I took to remembering Candace Owens, the activist, on this period of our present time that would be recalled infamously until the end of days. Madam Candace, as I have chosen to call her, walked into my dream brandishing a six-foot long two-by-four, staring at me through a pair of red listless eyes, because her lower face was under the cover of a covid-19 mask of a she-tiger brand.
Her intention was clearly understood; she had badged into my dream, uninvited, to beat me down, aware that I would be the first to lay down a string of printed rants against her, for her berating of the black nation. She had come to scare me shirtless…if nothing else, to curb it, trim it down, and use glowing terms in describing her treatise against the George Floyd family and the greater world family.
It was exactly two in the morning that I woke up sweating profusely from the nightmare. Usually when that happens, I would reach for the light switch to flood my bedroom with saving light. A quick sign of the Cross would follow, usually to set the course straight again, and to get my fast beating heart itching to jump out of its protective cage to calm down.
These bad dreams come handy, especially on those nights I am destined to sleep alone. I have come to believe that something embedded somewhere in my soul would wire my brain to absorb these odd floaters in the universe. The second I am in la-la land, I would be inundated with visual acrimony…the components of hell and her suburbs of vast, undulating, scorching landscapes. You see, nightmares that visit you inside of the first ten minutes of snooze are better equipped to torment you with free falls into a bottomless pit spiked with lances.
The magnitude of the nightmare would determine how long I would lie idly as I try to arrest the swirling shadowy images that followed me out of the dream sequence. With this one dance with the Devil, she was going to cook my goose if I did not wake up after she took the first swing at me.
I woke up, glad it was a woman chasing me around. No sign of the Cross needed. I do not need The Lord on this fight. I could handle this. Did not turn the lights on, either. But the big mistake I made was not caring so much about the identity of the woman that had chased me through the fissures of a deep gorge into the deep swells of the Orinoco River. No wonder I woke up sweating bricks. I went back to sleep.
With nowhere to run, I was forced to listen to her invective bombast of the black culture with regards to the brutal, inhumane lynching of George Floyd
You guessed correctly; she came back…this time without the mask. But the two-by-four had morphed into a silver-plated, Smith and Wesson 9mm aimed at the bridge of my nose. With nowhere to run, I was forced to listen to her invective bombast of the black culture with regards to the brutal, inhumane lynching of George Floyd, or I would have my head blown to bits.
‘Candace Owens,’ I screamed…but no words came out. Hell, if it is inevitable, and you cannot wake up, try enjoying it. I am not sure how it all ended; a blast of gunfire inside the dream finally woke me up. I touched my nose and felt nothing. The back of my head was throbbing from the implied exit wound. Nothing. A thorough massage would do. So, I treated myself to a good rub-down…with both hands. I got out of bed, pissed, and took to my laptop. ‘Ok, Dorothy, you picked the wrong guy to harass,’ I mumbled, and began to type away.
Et tu, Brute. And now you, Madam Candace: Et tu, Candace. Two thousand years ago, two remarkably close betrayal patterns happened; one in Jerusalem, and the other in Rome. To this day, the whole world is still talking about those two notorious, shameful treacheries of all. You have added your name to the dirty chronicles to be told to generations coming…that a beautiful, statuette of a lady sold her people out to gain a measure of vapid (lifeless) tributes from a sorcerer.
It means, that you Candace Owens carries an albatross around your neck, and you are going to live in infamy for the rest of your days. Two thousand years from this day, your name would still be on the top tier shelf when discussions of betrayal happen in bars, cafes, hotel rooms and in other dangerous liaisons in far-out locations. Judas, Brutus, and now Candace. Great company, alright…but not according to Dante Alighieri. (Dante’s Inferno)
Black America is wounded. The images were, and on recall, still searing. The world is wounded. And you claim he is no martyr? You claim he was a criminal? You accuse the black race as the only race of people to defend the criminal elements among them? Are you sure he was aware the twenty dollar-bill he passed on was fake? Isn’t the entire senate of mostly white men, guilty of defending a criminal?
Have you looked up James Byrd Jr? You would have blamed him for being black and hanging around white people. Did you ever try to look up Philando Castile, and Walter Scott? A weasel like you would have blamed them for following the cops’ orders.
You, Candace Owens, are cutting into the wound…and it hurts more than the haters of blacks had stabbed. Do you not know the history of your own country? Have you looked up Emmitt Till? You would have blamed him for whistling at a white woman. Have you looked up James Byrd Jr? You would have blamed him for being black and hanging around white people. Did you ever try to look up Philando Castile, and Walter Scott? A weasel like you would have blamed them for following the cops’ orders.
How about Eric Garner, twelve-year-old Tamir Rice, Abner Louima, Amadou Diallo, Breona Taylor, Botham Jean, and Sandra Bland? Look them up. Do you know that in the eyes of the one on whose coattails you are gliding on, that he sees you as his property, and not as his equal, and would toss you under the bus, among the wolves to be devoured, on the day you are no longer of any use to him? Ask Omorosa and Michael Cohen about their own experiences with the Thane of Hades.
He is already agreeing with your stupid assertion and has twitted his agreement to your imbecilic, infantile contention against the entire black race. You are probably gloating right about now, that your name was mentioned inside the walls of the people’s house. Your worth is rising, scaling above that biblical ‘Jericho wall’ and the great walls of China. You have risen exponentially in his eyes, until the trumpet sounds…just like the one GoFundMe has unleashed on you.
That is the beginning salvo of the proverbial gunfire aimed at you. Get used to it…the reverberations of the walls crashing down that you hear. Could you cash out in the next six months to win this battle? Or would you return as the prodigal daughter and ask to be taken back into the fold? Knowing your people, my people, too, we will probably take you back.
We forgave Wallace…the segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever guy. Remember him? If your tribe forgave a white man, they would, most likely, forgive you for the same sin. Take that to the bank, with one caveat; yours is a mortal sin. You, Madam Candace, have just passed excrement into the same bowl that holds your daily grub…and you will be served from this gorgeous porcelain, the next time you sit down to eat.
YOURS IS THE UNKINDEST CUT OF ALL. That is why it runs deep. Yours is harder to walk away from because it is the scolding the black nation did not deserve that we got from you. We did nothing to earn this much rebuke from you, and neither would we own the borrowed robes you want us dressed in.
So, keep those thoughts close to your skirt and undergarments, and let them not see the light of day. How could you be tone-deaf to the wailings of a people…your own people? The heart of the world is in the coffin there with George Floyd, and I must stop till it comes back to us.
♦ Don Okolo, Professor and filmmaker, is on the Editorial Board of the West African Pilot News. He is the author of many books.
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