If I were God. I would end it. If I were God, I would have the haters careening through the gates of hell proper…alive.
―Don Okolo
I have had time, forty-something years and counting, to muse upon the fate of man the world over. And I have come to believe that a section of humanity would never rise from the quagmire of filth and disdain…from the vise-like grip the rest of the sultry smut have around our waist. There is a worldwide, ongoing lamentation in four movements, of the bad hand dealt to these children of a lesser god. The symphony is happening inside the passing of the ill-wind you hear; it is clearly palpable in its entirety, and her breezy composition and provenance are entirely American.
Only, it seems like no one is listening. And if the designers of these jarring screams in harshness were truly listening to the shrieks emanating from the vales’ deep end, they would hear the anguish. But then, they would turn their backs to it and mosey on to their wine cellars to buy that temporal fix. Next, they would rewrite the screeches raging in their minds into free-flowing notes of music, and then garnish the pain and suffering in the frame with carefreeness, as in a throw of hand, to steer in, earful, soothing melodies of joyous harmonies.
All of that while nursing a glass of red wine, and a scorn-laden smile to denote an effortless masterstroke. They would have authored a newer set of strain…that of grandiosity and self-imposed or borrowed dignity, to keep their Machiavellian plot flying at flagpole elevation. It is from these headlands they would stare down, demurely, at the downtrodden, glad they were able to inoculate their minds and free their souls for fall-fouling the rest of mankind.
I am particularly gazing, with cheetah-like intensity, at the plight of the African American, and those of us living amongst them here in the States.
This is where I am anchored on this day! The evil that men do!
This is a painful dirge I just could not shed. I am particularly gazing, with cheetah-like intensity, at the plight of the African American, and those of us living amongst them here in the States. You see, the story of him (The Black American), is the story of us in the diaspora (The Black African emigrated); we are in the same dinghy (Boat)…and the craft is halfway sunk with all the physical weight and the immeasurable, unfathomable sorrow it is carrying. So burdened, the principles of flotation would soon give way and take us to the bottom, if the lot of us are not granted a lifeline to bail out of this hastily put together raft.
Have you not noticed that the more they hear of your heart-wrenching cries for help, the more they are strengthened in their resolve and desire, fervor and fanaticism to propagate yore-old demented doctrines of conquest to keep us down? Folks, they seem to be tightening up the noose they have around our necks…even with the passing of time. Like all constrictors would apply more force each time you attempted to breathe; they will never let go.
Since the world watched the killing of George Floyd, they have tightened their skirts to fit snugly, rolled up their sleeves, and have killed more. Did the flagrant display of a police officer killing a handcuffed man deter those waiting in the wings to uphold their oath to the dark, singularities upholding their faith? It did not. A good dozen other blacks have suffered the same fate after Mr. Floyd was killed. These other forms of dehumanization of the black man is taut, and just as degrading as all other brutal murders in the hands of the law. You see fellas; the white man, at least some, and from the diehard population bent on backing a misogynist and now, a traitor…from Jeff Goldberg’s piece…that as many as twenty-five to thirty million whites in America are habitually flawed in their DNA. One could surmise that these people are irredeemable…and would prefer that the United States go down in flames to retain their implied superiority, rather than grant her black citizens equality.
Here’s what I think:
Four hundred years and counting, and nothing much has changed. The depth of the relegation is incomprehensibly inhumane. It is now second nature to them. White supremacists have adopted a safer stance…one guaranteed to protect them from these egregious crimes. The safety net is cast wide, spread vast into the stuffy, dung-smelling crannies where hate sleeps.
These degenerates, ninety percent of them unemployed high school dropouts, have suddenly found a niche that would allow them the kind of latitude to kill…something they could not unleash wallowing in the pit of squalor, as they lay in those thorny boondocks, languishing in abject disinterest to the sanctity of life. So, the day finally came, and with the rations falling steeply, they were forced to enroll, and are still joining the ranks of the gun-bearing force of blue and grey-shirts in starched khaki pants…where men are licensed to kill. These organizations of blood-drunk humans…these cop fiefdoms, like a duo of punch-drunk, honey and sugar-bred monkeys in a dance waving loaded guns are out and about…daily. They are on the hunt…well to hunt down black people like games on the wild Serengeti.
The guts to remain fearless and kill another human without cause is enhanced by the protection to die for: The Unions. The freaking police unions that would follow a killer cop into the court room, in those rear instances when a cop is charged with a crime, to instill fear to the one bringing the charges. It is a gimmick that works well. Right now, they are hoping to strengthen the unions’ hand in this protection racket: Disallowing the taping of police officers as they commit these crimes. If that is adopted, then, it is an open season on Blacks and Mexicans. If a cop knows he is being recorded, the cop is bound to fall short in his duties as a peace officer, they argue. Cockamamie!!! Loopy!!! Harebrained!!!
That argument did not stop the officers from killing George Floyd. Or, did it?
How to live with this monster is what I am trying to figure out. Personally, I have truly figured it out. It is the rest of the Black race that I am worried about. You know the famous last words ring true right here: Live to fight another day! Grant him no reason to pull the trigger, or to suffocate you, like the asphyxiator that he is. One can lose a battle of wits, but then, win the damn war! To win this war would take a couple of hundred years or more. And that’s scary.
If I were God. I would end it. If I were God, I would have the haters careening through the gates of hell proper…alive. Pedophiles would come next…and right after, I would return and gather the remnants of those that I could not fit into the hell-bound caboose, and those who did nothing to stop the carnage of My Own Image: I would run them through the mill, before I would toss them, head first, into scalding fumes spewing from that icy-hot amalgam in the zone of tropopause (Hell’s cloudiest zone) This is below the six hundred and sixty-sixth belt…the platform I created for the one who fought against My Image in the first place. IF I WERE GOD!
I am inclined to believe that anything beyond that wish of just simply hoping, is hopeless.
The pragmatist side of me tells me that this would never change; man would live to hunt man. Maybe, a dash of hope is on this cold platter. But as a man of logic, I am inclined to believe that anything beyond that wish of just simply hoping, is hopeless. Would the millennials sustain this visionary romance? Would her seed, searing in the womb of the idyllic, Madam Enthusiasm, blossom inside the harsh, jagged-edged barbs? Could man coexist in near perfect union with another? The hunting of man is as old as prostitution; these sub-humans know nothing else that would replace their feeling of utter hatred for another because of the color of his skin. It is the same as that cheap gratification…that muscle-arresting, orgasmic grip, that compels them to go out and shoot a black man under the color of authority. They cannot help themselves. It is the one sin, just as betrayal, that God would never forgive.
♦ 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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