Zimbabwe: A Past and Present Future


I am a pre-independence baby – 7 years old when Zimbabwe supposedly became independent. Yes, by that time my family, like thousands before and after had already left the country to roam as forever immigrants. And I haven’t spent more than four weeks at a time in my homeland on my trips over the years. But I’m not writing about life as an immigrant today…well not that aspect of immigrant life anyway.

This morning, I’m feeling pre-independence anxiety – PIA. Maybe it’s a kind of PTSD.  My medically-trained mind wants to classify it, to make sense of it. I honestly haven’t felt it for close to 40 years. Just that way back then, in the olden days as my child tells me, I couldn’t describe it – not in my native Shona, nor the little English I knew back then.

But I felt it then and I feel it now.

Let me try and describe it. Be my own therapist, because this $#yte in Zimbabwe looks like it’s about to get real. My cousin, my daughter in our Shona culture, now a grown and intuitive and super-smart woman – just told me to trust the body memory – so I will.

It’s a little lump in the chest and a subtle, low-grade churning in the tummy, masked, because on the outside life is pretty good.

I felt it then and I feel it now.

Then, it was a feeling that came with the carefree life of a 5-year-old in rural Zimbabwe that was punctuated with random invasions by unpredictable red-faced Rhodesian soldiers with big guns. A day of continuous play could randomly end with a night where guns were pointed at the heads and chests of those that were assigned to protect and care for me – the Mbuya and Sekuru who treasured their children’s children more than their own children; the maininis who stepped in for our mothers; the sekurus who entertained all of us wazukuru, in a way that no money could pay for today  – until would one day, they disappeared in the woods to fight ku hondo.

I feel this PIA, I suppose a kind of PTSD, as I follow the news feed coming out of our Zimbabwe.

I want to say beloved Zimbabwe but struggle to because a bunch of the worst kind of sociopaths have so disfigured the land, our hearts and our minds. Disfigured to the point where at times we hate our own country and perhaps ourselves so much that we have been known to declare ourselves as South African – when the South Africans themselves don’t even like us.

I tried it once, to be South African. I won’t lie. But it didn’t feel good. It was easy to pull it off though – my surname is classic Sotho as is my round face, fair complexion and solid butt. As I said ‘South…’ I immediately felt bad, really bad, like a traitor. Never did it again after that. Three years ago, I was reminded of how ridiculous my pathetic attempt at defection was when the security office at Oliver Thambo Airport in Jo’burg spoke to me in Sotho or Tswana – not sure which – for a good minute. I gave him a blank look, then he laughed, then I laughed as I proudly said I was Zimbabwean, after which he laughed even louder…with a twinkle in his eye though.

We have been so psychologically disfigured that we are locked in some sort of variant of Stockholm Syndrome. It’s a destructive variant too, because just over a year ago, many of us (not me though) celebrated the emergence of the masterminds behind 38 years of misery and misogyny who were supposedly freeing us from the dictator that was Robert Mugabe and his power-hungry wife. It’s twisted and warped and oh so messed up, but I digress.

Back to the newsfeed. Those of you following developments on ‘shosho’ media or Whatsapp or Al Jazeera will know what that feed looks like. The bitter icing on the cake is the now seventy-two-hour internet shutdown. Those of you who haven’t seen the newsfeed, go to Google and type in Zimbabwe.

I think the PIA stirred a day ago when I watched a video of state police, well let’s call them what they are: thugs, breaking into people’s homes, terrorising them and marching them out at gunpoint. A scene I remember so well. The only difference was back then, the thugs were big and white and very well fed instead of the skinny, black and very underfed brainwashed muppets of the military chiefs in that video. There’s another video circulating on Twitter, that of a boy, age unknown but probably about 9 or 10 years old:

I say age unknown as children in Zimbabwe, even from well-off homes, are small for their age because of malnutrition, plain and simple, after 38 years of misery and misogyny and let me add in ‘plunderation’ – just made that up – by the devils’ aides. Anyway, this boy vividly describes people he probably knows being humiliated and beaten by men with guns. The way he describes the beatings tells you that it’s vicious. I thought of how my young son was traumatised the other day when he saw our cat with its prey, and here you have a boy seeing another human being savaged…what does that do to him? Nothing good of course.

The stirred PIA then became anger and culminated in an overwhelming exhaustion. Later that day, at the office, I told my colleague how ‘mashed up’ I was. She replied, ‘In fact you do look really tired, a funny kind of tired, not like you at all.’ She didn’t know what was going on with the PIA, and quite frankly, neither did I, but it wasn’t right, so I was not like me at all. Or was I? Perhaps I was. Just the 7-year-old me in a 45-year old body.

This morning, PIA is in full swing. I am trying to get on with my day, in my comfortable, warm space tying up the straggly bits on my to do list and the emails that need some sort of closure before they spill into a new week. But the lump is clogging my throat and my tummy is doing backflips. There’s news of men and boys in rural areas being forced out of their homes to camp with soldiers. We can infer plenty when men and boys are taken from their homes; history clearly spells out what that means. The President is out of the country transported by multi-million-dollar jet, paid for with money meant to feed malnourished boys seeing their role models being violated. He’s consorting with Russia and China tweeting about this and that when the internet in his country has been shut down. Just before the 2017 coup that was not a coup the ‘leadership’ was also out and about consorting with other leaders of disrepute and look where we are now. Today, running the country in his absence is a military general who can barely string a sentence together because the only words he knows come out of the barrel of a gun. Then there comes word that these are all the ingredients for a heady cocktail…of war. And meanwhile, our Whatsapp groups, the preferred method of communication with family back home, remain silent.

No good for the PIA.

I wonder, if I feel like this, if we diasporeans feel like this, far away from the maddening crowd, how must those living it feel.

Let me just say it. Cry my beloved Zimbabwe.


Conversation with…Donna Sinclair, Chief Executive Officer, Options4Change


Options 4 Change (O4C) works with disadvantaged children and young people, their families and local statutory and voluntary organisations to change minds and lives for the better.

With young people, O4C uses one-on-one mentoring techniques and coaching to influence positive peer engagement, and community programmes designed to provide alternatives to dysfunctional lifestyles. The organisation also runs activities to help adults develop parenting skills and holds community seminars to raise awareness of the impact of exclusions on academic achievement.

O4C was founded over 13 years ago by Donna Sinclair. She is a regular media contributor and discussant on the issue of the disadvantaged in London.


Why was O4C founded?

The organisation was founded 13 years ago in response to the failing social care system, particularly in Lambeth. Our primary purpose is to advocate for the marginalised in society.

For some, it’s difficult to understand that there are so many people in need in the capital. What’s the extent of deprivation in London?

The thing is there is a ‘hidden world’ that we just don’t see. You have a sub-population of individuals who are destitute with no recourse to any form of assistance. Often people with fixed-term leave to remain may or may not have recourse to public funds and as a result they live here without being able to afford their basic needs like accommodation and live a life of destitution.

They are often the ones that will do any kind of work to make ends meet too. This kind of situation makes people extremely vulnerable. For example, you will have those that have no legal status in this country; though they may take steps to change that, they simply cannot afford the astronomical sums they are charged for the process of legalizing their stay.

The question on everyone’s lips: what is the reason behind this crisis of violence in young people of colour?

There are so many factors. Children and young adults involved in gang-life  and dysfunctional lifestyles are often failed by multiple support systems including parenting, education, social care and housing.

What do we do?

As a community, we need to start seeing all of these young people as our children. When we do that – we develop a true sense of responsibility that drives us to take and demand action. We are paying taxes in this country so we have a right to ask that our needs are addressed.

Next, we must make children feel safe. We also need to bring people together, families together. We can put on family days. Get families out in a park so they just connect and enjoy each other.

The church must also be more visible. They could lead in making a public statement that we recognise what is happening, that we are hurting and that we acknowledge that hurt. After that, the church can start their own programmes to support the community.

We must all do something because enough is enough.

For more on Options4Change go to: http://www.options4change.org.uk/



55 Leigham Court Road


SW16 2NJ



I am an immigrant, and here’s why I supported England at #World Cup 2018



FBL-WC-2018-ENGLAND-JERSEYI am an African immigrant, one of those that has been vilified by the British government long before it was open political party rhetoric. I may not have come on a boat or escaped war and may have a life 100x more privileged than those who did, but I am an immigrant nonetheless. And several times over at that – born on the African continent and raised in 3 different Caribbean countries before coming to England nearly 30 years ago to continue my education. When I got that education, all 7 years of it, I thought I’d go back ‘home’, though looking back I don’t think I really knew which home I was referring to. Other immigrants will understand this; I felt as if I had one foot here with the other foot kind of flicking between Zimbabwe and The Bahamas, occasionally straying to Jamaica.

This year, 2018, was the first time England had made it this far into the World Cup championship since 1990. No one can forget that day, 28 years ago, when England faced Germany in the semi-finals. I was 2 years in by then and had reluctantly accepted that England was not all roses and cheery skipping through lavender-filled fields in the countryside or eating daintily-cut sandwiches and cakes washed down with tea at 4pm. Not for us immigrants anyway – it was cold, hardly snowed, rained a lot, and the British, who I had only known to live happily in our sunny climes, didn’t really want us in their temperate ones. There was always one who woke up with the sole intent of making that very clear to any passing brown-skinned person.

The conflicting existence of immigrant life

Anyway back to World Cup 1990 – Italia90 as it was called. That was also the year that Cameroon was the first African country to dazzle on the  world football stage. No matter where you were from, once you were black, you supported Cameroon. When they were knocked out, you supported any other team but England. The history of the dysfunctional relationship between the colonial land and our homes was very much alive and coupled with the way we were still being treated in the 20th century, it would have been high treason on all levels to support England, especially in the North of England where I was, where racial tolerance was, well, not tolerated.

It was during that ill-fated semi-final match that I had the first of many lessons on the conflicting emotions of the immigrant life. I didn’t want England to win but it wasn’t because I wanted Germany to win. No one liked Germany. But as an immigrant, you just could not support England.

For me though, having been exposed to so many cultures – yes, the Caribbean countries are very different – yet raised with the utmost African pride, I was inclined to be tolerant. At university, I had friends from all over the world including all 4 countries of Great Britain. I was curious about and wanted to enjoy this country. I wanted to feel a part of it, explore it, taste it, in the same way that I had done Guyana, Jamaica and The Bahamas, and in the same way I would do with Zimbabwe as an adult.  Even though England really didn’t care much about having me here, I, all of us immigrants in my circle anyway, still wanted to be part of English society. What all that meant was that I did empathise with the frustration that the English felt over not having won the cup since 1966 where they’d also faced Germany. When that 1990 final came to a penalty shoot-out where Stuart Pearce and Chris Waddle missed their shots, ensuring England’s misery for another 4 years, I felt a tug in my chest, but the immigrant rule was that you never supported the coloniser. You just didn’t. Period.

In the months and years after, we all watched the fall from grace of several players from that squad, we all mocked the decline of English football and we all lost faith in the England team ever winning anything, ever. Six years later, at the UEFA Euro96 tournament, it was another semi-final, another penalty shoot-out in another match with Germany. This time, the penalties went to sudden death and this time the protagonist was Gareth Southgate. His public slaughter by us all and the media that was tragic. Apparently even his own mother asked him why he hadn’t hit the ball harder. But, here is the first reason why 28 years later, I supported England in the semi-final World Cup match against Croatia – #GarethSouthgate.

All hail #Gareth Southgate


Southgate daily express

Image courtesy of GETTY via http://www.express.co.uk

When he was appointed manager of the England Team, I silently applauded him. And to learn that this wasn’t some random selection was really inspiring. He had nursed himself back quietly and deftly, had clearly worked hard and was smart. He’d led the Junior England team to U-17 World Cup victory in 2017 after all. You see, we immigrants  know about being smart, working hard, quietly and deftly – we do it all the time, with our eyes closed, so we appreciate it when we see it another.

Besides, who doesn’t like a come-back? And Gareth’s is the mother of all comebacks. Because really, no one should have survived that battering he got after missing that penalty shot 22 years ago, yet he did. It’s a mother of a comeback because he not only dared to get an English squad back to where it was all those years ago, but also journeyed back to look his demons square in the face. On the face of it, to go back where you seemingly failed, is a kind of courage we don’t see much these days. But he is of that special generation, the 70s babies. We are a special breed because we hold on to our old school values but not so tightly as to let them limit us, continuously harking back to the past. We use them to quietly and deftly make sense of the chaos that seemingly reigns in today’s age; we use them to help guide the generation after us as they navigate through their chaos; we use them to go back to basics when faced with challenges, yet are still able to appreciate and utilise the new rules and tools of 21st century society; and we use them to go out on a limb, take chances because sometimes you have to do things differently to get a different result.

The rehabilitation of English footie


Image courtesy of: https://wdef.com/2018/07/11/world-cup-2018-england-vs-croatia-semifinal-odds-lines-expert-picks-and-top-insider-predictions/

And here is the second reason I supported England in the World Cup semi-final. #GarethSouthgate went out on a limb. One thing that we immigrants are acutely aware of and have experienced at one point or another is being passed over for that job or promotion when you are more than qualified, all because you don’t look right. We will all tell you that one reason England has performed so poorly over the past 28 years is that the managers didn’t always pick the best players – and many of the best players are black. There was a time when the English squad simply looked ridiculous as it nowhere near reflected what you’d see in Sunday leagues up and down the country – diversity. On top of that #GarethSouthgate chose players from some real underdog clubs, like Leicester City, as opposed to those from the big guns, the likes of Chelsea et al. He chose players he knew could play well, were hungry and truly represented the best of England and that was all that mattered.


Image courtesy of http://edomshow.com/england-vs-croatia-world-cup-2018-live-updates/

In a way he has rehabilitated football and allowed us brown people to be a part of it. In 1990, you’d never see us in a pub, at a bar, or any public congregation to watch football. You’d be watching it safe and sound at home. But in 2018, we’re actually venturing to watch it outside of our living rooms! I had to run some errands for the first  30 minutes of the match, so at a traffic light, I shouted out to a bunch of people outside a drinking hole, asking for the score. Who shouted it back at me? A Nigerian man having a cigarette break, whilst an Indian man, also puffing on a fag, was hurriedly making his way into the pub to get stuck in. That would not have been possible 30 years ago, so thank you #GarethSouthgate.

‘Our lads done good’

The third reason I supported England in the World Cup semi-final against Croatia is one that must be a wake-up call for all of us – our children. My son is a Londoner, born and bred. He is proud of his triple heritage, but this is his home, regardless of where mummy and daddy are from. Like a true Brit, he eats, sleeps and breathes  football – he’s getting ready to be vice-captain of the school team, plays for a local club, plays it on his Xbox and plays it on his phone. He collects football boots – literally all his last birthday vouchers were spent on them. He lines them up perfectly and reverently nearly every day.

His boots

He collects football kits; on a family holiday to Portugal his only objective when shopping was to get the full Ronaldo No 7 Portuguese kit. He asked the taxi-driver from the airport if he knew Ronaldo (incidentally he did, because his brother-in-law worked in Ronaldo’s restaurant, and so the theme for the 1h drive was set).When he goes out, all he really wants to wear is one of his kits or a tracksuit. He hates the Spanish football team because they are mortal enemies of the team – Portugal – of his favourite player – Ronaldo. He can’t walk anywhere without kicking something to show off his skills. He loves the French team because they are really good, and probably because he adores his au pairs – all of whom have been French. But England is his team because this is his country and he plans to play for them one day.

So could I really support Croatia as I would have done if it was 28 years ago? No. Did I want to? Honestly, a part of me nearly did, out of habit, but today, it wasn’t about me and my immigrant loyalties because the rules were different, the air was filled with hope, the stars were aligned for victory and the stakes were higher. As immigrant parents of children born in the diaspora, we at some point must put aside our conflicting emotions about our dual existence for the sake of our children. We must also work to reverse the intolerance that they will at some point have to face. This means we arm them with the tools to stand up squarely to that intolerance, no hesitation, no apology because this is their home. It also means we appropriately help them affirm their position and their rights to be a part of British society, a society into whose fabric football is tightly woven. It therefore made sense, whether wholeheartedly, symbolically or sympathetically to support their national team, our national team.

So ‘you done good lads’, ‘you done us proud’. ‘Engerland, Engerland.’

Now bring #Euro2020 home!



Image courtesy of inews.co.uk



Conversation With…Michael’s Styles

This blog post has also been picked up by The Voice Online here: http://voice-online.co.uk/article/meet-londoner-using-hair-and-beauty-educate-youth

Michael Roberts is the owner of Michael’s Styles, a salon and hair academy in Willesden High Road, North London. Last summer, he ran a six-week programme called Save a London Life as his proactive response to the increase in violent crime perpetrated by young people in the capital. The programme recruited 20 teenagers to weekly classes in hairdressing and beauty; it was so successful that he will run the programme again this year but needs our help. He has started a gofundme page to raise £10 000 for this year’s project.



Michael's Styles

Michael Roberts, Owner of Michael’s Styles & Founder of Save A London Life

Michael, what inspired you to start Save a London Life?


The level of violence amongst our young people last year was too much for me and I felt that I had to do something. I looked around my neighbourhood and asked myself, ‘what are we doing, especially as business owners and entrepreneurs, for these young people?’ Something had to be done. And now this year, things seem worse, so I must do this again and make it bigger and better.

How does Save a London Life work?

The programme will start in July and run for 6 weeks as it did last year. It’s open to any young person who simply wants something to do. They sign up to weekly classes at the salon where they will be taught hairdressing, styling and beauty techniques. I am currently recruiting professionals in the industry and have recently confirmed the services of a nail technician. There is homework too so this is a serious thing!

At the end of the programme, each student will be awarded a certificate of achievement at a presentation ceremony. They will also receive a basic level qualification that they can use as a foundation for further education should they wish to do so.

I think this ceremony is important not just for the show, but also because it celebrates achievement.  We need to celebrate these young people – it makes them confident which in term helps them make positive choices.

What else will the programme offer?

In actual fact, someone questioned why I was doing something that most colleges offer for free anyway. Well first, this programme is also free! The salon and the programme will provide a safe environment for that youngster who for whatever reason doesn’t feel safe in their own environment.

The other thing these days is that a lot of teens don’t have basic skills around etiquette and communication and building relationships. We will teach them to answer a phone call not with ‘Yeah’, but with ‘How can I help you?’ And then of course, we will show them how to dress and carry themselves professionally. The idea is that we will teach them a range of skills that will hopefully help prepare them for the adult world. We will also offer group therapy sessions where they can all just be open with each other and us and share.


The Academy 1.1

Save a London Life Academy Students, 2017


How was last year’s programme received?

It went really well! Really, really well. We would have had more students but were limited by space. Let me put it this way, some of our students want to come back this year.

What is one thing you want to achieve with Save a London Life?

One thing? If I can save one life that will of course be the greatest achievement. Just getting one child off the street, making sure their parents know where they are, that’s something too. And of course if we can unlock someone’s potential, pique their interest in something, to perhaps become an entrepreneur in their own right in whatever field they choose, then we’ve done good!

 What support have you had so far?

As I mentioned, we are starting to secure volunteers to teach but we still need more. Last year the Brent and Kilburn Times ran a story on the programme and hopefully this year they will do the same and help spread the word. I am also hopeful that Brent Council will support us too. However, we definitely need more help. Interestingly, I have contacted several leading figures in London who you would think are interested in supporting causes like this, but have had no response.

 So what else do you need?

Gosh! What don’t we need? It would be good to have more space to accommodate more people. We nearly did get that extra space last year but things fell through at the last minute though that didn’t stop us as we still went ahead in my space.

Right now we need a barber, products, tools – combs, shampoos, tongs – and uniforms. I’d like the students to wear black tees and trousers. It will be great for anyone with the right skills can give their time to teach these youngsters. And of course funds. I have set up a gofundme page to raise £10 000 that we can use to purchase equipment and tools.

Who is Michael Roberts? What qualifies you to do this?

I was born in Northwest London and grew up in Stonebridge so I know what it’s like to live in the so-called ghetto. As a youngster, I was very mischievous I won’t lie. I was actually labelled as a troublemaker and sent to a special school called Vernon House at the time. My life was not easy by any means, especially as a gay, black man in London in the 80s and 90s! But this is my home and I must give back to my community.

In all that mischief, I knew what I wanted to do though. I was good at cooking and I loved to do hair. At the age of 14 I was teaching catering, and I went on to become a qualified chef, cooking professionally for 5 years. After that, I followed my second passion, hairdressing, and here I am.

Through all your challenges as a youngster, what kept you going?

First, I always knew what I was good at. I was confident about that. Secondly, my family knew what I was good at and in their way supported me. They knew that with Michael, their hair would get done, so they’d look good and eat good at the same time!


To help raise funds for Save a London Life, go to: https://uk.gofundme.com/michaelstylestomorow


For more details on the programme, contact Michael Roberts on

michaelroberts186@hotmail.com or michael@michaelstyles.co.uk

Tel: 07956671242; 02088303579


Michael’s Styles, 186 High Rd, London NW10 2PB


IG: michaelstyles186 – https://www.instagram.com/michaelstyles186/?hl=en



Zimbabwe at 37: Independent We Are Not

On April 18th 1980 Rhodesia became Zimbabwe, marking the end of a brutally racist white regime and the return of African rule. All that was wrong with our country supposedly became right.


Image from: http://independenceday2017images.com/happy-independence-day-2017-zimbabwe-images-wallpapers-photos-pictures.html


Today Zimbabwe celebrates 37 years of independent rule. This year more than any other, the proclamation rings hollow, because independent we are not and the only thing to celebrate is the bravery and boldness of those who sacrificed much in the run up to, and since 1980.

I remember independence year like it was yesteryear. My family was living in Jamaica at the time, alongside a whole load of other Zimbabwean expatriates, who had been flung to all corners of the earth by the oppressive and racist white regime of Ian Smith. We attended a ceremony to celebrate the occasion, and even as a 7-year-old, the significance of the moment was not lost on me. The adults were really serious, more serious than funeral serious as up until then, for me, funeral serious was the most serious anyone or anything could be. So this was big. When they sang the new national anthem, the pride in their voices was audible, and the emotion in their souls was palpable.

In my adult years, I came to know that many of the adults that day including my father, had left Zimbabwe when it was Rhodesia with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Some had left part-way through a higher education that their uneducated parents had sacrificed much for them to gain. Others had left families, dead and alive. But none, including both my parents, had left without the hope that one day they could return home, free, to resume their interrupted lives, and rebuild the nation they had fought for.

The Pre-independence Years

In my adult years I think back to my childhood, my pre-independence childhood, in rural Rhodesia. In my little world, with my extended family, it was a happy and safe world. But, intriguingly, all the images and memories of that time are always covered in a grey cloud, literally. There is no colour. I figured out that this cloud represented the soldiers that lurked everywhere whenever we went into town. Big white soldiers, with red faces, dirty blond hair, mean mouths and big guns held up against their green army fatigues. They watched our every move and made sure we didn’t go into the stores we weren’t supposed to shop in or the restaurants we weren’t supposed to eat in. To this day I feel nauseous at the sight of anything, absolutely anything, with the pattern of those fatigues whether green, grey or blue.

In my adult years I think back to my uncle, my youngest maternal uncle, a true ‘army vet(eran).’ He ran away at 14-years old or so to join the freedom fighters. I now imagine how heartbroken my grandparents who raised me and numerous other cousins must have felt, not knowing the whereabouts of their youngest child. They never showed us that heartbreak, or even fear for that matter, not even on the night that the white soldiers burst into our kitchen, pointing their big guns at my grandmother, probably demanding that she tell them where her son was.

In my adult years, when you hear of the brutality of civil wars across the globe, I now know that we survived that time purely by grace, My uncle did come home. I have yet to hear the story of how he turned up, but though he must have seen some very ugly things he came back with more joie de vivre than I remember him disappearing with. I saw him every time I went back on vacation; every time until 1996. That was the last time I saw him alive. He had survived a brutal war only to die, one day before Zimbabwe turned 17, at the hands of a regime equally inhumane, an African-led government that failed to respond to the AIDS epidemic, waging war, this time against its own.

Modern-day Warfare

Today that war rages on with different rules of engagement, but a war nonetheless. The shops and restaurants may now be open to all, but far from all can pay for anything therein. The country has run out of money for the 2nd time in 10 years and this time round the government issues a worthless currency, saving the real money for themselves of course. No one who holds a decent job gets paid at the end of the month, any month in fact. To get paid you need to run a hustle or be connected to someone in power. And the icing on the cake, those same people in power say it’s okay to use goats – as in livestock goats – to pay for school fees, while they use the country’s money to fund their children’s education at elite schools around the world.

There is no infrastructure: if you have water and electricity at the same, by default you must be living in the presidential residence. The best roads are at the airport to impress visitors or in the president’s constituency. The capital city is a shadow of its former self. The offspring of the wealthy elite boast that they have never set foot in Harare – way below their worth to do so.

In 2017, any voice of dissent is shut down, imprisoned or disappears. Worse still, the masses are so broken that they have no faith in anyone who stands up to the regime. Where are the leaders in waiting? Not allowed and nowhere to be seen. When they do manage to rise, they somehow falter as there is no fertile ground for their growth.

Today, a Facebook friend posted a video of part of the Independence Day proceedings in Zimbabwe. A procession of middle-aged men, surrounding one very old man, shuffles along to the beat of a brass band playing what I call afro-imperialist music – dreary, overbearing, repetitive, with bars reminiscent of the old colonial days, trumpets on the verge of screeching and drums too loud. These are the ruling elite, Zimbabwe’s new oppressors. Fatigues have been replaced by suits and the weapon of choice is now the dollar. Their mouths remain mean but now their faces are black and their heads bald. There isn’t a woman or young person in sight. Everyone is serious, funeral serious, because this time round there is everything to mourn and nothing to be proud of.

Zimbabwe at 37 – independent she is not.


Image from: http://www.heraldonline.com/news/business/article145176029.html



Women’s Day 2017…or is it 1720?

Today is International Women’s Day (IWD), a day to celebrate, according to the IWD website https://www.internationalwomensday.com/About, ‘the social, economic, cultural and political achievements of women.’ As the day draws to a close, I have to admit that I am a little ambivalent about what progress has really been made with regards to gender equality…and in fact ‘gender everything’ ever since the modern revolution of women’s rights started back in the 1900s. This question weighs heavily on my mind not just today, though I can’t say it does so every day either, but often enough for me to be compelled to blog about it on our special day, when all I really should be doing is catching up on some sleep!

Theoretically a woman like me – aged 44, with a privileged upbringing as my niece-in-law described it over the last family weekend (and not privileged as in ‘moneyed’ either, much more and pricelessly so), with my own family albeit not in the conventional, ‘married-with-2.4-white picket fence’ sense, with parents still alive and fighting fit, in a profession with the perfect balance of job satisfaction and challenges that stretch the intellect, able to make time to get my hustle on and tick off my bucket list – should be patting herself on the back with all her female relatives and friends in the same boat, or thereabouts, about how good we have it.

This past month alone though, I found myself wondering why I was the only woman in not an insignificant number of meetings of late; why at several high profile celebrity events, all the noise and hype was around male achievement when there were some ground-breaking contributions by women in the same time period; why in 2017, a young man in Australia feels it’s reasonable to imprison a woman for nearly 2 months subjecting her to what appears to be a brutalizing regime of rape and beatings (https://www.theguardian.com/australia-news/2017/mar/08/uk-backpacker-raped-held-captive-australia-out-of-hospital); why the Roman Catholic Church of Ireland cannot just admit to its appalling and inhumane treatment of young mothers and their children and allow their souls to rest in peace (https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2017/mar/07/catholic-church-children-buried-at-tuam-ireland); and why a father is more insulted by his daughter’s murderous breakdown as a result of sexual exploitation, than by the fact that it was his own friend who subjected the daughter to such, with intentions of moving on to his other daughter (http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-37683927) . And I wonder about the multiplication factor that would be applied to all of these incidences, because they are not isolated by any means.

As each year passes, and more so this year, I cannot help but think of the millions of women all over the world whose lives do not reach their full potential whether it’s personally, for their families or their communities, simply because the laws governing their locality say that they are not worthy. I think of the hundreds of thousands of women who go missing every year into black holes of sexual and other forms of slavery. I think of those who are disowned by those endowed with the title of ‘family’ simply because they do not conform to the rules of their society that are designed to suppress their very essence, their womanhood. I think of those women in areas of conflict – including the conflicts we don’t hear about – who cannot be the mothers, sisters, aunts, cousins, friends, wives, girlfriends and comforters that they are meant to be and just want to be. It is mind-boggling to me that the men and other women who subjugate women like this, do mankind an indescribable disservice. Without mothers, sisters, aunts, cousins, friends, wives and girlfriends who are valued in the true sense of the word, society will eventually cease to function. This is not to proclaim superiority over men – but God did not create man alone.

Whenever I get around to reading historical accounts of women in society I often wonder where it all went wrong. The tales of ancient and some recent civilizations indicate that women at one point, long long ago, had a much higher standing in society. Then for reasons outside the scope of a late night blog like this, it slowly but surely fell apart. Fell so far apart that at the core of it, when all the glitter and glitz and gloss is peeled back, when you delve into the psyche of society, I must ask, is womanhood in 2017 any different from what it was in 1720? If one were to plot some extrapolation of gender progress over time and do some mathematical corrections that take into account changes in the key societal factors which are converted into some numerical value, would we see an exponential or even at least a linear growth in women’s standing in society? I suspect it will be far from either.

Perhaps what is the more important driving factor for gender equality is not how society defines us, but how we as women define ourselves. We now have a voice that most but not all choose to listen to, and we are using that voice now more than ever before. Already this year, women around the world, many who didn’t really need to, marched in their millions against a misogynistic President – not that he is the only one of his kind mind you. With that voice we are redefining ourselves, or actually, let me phrase that correctly, reclaiming our original and intended definition of ourselves, with the intention of marching forward, side-by-side with men, in all our womanly glory.

IWD Logo for blog


The reality is…a reality TV star is the 45th POTUS

When all is said and done, that is the reality right?

I feel the need to add my 2-pence in with a lengthy blog on Donald Trump becoming the 45th POTUS, but in reverence to my renewed drive for increased efficiency, ‘work smart not hard/kill 2 birds with one stone’ mentality, I will insert the link to my rant after Brexit here – https://lalulaworld.wordpress.com/2016/06/29/an-unexpected-br-exit/ -, because essentially these 2-pence can easily be put towards the current situation. A few modifications here and there to make it US-centric, but the principles underlying this seismic fall-out remain the same – disillusionment, delusion, disenfranchisement, modern-day feudalism coming to roost, hatred and dirty nasty ‘politricks’.

Nevertheless, I will add a PS to the original rant, because you know, this occasion cannot pass without that.


When we look back over the last century to now, has there ever been a POTUS that wasn’t in some way a creation of America’s imagination, a caricature or a character of some sort. Some had valid qualifications for the job yes, but one thing they all have had in common is that at some point, when the cameras stopped rolling, the illusion became apparent – a contradiction of terms yes but that is the ‘reality’ that is America – an apparent illusion.


Image from:




Let’s start with whom most of us are familiar with. Wasn’t John F Kennedy though genial, a carefully crafted vehicle for his father’s obsession with power and glory? Then throw in his love for the fast life that was Hollywood, hanging with the mob and side-chicks. Perfect concoction for good TV.

Lyndon B Johnson had an honourable track record for his attempts to restore civil rights, but known to be someone who could change his personality to suit the occasion.

Richard M Nixon, Watergate says it all. The ultimate baddie.

Gerald Ford to be fair didn’t really choose to be President, but his intellectual capability for the job was questionable especially being an ex-football player. Only in America does a football player rise to the Presidency. And he pardoned Nixon.

Jimmy Carter was probably more successful as an ex-POTUS than a POTUS, so one has to ask ‘what did he do’ in the White House.

Ronald Reagan, though Governor of California before he became the 40th POTUS, let’s face it, was a Hollywood actor. He could therefore play any role asked of him. He is the reason why Arnold Schwarzenegger thought he could do the same but he forgot that Trump’s America does not like foreigners, especially those that actually sound like a foreigner; and Ronald Reagan is also why Will Smith went through a phase of joking about how he too could transition from actor to POTUS (or maybe that was the media creating something).  Today though, we know where those bad jokes can lead a nation.

Ah, then we enter the Bush era that gave way to the 41st and 43rd Presidents. An oil-rich dynasty that got into the White House to make themselves and their Texan buddies more millions than they already had through war-mongering. All under the guise of serving their country, waging a war on terrorism, using God as justification for bad behaviour.

Bill Clinton is one of the most liked and most charming and most popular POTUS’, who despite being impeached and displaying misogynistic tendencies of tremendous magnitude, and in the process contributing to his wife’s defeat in today’s election, is still liked and charming and popular. Typical reality TV star – incorrigible character, but you still love him.

Barack Obama. As a black woman, I will never deny the importance of his position as the 44th POTUS and how much it means that our children can grow up knowing that a Black man can hold that position and that it’s not a big deal for a Black man to hold that position. But I am under no illusion that his public image is probably a well-crafted one, and that one day, it may all come out in the wash. Most of us still admire him and Michelle though – that is reality TV – we take what makes us feel good even if it’s not real.

PPS. Be a part of the reality show

So we must not lament yesterdays’s episode because it’s part of the storyline. As more seriously put in this piece I came across as I searched for a meaning behind the madness, this is how the world works – https://medium.com/@theonlytoby/history-tells-us-what-will-happen-next-with-brexit-trump-a3fefd154714#.1z8d5jkpm. History repeats itself, the same characters are thrown up in different guises and the plot follows a time-tested formula.

All we now need to do is decide what character we will play and play that character well. Become a part of history, a history our children can look back on and draw inspiration from when their turn comes up in the next round of calamity.

Because right now, just being a spectator is not going to cut it.

An Unexpected Br-exit

On the afternoon of this now forsaken referendum, my 8-year old declared that he had voted at school. I was pretty taken aback – mostly because he hardly volunteers information about what he has been up to, but also because it showed just how big a deal this referendum to leave or remain in the European Union (EU) was if 8-year olds were getting involved. He didn’t hesitate to tell me which way he had voted – to stay, and ‘my friends did too,’ he added – this was really information overload for me today! His reason to stay: so he can go and visit his French child-minder anytime he wants, after she goes back to France…fair enough.

I too voted to remain. The referendum race was going to be tight of course, but so sure was I, and I guess so was everyone else in the remain camp, that we would edge across the line first, it didn’t even occur to me get up early and watch the results. And besides, if 8-year olds could get it right, surely the rest of us, or rather the majority of us could too, right?

Watching our dear veteran broadcaster David Dimbleby read out the results on the morning of June 24th, my first thought was that he looked absolutely battered. Not battered in an ‘I’m-77-years old-and-it’s-way-past-my-bedtime’ kind of way, but more in an ‘I-can’t-believe-what-I-have-to-tell you…and-in-my-golden-years-at-that’ kind of way. When he actually announced the leave majority, I felt the way he looked, and the words ‘but the 8-year olds got it right though’, rang loudly and repeatedly in my head. The United Kingdom had voted to leave the EU – the Brexiters had won.


Image from: http://www.express.co.uk/news/politics/682835/EU-referendum-result-European-Union-Leave-Remain-In-Out


‘Gripping political drama and a nation in turmoil’

One week later, and the whole nation is in turmoil. It’s true to say that no one expected this outcome, not even the Brexiters themselves; those who say they are not surprised are only able to say so with the help of the good old retro-scope. Who would have thought that within 96 hours of the vote, we would have bloodless coups left, right and centre, no Prime Minister (PM) as David Cameron was quick to jump ship, a crumbling opposition party thanks to a grand total of 17 Judas Iscariots, a Chancellor missing in action, a far-right leader in Nigel Farage now with a licence to offend in even greater proportions, a looming general election between rudderless political parties, and the real prospect of the bumbling blonde ex-journalist Boris Johnson becoming our ‘leader,’ someone who is unlikely to command any international respect. Answer: no one. The only man standing by his principles, is the Opposition Leader Jeremy Corbyn, and at this rate, who knows how long he can remain so loyal to his cause. This is the kind of drama that no seasoned political playwright or screenwriter could have ever conjured up.

‘The false science of politics’

I admit that, though by nature a remainer, in the days leading up to the polls, I did think about what it could mean to leave. As an immigrant myself though, I just couldn’t get past the misdirected anti-immigration rhetoric – surprise, surprise. This and the false claim that £350 million saved per week by leaving the EU could rescue our National Health Service (NHS) meant my flirtation with leave lasted all of 30 seconds. The decline of the NHS was obviously not going to be reversed by phantom cash. When politicians brandish numbers about without clear calculations, we must be very suspicious. Besides, the mind-set of those that manage the health service is now so thwarted, mismanagement of funds, fictional or real, would be inevitable. One advantage of being an immigrant from a non-EU state is that you know very well the very tall tales that a government can spin. We all wish our fellow Brits would have figured this out a while ago.

And, I will also admit, that at times I felt that the evidence for the reasons to remain were largely speculative. In recent times, it seems politics has tried to pull itself off as some sort of science, brandishing about terms like ‘evidence-based policy’ and using statistics and data inappropriately, because it rhymes in a slogan or evokes the right ‘feelings’ in the electorate. If real scientists or ad-men and women were to use the same methods, they’d be slurred by the media that dutifully reports this BS, and fined to oblivion by the bodies that regulate those professions.

‘Why remain?’

My vote to remain was really about safe-guarding, as best as I know how, the future of the next generation of Brits – both descendants of natives and immigrants. We can no longer argue that Britain, a nation with no real industry can sustain itself. The gap between the haves and the have-nots is, like everywhere else in the world, wider than ever, with no signs of that gap narrowing. The class system prevails mightily here and will continue to do so for generations to come, meaning that if the have-nots want to ever move up, they will need to move sideways, then up. To move sideways, you need to have the option of moving across borders open to you; whilst some Brexiters are lamenting the invasion by not just the Polish but also the Muslims and the Africans and the Syrians (I know Muslim or African is not a nationality, but a certain brand of Brexiter doesn’t function at that level), they forget that there was a time they too had to move to foreign lands just to survive.

‘The great social divide’

The nation’s wealth is concentrated in London where it is largely in the hands of the dreaded foreigners. And in that capital city are politicians that will happily sell out the masses to those foreigners as long as their own off shore accounts are kept flush. The tragedy is that even the opposition parties that are supposed to represent the masses have joined in on the pimping. When I first came to this country nearly 30 years ago, you could easily tell the difference between a politician that was ‘Labour’ (left-wing) and one that was a ‘Tory’ (conservative; right-wing): the content of their ‘speak’, their manner, their way of dress – these were clear differentiators. Today, I’m sure I am not the only one that struggles to tell members of either party apart – they have all morphed into one mass of privileged men and women, who are nothing but career politicians that now don’t even pretend to aspire to be servants for their electorates. And the few with a remaining whiff of social conscience, can attest to this. They exhibit varying degrees of pomposity, but what they all have in common is a clear disdain and disregard for the working class. Some of them repeatedly chant ‘we need to reach out’ and ‘reconnect with the grassroots’ but the hollowness of those sound bites has become increasingly nauseating. With the results of this referendum, and whilst shooting themselves in both feet, the grassroots has made it clear that no amount of reaching out, in the current form anyway, is going to reconnect anyone.

The working class, most of whom occupied the leave camp of Brexiters, are not entirely blameless though. Left behind whilst globalisation, and all that comes with it, marches ahead, they seem to lack the will and appear powerless to change their circumstances. When I lived in one of the most deprived parts of England, I was shocked that in families with 2 generations of unemployment, it hadn’t dawned on either the 2nd or 3rd generation to start thinking laterally, and perhaps exercise their right to, for example, a free university education. At the same time, the goal of many immigrant parents whether they came into this country illiterate or overqualified 5 times over for their jobs, was to ensure that their children were qualified to the hilt.

One of the most painful open secrets in education is that underachievement is by far highest amongst working class white boys…and it starts at a young age. The current term ‘white male privilege’ should be revised to ‘white male of-the-ruling-classes privilege’ because it certainly does not include the rest. Recently, it was reported that race hate crimes against Muslims were now at a level 3x higher than last year and the most likely perpetrators were white teenagers. A lot of the reasons for this underachievement and bad behaviour are socially and culturally based; yet no one speaks about this as it doesn’t fit the political agenda of the day. The result is a perpetuation of a culture that can neither articulate its needs nor organise itself sufficiently; a culture that will find it difficult to produce an effective leader, one that can spearhead the drive to rebuild a nation, particularly a nation isolated from its neighbours. These skills are vital if the working class intends to contend with the ruling elite in London… and in Brussels.

And as for the middle classes…well, we now exist only in name. Many have long relinquished any combination of bi-annual foreign holidays, two cars, school fees, nannies and cleaners.


Image from: http://jondanzig.blogspot.co.uk/2016/06/eu-referendum-result-disunion.html

‘Let’s do what we do best’

With events unfolding as they are, the actual reasons why many of us voted to leave or remain are rapidly becoming redundant. We now find out that the results of the referendum themselves are not binding. Someone needs to invoke Article 50 of the EU Lisbon Treaty, a law that outlines the steps to take should a member state wish to leave the union. Who that someone is, we don’t know as we don’t have a leader. Our recently departed Mr Cameron says we won’t trigger the process yet. Mr Johnson wants informal talks before we start proceedings. The EU response to Mr Johnson: ‘the computer says no’. And Nigel Farage continues to offend, and gloat, here and in Brussels.

So far the single most important result of the referendum has been to give our current social and political structure a badly needed shake-up, forcing us to come to the table to start our 12-step programme to rehabilitation. The first step is in acknowledging the facts and confessing: ‘Hi my name is Britain and I am no longer Great’. Our Britain is indeed no longer great, not in the way that it used to be, nor is it great in the way it needs to be to function alone. The way the world is evolving won’t allow for this parochial and insular mind-set.

Whichever way we voted, we all took a risk, and the thing about taking risks is that you don’t really know what you’re going to get. A change is something we all wanted, we didn’t know how we would get it, but to get that change, we absolutely had to go out on a limb. As the MP Sir Eric Pickles said on the day of the referendum results, ‘I’m sad and dismayed, but that’s democracy. Now we need to get on with it.’

And as Brits, that’s something we are still very good at it – getting on with it and making the very best of a bad turn of events.

Cameron ‘v’ Buhari: The case of a spade, a pot and a kettle

So this past week, our very own UK Prime Minister David Cameron, bestowed upon us a revelation of fantastical proportions. He was overheard or rather ‘over-recorded’, in a conversation with the Queen, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the Speaker of the House of Commons, stating that ‘We’ve got some leaders of some fantastically corrupt countries coming to Britain… Nigeria and Afghanistan, possibly the two most corrupt countries in the world’. This conversation was conveniently made available to us, the public, 48 hours before an anti-corruption summit, hosted by Mr Cameron himself, was to be held in London. It’s always intriguing to me how western leaders take any opportunity to show themselves as leading the way in making the world a better place for us to live in – a leaked recording justifying the need to cleanse the world of dodgy dealings might, to the inflated political ego, equate to some serious brownie points. But, we know better don’t we?

‘A spade is a spade’

The ensuing frenzy over Mr Cameron’s so called gaffe showed the lengths the media will go to whip up a political storm. Was it really a gaffe? No. Mr Cameron was just calling a spade a spade. Nigeria and Afghanistan rank at the top of the international corruption index. It’s a well-known fact, in all four corners of the globe, that Nigeria is not just fantastically corrupt, but stupendously so. Nigerians will tell you themselves, with no hesitation, just how tightly corruption is woven into the fabric of every aspect of their society – from the state house to the pulpit, threading in everything in between. In fact, Mr Cameron could have gone all the way and reeled off a long list of other fantastically corrupt countries, many of which would be found on our beloved continent of Africa, and chances are that he would have got full marks. I for one was offended that he didn’t call out my birth nation of Zimbabwe …

‘Best qualified’

The parties involved in that leaked conversation are by far the best qualified to assess who is corrupt and who isn’t: Mr Cameron who himself admitted that he has benefitted from hidden offshore assets and whose party is bankrolled by businessmen with dubious links who, in return, get titles and tax breaks; our dear Queen Elizabeth, Head of the Royal Family, whose family fortunes are founded on loot plundered from all corners of the British Empire, and are sustained in the present day by the tax payer; the leader of a religion that has long exploited those that they are supposed to protect from evil; and the leader of the House of Commons packed with Members of Parliament who inflate their expenses and land the tax-payer, again, with the bill, whilst regularly popping up as the central characters in salacious scandals straight out of a den of iniquity. Nigerian leaders, present one probably excluded, are familiar with all these tendencies; put them all together and you have a cupboard full of pots and kettles calling each other black.

‘Clean up your act too’

However, there is one person who came out less charred than Mr Cameron – Mr Buhari, the Nigerian leader. His response was class. He didn’t retort hypocritically and indignantly in the way that some of our African politicians would have, and deny (the obvious) that Nigeria is corrupt, or demand an apology (because this was not about him), or embark on some irrelevant tirade to deflect from the real issue. Instead he took it to another level, rose above it all: ‘No. I am not going to demand any apology from anybody. What I am demanding is the return of assets. What would I do with an apology? I need something tangible.’ In others words, ‘we can go round and round in the way that spades, pots and kettles do, but actually, if you’re serious, you clean up your act too’. Mr Buhari has been cleaning house in his own country so he probably knows what he’s talking about.

‘A true boss’

And interestingly, with that response, mainstream media swiftly moved on to find another story to drum up – in their eyes, this particular storm, with no mud-slinging, had turned into nothing but a damp drizzle.

Mr Buhari, handled this like a true boss – wonder how his anti-corruption colleagues and his country handle him after this…


A Tale of Two Boys: Emmett Till and Tamir Rice


The year that saw the public unravelling of the discriminate American policing and judicial system continues to the bitter end of 2015.

This week, just over a year after 12-year-old Tamir Rice was shot dead in Cleveland, Ohio whilst holding a toy gun, the police officer who shot him will not be indicted on any criminal charges. In fact, it’s not immediately apparent what consequences this officer will face.

The facts…in a nutshell

The official report from the county prosecutor’s office tells us this: Tamir, who was African-American, was playing with a toy gun in a park on November 22nd, 2014; a 911 call was made reporting a man waving and pointing a gun at people; the caller did state that the gun could have been fake and the person involved could have been a juvenile; two police officers subsequently arrived on the scene and drove within a few feet of Tamir; inside 2 seconds of getting out of the patrol car, one of these officers fired 2 shots at the 12-year old; one bullet struck his abdomen; the police officers stated that they ordered Tamir 3 times to raise his hands; none of the witnesses heard these commands; neither of the police officers administered first aid to Tamir after they realised he was indeed a juvenile; one officer instead tackled and handcuffed his 14-year old sister; when his mother arrived on the scene she was threatened with arrest; both officers refused to testify at the grand jury hearing; the office that shot Tamir was deemed not fit to handle firearms; the prosecutor at the same hearing blamed the emergency services despatcher for not relaying the information that it was possible that the individual in question was a boy with a toy gun.

Two subsequent reports, the Sims report and the Crawford1 report, both concluded that Tamir’s killing was reasonable. There is guidance from the United States Supreme Court that explains why the policemen who set up an ‘officer-created jeopardy’ situation will not face criminal charges. It’s flawed, because like most things American, it’s open to interpretation, but nevertheless this guidance, or rather, one interpretation of this guidance, was upheld2.

A deeply and profoundly sad state of affairs

The onslaught of public reports of deaths of African-American men and women at the hands of those whose duty is, and who are paid to serve and protect, has been relentless. The countless editorials, opinion pieces and commentaries on these events, in the main-stream and off-stream media, from the right-wing to the liberal leaning to the conspiracy theories, all raise ugly issues and rub salt in the deep wounds that afflict American society.

I could blog a self-righteous piece based on my own worldview which is here on the outside looking in, about what a mess America wallows in; sometimes though the clearest view is indeed from that vantage point. As much as a personal rant would feel good, it would a), not shed any light on the complexity of the dysfunction within that society, b),  require an anthology of American history and society which I am not in any way qualified to write about, c), serve no real purpose other than self-gratification on my part and d), not ease the deep and profound sadness I and many like me feel about the young lives that are being snuffed out like nuisance prey by a seemingly predatory system.

A predatory system that has changed little in the last 60 years.


Emmett Till: July 25, 1941 – August 28, 1955

Image courtesy of: http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/amex/till/peopleevents/p_till.html


On August 28, 1955, 14-year-old African-American Emmett Till was killed by two white men in Mississippi after allegedly flirting with a 21-year-old married white woman. The only difference between the case of Emmett then and that of Tamir now is that the killers of now, wear uniforms.  I urge you to read the story yourself and I’m pretty sure you will find it incredible. I know that 3 years after I first came across it, I still find it to be so.

Both boys were perceived, by whites, to be older than they were on account of their physical appearances – Emmett weighed 68kg and stood 1.63m tall; Tamir was 79kg and stood 1.7m tall. So the fact that they were bigger than they should be warranted and even justified an aggressive response to childish behaviour. There is published work on how whites view and interpret the physique of black children3, and it’s very telling.

You would think it’s enough that black and brown-skinned adults are negatively stereotyped – not that we need studies to tell us that, though statistics and surveys are very useful in providing objective evidence to the naysayers. Does this deadly stereotyping really have to extend to black and brown-skinned children too? Can they not be allowed to be like all other children who sometimes do incredibly stupid things without paying for such stupidity with their lives? Even if Emmett had really made lewd comments to an adult woman, surely all that adult woman had to do was drag him by the ears to his family and allow them to deal with him. That’s how we know things to have been dealt with in the good ole’ days right? And, there is no doubt that Tamir was silly to have been brandishing any imitation weapon of any kind in public especially in the climate at that time; for generations, children have been fascinated with guns, because adults revere guns; for generations, children have played cops and robbers with fake guns, no questions asked. Are we now to accept that it’s open season on any child who engages in this past-time (though in my circles it is quite un-PC, and rightfully so, to give children toy guns)? Since when have law enforcement officers been intimidated by children playing with toy guns?

In the case of Emmett, media stories at the time even focussed on that fact that his father, an officer in the US army, had been executed in Italy during the 2nd World War for allegedly raping and murdering women, in an attempt to show that there must have been some genetic disposition in Emmett towards aggression against white women. I really urge you to read up on this case yourself – it boggles the mind. The holes in both stories are gapingly wide, yet even after the cases were bought before a judicial system and the American public, no one was found culpable in the violent death of a child.

Of course, in between Emmett and Tamir there have been others: some we hear about like Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown and Laquan McDonald, but most we don’t, like Kendrick Johnson4. In all cases it’s apparent that the deeply disturbed and flawed legacy of Emmett’s killers and their ancestors continues to thrive in modern day Americans. I can’t even use the word the term racist legacy because that word doesn’t really feel as if it fully encapsulates the forces at play here.

An ugly mind-set based on destructive principles

These forces appear to surmise that anyone of African origin is somehow not human, soul-less, devoid of emotion and feelings. It is this mind-set that shoots a child of colour first, then prevents that child’s loved ones from comforting him as he dies, then lies about the events that transpired, because that mind-set is confident in the fact that there is a system that will support your every devious move.

There’s no doubt that policemen see some ugly things in their line of duty; but is that justification to shoot first then lie later? Working in accident and emergency as a junior doctor some years back, I and my colleagues saw human beings at their ugliest too. But never at any time did we ever lose sight of the fact that we were dealing with human beings, fellow human beings, who no matter what, were to be treated as such. There is no reason why policemen shouldn’t have that same empathy…unless they are somehow not human, soul-less, devoid of emotion and feelings.

60 years forwards…or backwards?

Although Emmett Till’s death in 1955 turned out to be one of the catalysts for the American Civil Rights Movement, why is it that his story is repeated through Tamir Rice in 2015? The sad truth appears to be that the destructive principles that form the foundation of American society have never been dismantled. Now they are being exposed for what they are. But unless all Americans can fully and positively exploit the opportunities that are open to them to really uphold their revered Constitution, and start work on a new foundation, things will go back another 60 years.



Tamir Rice: June 25, 2002 – November 23, 2014

Image courtesy of: http://www.nytimes.com/2015/01/23/us/in-tamir-rice-shooting-in-cleveland-many-errors-by-police-then-a-fatal-one.html?_r=0