My First experience with a racist
Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere- MLK
When I was 12 years of age my father told me we needed to have ‘the talk’. I didn’t know what he meant. I expected it to be about ‘puberty’. This was a norm, when a child reaches puberty, their parents will seat them down and explain to them changes in their body and how to properly manage them. At the time, I had already begun to experience obvious changes in my body; my voice began to deepen; I had started growing taller and my testicles were getting bigger (I don’t mean to gross you, I believe mature adults are reading this) I was very comfortable with these changes, to be more precise, I was proud of myself; I was gradually becoming a man. I accepted these changes until I started experiencing wet dream, pimples, swelling breast and other irritating changes. I soon began to hate myself. So, when my dad brought up ‘the talk’ I was more than happy to relay my experiences with him. I yearned for his counsel, because the new development were beginning to make me feel like an outsider in my own body.
My father sat me down on a rainy Friday night just after he had eaten dinner. His demeanor was unresolved. The most nervous I had ever seen him. This made me anxious. He began by asking me what I knew about racism. I wasn’t sure where this conversation was going but I immediately knew it had nothing to do with the obvious changes in my body. Disappointedly I said “No”
He explained what racism was and how dangerous it was to live in a white man’s land wearing a black skin. At the time, my parents, junior sister and I were emigrants from Nigeria. My family won a lottery some years before and ever since then we have made America our home. My dad called it ‘Greener Pastures’ because most of the opportunities that didn’t open for him while he was just a sales man in a local shop behind our house in Ojuelegba, had created a big-sales company for him in America. And because of the empire my father was gradually building in the states, he fought the immigration for a permanent stay, this resulted in the birth of my junior sister (figures)
From the age of 12, I began learning the ways of the white. I learnt their manner of speech, dressing and code of conduct. I learnt to undress my culture so I could fit in, because my father told me that the ‘razz life’ of a black man can be termed as ‘gang’ in America and that could put me in serious trouble. But he did warn me never to forget who I was and where I was coming from. I tried my absolute best to couple both without giving too much. This was extremely difficult.
That night, my father told me about the thousands of black men and women who had been killed simply because they were black. Since the days of Martin Luther King Jnr, the fight against white supremacy has been in existence. He taught me the survival rules as a black man living in America.
1. Be polite and respectful when stopped by the police. Keep your mouth shut.
2. Remember the goal is to get home safely.
3. Don’t under any circumstance, get into an argument with the police.
4. Keep your hands in plain sight and make sure the police can see them at all times
5. Avoid physical contact with police. No sudden movement.
6. Do not run, even if you’re afraid of the police
7. Even if you believe you’re innocent, do not resist arrest.
8. Stay calm and remain in control. Watch your words, body language and emotions.
I went to my room with a renewed wondered. My puberty was the least of my problems, because it wasn’t going to matter if I wasn’t alive. The colour of my skin had become a weapon, whether or not it was engaged. Our very existence was a problem to many people and there wasn’t so much justice at the time.
All things gradually began to make sense to me, Mrs. Baker’s son, our neighbor who was allegedly killed because he was holding out a hair brush to a white kid. He was just 18! Mr. Simon, my father’s former secretary was killed while he struggled to get into his home. No questions were asked, for all we knew he was murdered for break and entry into his own home. He was a 30 years old black man. Mrs. Adanes, my science teacher was shot right in front of her car, due to a misunderstanding she had with a white supremacist policeman. She was a 52 years old bi-racial woman with a pretty cat. Mrs. Margaret who was shot while holding her 3 months old baby in her hand.
All I knew back then was that these people were killed because they broke the law. What is it about having a black skin colour that makes people a threat to society? Are we any less of a human? Why the continuous spilling of African-American blood? I was enraged.
Five years down the line, a lot had changed about me. I became conscious of how I armored my skin so as not to present myself as a threat. If I was the problem, then I needed to stop being the solution. A black boy among white kids was the problem and if any misunderstanding was to ensue, the black kid will be the one to bear the burnt. The logic was simple.
White kills Black = Self defense
Black kills White = Murder
Black kills Black= Gang violence
White kills white= Accident
Muslim kills White = Terrorist
White kills Muslim= Mental Health issues
Now that I was a legal adult in the United States, my actions were to be carefully scrutinized by the justice system. I never told my parents, but I was freaking scared of being black, very scared. The white supremacist watch me with cold-blooded eyes as I played in my school park with my friends. I might be a kid, but because I was a black kid, I became an adult.
Another beautiful day in the state of Brimingham, Alabama,. My best friend David was throwing a birthday party in celebration of his 18th birthday. David Adebanjo, Nigerian and from a wealthy family. His father owned a big restaurant in the states. He was a spoiled kid, really spoiled. This was excused with the fact that he was an only child. My father and Mr. Adebanjo were friends. David’s parents were throwing him a big party in an exotic hotel.
The party lasted for 3 straight hours, I was exhausted. David offered to personally take me home, once again, another proper excuse to test run his new model Mercedes Benz his father got him. I gladly hopped in alongside a fellow white friend of ours, Alex. David was an experienced driver for his age, he often times carried his father’s collection of cars and cruise around the city.
David was excited and in his turned-up mood. His stereo was blasting his favourite jam from his all-time favourite artist, Kendrick Lamar. He loved his music. He often times adopted Kendrick’s dress style which made him look like a gangster. David was slowly losing his culture. I often times warned him about his dressing. I told him about how the white supremacist viewed black men dressed like ‘thugs’. He will brush it off as me being old-fashioned.
My best friend, David wasn’t like me, he was free-spirited and mostly he wasn’t afraid of his colour. “If my colour is seen as a weapon, so be it. I wouldn’t shiver or clutch simply because God painted me with gold” he would say. I loved this about him, but I was so afraid for him.
After about 15 mins drive, David insisted we get another drink. I was against this, all I wanted was to go home. I wasn’t comfortable with the environment we were about to enter, a lot of black men had been killed there. I waited in the car while David and Alex went into a small-town shop to buy the drinks.
They were taking longer than expected, so I highlighted to go check in on them. Just as I was about leaving the car, two white-coloured policemen came over to my side. I was scared (the fear of my safety), never have I been approached by a policeman. I remained cool just like my father had taught me.
“What are you doing here, boy.” The first police man asked. He seemed nice. My father taught me also to study their moods, so as not to infuriate them. Kendrick Lamar’s lyric resounding from the stereo was beginning to irritate them, but he spoke nothing but the truth.
But what am I supposed to do with the blinking and the blue
Flash from the top of your roof and your dog has to say woof
And you ask, ‘Lift up your shirt’ cause you wonder if a tattoo
Of affiliation can make it a pleasure to put me through
Gang files, but that don’t matter because the matter is racial profile
I heard them chatter: ‘He’s probably young but I know that he’s down’
Step on his neck as hard as your bullet vest. He don’t mind, he know we’ll never respect, the good kid, m.A.A.d. city
“I’m waiting for my friends” I responded. I placed my hands in a visible area, as I turned down the volume. Just like my dad instructed.
“Ok. Do you own the car?” another question. This meant trouble.
“No, it belongs to my friend” I was nervous.
The interrogation persisted for the next few seconds as David and Alex came out with a carton of beer. I became more terrified. David’s face was fierce, he isn’t the type to be scared. This was the very moment I feared the most.
“How may I help you officer?” David questioned
“Are you the owner of this vehicle” the second policemen asked, he wasn’t as friendly as the first.
“Yes, any problem” David was being rude. I gave him a nudge to cool his uprising temper but he was ready to weaponize his colour and his voice.
“May we see your driver’s license”
We explained to the policemen that the car was new, he had no driver’s license in it. They didn’t believe us and demanded we tell them the truth or we were going to be arrested. I was comfortable with getting arrested, at least it didn’t mean anyone was going to die.
David became hysterical and uncooperative as the policemen tried to hand cuff him. He knew his rights more than I did and he wasn’t going to bend them for anyone. The first policeman had begun to hold out his pistol. My heart was racing. I begged David to be cooperative, but he refused.
“You can’t just arrest me. Do you know who my father is? You will lose your badges if you lay your hands on me”
Alex was pushed to one side. They policemen didn’t see him as a threat “Hey you, stay behind me. You don’t want to get injured”
Like I said, we were always seen as the problem. Alex cooperated and remained mute. I guess he didn’t understand the severity of what was going on. To him, this was just another police routine check.
I on the other hand had been handcuffed and faced down on the floor, the first police man pressing his knee on my neck. I managed to keep shouting “David just comply, we will settle this when we get to the station” but all fell to deaf ears. He kept insisting on calling his father.
In a twinkle of an eye I heard two gun shots and David’s body drop dead on the floor. His eyes met mine. His face was shocked, angered, in pain, scared, all emotions in one. I screamed and cried. David’s crying eyes was trying to tell me something, I couldn’t decode, he struggled to make me understand, and still I didn’t understand. I kept crying. And before my next blink, David stopped moving, his eyes were still open but his spirit was gone. That image was going to haunt me for the rest of my life.
“It’s a mobile phone” the policeman kept saying. They picked up David’s iPhone from the ground “It wasn’t a gun, shit” he added.
What? David was killed because he tried bringing out his phone. No questions asked, two gunshots, and a dead body that was all I remembered.
My worst nightmare had come to hunt me. Another fellow black man killed for exercising his right, another fellow black man killed for holding out his phone, another fellow black man killed for driving an expensive car, another fellow black man killed for playing loud music, another black man killed for dressing as he pleased, another fellow black man killed for just being BLACK.
“If my colour is seen as a weapon, so be it. I wouldn’t shiver or clutch simply because God painted me with gold”
Being Nigerian didn’t excuse our colour or our race, we were victims of white supremacy/racism. David died a black man and he bleed red blood, like every other. Maybe when they see his red blood, they would realize we are equally humans. Maybe they would end the hatred and segregation on the coloured. Maybe I wouldn’t have to watch another fellow brother shot dead in cold blood. I believed in this.
I didn’t die that day because I followed the manual my father taught me years back. Many like me have been killed by following that same manual, I guess I was lucky. But as long as white supremacy still lives, my life will keep hanging on a thread.
My father taught me how to survive as a black man in America, but when will white parents begin to teach their kids how to grow up and not be hateful racists. I’m tired of sitting by the sidelines, of keeping quiet about injustice. I’m so damn tired of seeing the names of my people among the dead, I’m tired of counting their names in hundreds of thousands. I’m done chanting #justicefor… and #BlackLivesMatter. I’m done been a prey. I’m a black man and if my colour is been seen as a weapon, so be it. I will not be reduced because God coloured me Gold. I will live out my race, my culture and my right.
A decade has gone by since the death of David and a thousand others, yet we are still been killed for our colour and our race. What then is the justice in #justicefor…?
