

Woi!

If Halle Berry or Angelina Jolie had written this article, we would have dismissed it as a joke. First of all, it’s classless, and secondly, no one really hates pretty women. In fact, average looking women try their best to get into the good graces and inner circles of gorgeous women, precisely because of all the benefits Samantha mentioned. They follow the free manna. In fact, average-looking women have been known to befriend “less fortunate” looking women for the benefits attached to the pity-driven resources these horse-faces sometimes  receive from the public. Average-looking women have to be resourceful like that. It’s part and parcel of our burden.

I think that Samantha Brick may fall into this latter group. Her immediate circle must be so dog ugly that she emerges as the most alluring of the pack.

That’s a pretty scary thought.

*woof!*

Happy Monday and Daylight Savings Time, M.O.M Squad!

Last Friday, I did a post about some dude marauding in the jungles of Africa, whose name I daren’t utter here. It sparks too much emotion for certain people. Over the weekend, some things were said and some feelings may have gotten hurt. However given the relentless verbal assault between those who agreed with the post and those who didn’t, I believe it’s safe to say that no one’s feelings or egos were mortally wounded.

The comment section on any online publication often brings out the worst in people. No entity is safe from this scourge, no matter how prestigious, although some are worse than others. Shielded by the safety of a blinking cursor and 84 – 105 keys (depending on who manufactures your keyboard) a profusion of keyboard commandos and kamikazes emerge every day. They wreak havoc on a publisher’s forum by attacking the writer, the reader, and anyone who does not agree with their point of view. Often, these militants go in search of published fodder that they KNOW they are in disagreement with, often with no other motivation than to be combative. These individuals are endearingly referred to as “trolls”.

A troll is someone with a staunch point of view who is not to be persuaded from that point, no matter how compelling the contrary argument may be. Cloaked with the pretense of wanting to engage in “enlightened discourse”, this person goes onto a dedicated site – or perhaps a myriad of sites if they are uber dedicated to their trolling duties – in order to abuse the readers and writer of the “offending” site. It gives them pleasure. For instance, on the subject of that guy-in-the-jungle-who-shall-remain-nameless, I had 3 or 4 instances of troll flare ups (which are very similar to herpes flare ups; unexpected but must be anticipated and dealt with with vigilance) courtesy of certain not-to-be-named individuals. Like herpes, troll flare ups are uncomfortable, but can be suppressed BUT ONLY with the appropriate remedy. (I understand that I sound as if I am personally well informed on the subject of herpes, and I am okay with that. It’s called a metaphor.)

Dedicated readers of my blog know my mind, and know where I stand on certain issues. That’s why they are dedicated readers, because although we might not agree on ALL things, we agree on most things. Some people get their news from Fox and others from MSNBC for that very reason. Why would you go to a site to glean information or a point of view that you know is starkly dissimilar to yours? Do these people like feeling uncomfortable?

Dave Chappelle once did a skit asking what the world looked like if we lived in the internet. It got me thinking: what would the world look like if we conducted ourselves in reality as we did in the virtual world? I have a vague idea.

******

There is a Ku Klux Klan meeting somewhere in the forests of south Georgia. They are incensed, because there is an ordinance against burning anything – trash, crosses, whatever – in anyone’s front yard. Perplexed, they try to generate ideas for an alternative method to spread their message of hate…within the confines of the law.

“We could git them there electronic/batter powered crosses and put them on niggras yards,” suggests one Klansman.

“Or we could wear bright red and form a human cross on them coon’s yard,” opines another.

“And we could give a rebel yell as we did it!” chimes another excitedly.

Suddenly, in the buzz of their conversation, Jesse Jackson pops out from behind a tree. The light of the campfire illuminates his dilated pupils.

“What is going on here!” he rages. “Why are you talking about battery powered crosses and rebel yells! This is crazy talk!”

Stunned that Jesse found them, let alone has the gall to address the group, the Klansmen stare silently at him for a long, long time. It’s all very awkward.

You take a guess at what happens next. Make your own ending.

******

Was Jesse right to tell them their talk was crazy? Of course! Was that the right place to do it? No. He should have gone to the police. Jesse Jackson was being a troll.

I had a discussion with my old literature teacher last night, and the subject of the Acholi-man’s-video came up. I told him briefly what my view was and that I was stunned by the responses. He was able to explain the issue so succinctly that I couldn’t help but feel relieved and vindicated.

The problem, as it turns out, is that I spoke metaphorically on the subject. As we now live in a post-literal society, wherein many people do not use (or have a capacity to understand metaphors) they take everything they read literally. This is how then candidate Obama found himself embroiled in a stew of ridiculousness when he made the infamous referral to lipsticks and pigs. Somehow, McCain and Republican pundits made the leap that he had called Sarah Palin a pig! Likewise, there is no point in trying to explain my meaning on this subject to these souls (which conveniently rhymes with ‘trolls’), because they are just not going to get it. And that’s not my problem. I like metaphors.

But seriously though. Can you imagine what are places of commerce and recreation would look like if we spoke to each other as we do in the comments section?

Would you want our world to look like this?!?

I generally like to reserve Friday posts for frivolity, but I have been requested to give my view on KONY2012. Please brace yourself for a rant.

Let’s call Joseph Kony what he is: a narcissist, a pedophile and a terrorist. Virtually unchecked, Joseph Kony has been carrying out his campaign of terror against innocent African civilians in Uganda, Sudan and the DRC since 1986. He and his goons have destroyed hundreds of thousands of lives, raped countless numbers of women and girls, and ripped families apart. His tools are his power of persuasion, and that failing, the barrel of the gun. For over 20 years, this one man – who in interviews described himself as God Almighty – has maimed, pillaged and burned the homes and bodies of innocents while the world twiddled their thumbs.

Now comes this #stopkony / KONY2012 campaign, spearheaded by a group of white kids who hail from California. Their singular focus lies in the capture and conviction of Joseph Kony by the end of this year. And God bless them for it.

Can I speak plainly, reader? I am SO SICK of Black people and their twisted dogma concerning the “White Savior” Syndrome. Oh, you haven’t heard of it? It’s the belief in certain circles of the Black Intelligencia that because Black folk can’t do for themselves, White people have to come in and do for them, or more specifically, solve our problems for us. In the case of Joseph Kony in particular, one rather prolific individual on twitter summed up the KONY2012 (and implied White savior Campaign) movement by saying “the world exists simply to satisfy the needs – including, importantly, the sentimental needs – of white people and Oprah”. Prior to that, he says that “the white savior supports brutal policies in the morning, founds charities in the afternoon, and receives awards in the evenings.” This message has been retweeted quite a few times on Twitter, and I do see why. At first glance, this all sounds very witty and well thought out until you think about it, at which point you grasp your head and shout:

Oh My GOD, Black people!!

We decry any effort to stereotype and homogenize us as a race, and then we turn around and do the same thing to white people? Just stop and think. Look at the world around you. The vast majority of people who identify with the Occupy Wall Street Movement are WHITE. The people that they are on a crusade AGAINST are WHITE. How then can we lump all white people together as saying they fund our brutal policies and then swoop in to try and save us from them? It’s an insipid argument, and one that must cease immediately, for it makes us look foolish. How would you react to the assertion that sh*t and chocolate share the same properties, simply because both are brown? Exactly.

All these Africans, sitting at home behind your laptops and your Black Berries, carrying on about how White people will not leave us to our own devices: You all make me SICK. If the victims of Joseph Kony’s terrorist acts were the children of MPs and businessmen, he would have been disposed of long ago. If Joseph Kony expanded his reach into the streets of Pretoria and was brutalizing young white South African children, I wager that there wouldn’t be a jungle dense enough to conceal him. If the people he was killing and raping were of “value”, African governments would ferret him out! If Joseph Kony’s campaign was preventing Chinese “investment” in the areas he is currently pillaging, there would be a special force unit whose only job was to secure his capture.

Here’s the rub. The only people at fault for not bringing Kony in is AFRICANS. What I’m about to say is an “oversimplification” of events, but I don’t have time to give anyone a history lesson, because you’re intelligent enough to do your own research.

We got our independence. We’ve since elected leaders whose only goal for their positions is to rule for life. Africa is not poor, but these leaders exacerbate the image and façade of poverty in order to garner foreign aid, much of which they pocket for themselves and their cronies. They then leave the reviled common man to fend for himself, providing just enough of the very basics in terms of public facilities to give the illusion of a working developing city. Joseph Kony lives in this barely bourgeoning East African city. He goes to public school and is an altar boy, perhaps he’s been sexually assaulted by a priest, perhaps not, I don’t know. But at some point he has a psychotic break because he thinks he’s God. Somehow he gets a hold of some uniforms and some guns, and armed with scripture he decides he’s going to establish a theocratic state based on the Ten Commandments. Somehow, “thou shalt not kill” escapes him, but that’s only a minor detail. He pursues his dream of molesting little kids and eating their parents anyway.

Oh Black people. You like to complain and criticize. But where is the action, eh?? Why are we not staging sit- ins at our Ghanaian embassies around the world, demanding that OUR president take a firm stance on Kony until he’s captured. Why are Nigerians, Gambians and Kenyan’s not doing the same? Why are we not speaking out until our voices are impossible to ignore? Here’s a better question: Why did an AFRICAN not start the Kony2012 campaign? It’s because you people care, yes, but you don’t care enough

When the Save Darfur campaign was at its height, who did we see out on the Washington Mall at those rallies? White students! There was a sprinkling of Blacks here and there, but not en masse as it should have been. These are our brothers and sisters after all!

As a continent, we are guided by fear and mistrust of each other, and it is reflected in the leadership we appoint to govern us. We have few visionaries, and fewer leaders with balls. By the time we have a Laurent Gbagbo refusing to step down after losing an election, there is no appealing to the better side of such a man. He HAS no better side. So what did our ECOWAS leadership do? They threatened military action against him, but it was all talk, as usual. Gbagbo was not ousted until the French intervened. Was this a White Savior Complex? Hardly. It was yet another manifestation of Pervasive Black Apathy.

All this chatter about the group Invisible Children, heh? Instead of talking about the “damage” this video has done, has anyone given as much energy into discussing how to bring this man to justice? Why is Uganda now pointing at what the video has done “wrong” instead of discussing what they themselves have been doing wrong these last 26 years? MSTEW!!! If you really want to make a difference on the continent, stop sitting on your Black asses and bitching about what White people are doing. We have film makers. We have photographers. We have WRITERS. Any of these people could have brought attention to this issue, which is not a new one. Lisa Ling did a report on Joseph Kony is 2006! But just like the short lived outrage over blood diamonds, that too escaped our consciousness. Stop knocking people for caring.

Oh Black people. You like to complain and criticize. But where is the action, eh?? Why are we not staging sit- ins at our Ghanaian embassies around the world, demanding that OUR president take a firm stance on Kony until he’s captured. Why are Nigerians, Gambians and Kenyan’s not doing the same? Why are we not speaking out until our voices are impossible to ignore? Here’s a better question: Why did an AFRICAN not start the Kony2012 campaign? It’s because you people care, yes, but you don’t care enough

When the Save Darfur campaign was at its height, who did we see out on the Washington Mall at those rallies? White students! There was a sprinkling of Blacks here and there, but not en masse as it should have been. These are our brothers and sisters after all!

As a continent, we are guided by fear and mistrust of each other, and it is reflected in the leadership we appoint to govern us. We have few visionaries, and fewer leaders with balls. By the time we have a Laurent Gbagbo refusing to step down after losing an election, there is no appealing to the better side of such a man. He HAS no better side. So what did our ECOWAS leadership do? They threatened military action against him, but it was all talk, as usual. Gbagbo was not ousted until the French intervened. Was this a White Savior Complex? Hardly. It was yet another manifestation of Pervasive Black Apathy.

All this chatter about the group Invisible Children, heh? Instead of talking about the “damage” this video has done, has anyone given as much energy into discussing how to bring this man to justice? Why is Uganda now pointing at what the video has done “wrong” instead of discussing what they themselves have been doing wrong these last 26 years? MSTEW!!! If you really want to make a difference on the continent, stop sitting on your Black asses and bitching about what White people are doing. We have film makers. We have photographers. We have WRITERS. Any of these people could have brought attention to this issue, which is not a new one. Lisa Ling did a report on Joseph Kony is 2006! But just like the short lived outrage over blood diamonds, that too escaped our consciousness. Pick a side. Either be a part of the problem or be an agent for the solution, but for God’s sake stop knocking people for caring.

STOP!!!

Do NOT press “Comment”

As of March 11th,  we are playing a little game called “Get off My Comments section”. In this game, everyone STOPS commenting on this Kony2012 issue (on my blog anyway), puts all that energy into promoting the causes that they are passionate about, creates a viral video and sits back to watch the fruits of that labor grow. Okay?  Don’t be a spoiled sport.

The game starts NOW!