Remember, The White Folks Won

Remember, the white folks won.

There is only one eternal law: to the victor the spoils.

You may have a proud and ancient history, Mansa Musa, Cyrus, Babur or any in a long line of famed kings and emperors, but they are just that: ancient. The white man had the last empire, the last colonies, and still has his client states and his bootlickers. Where are yours?

To him you are the subjugated and enslaved. You live in the country he colonised however many hundreds of years ago. You live on land he claimed, whether by conquest or by genocide. To the victor the spoils. You are there on sufferance. You are there because some few pricked his conscience, or because he ground his own labouring classes in his wars, and someone had to drive the trains and sweep the streets. And even then he says “go home”, and you cast down your eyes because you are rooted to this soil, this toil and nowhere in the world are you not alien or heretic, like me.

You think the riches ripped and torn from the shoulders of your ancestors give you some rights in return? You think your sweat has earned you a place at his table? You think basic human decency grants you a right to live? You may have won your manumission, but in his eyes you have no personhood. Your difference is stamped in your skin, in the hook of your nose or the cast of your lips.

You point to your white friends and I point to a butter smear of gentility over the white bred slabs of their compatriots’ contempt. For every one that marries you, or takes you to their home, their hearth, their heart, whose soull really is a light unto the worls, I’ll show you two who seethe with cold resentment when they see you on their streets.

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You say that they have laws, and I ask show me the justice? When the red man claims his rights he is subjected to the full weight of the baton and the gun. When the white man claims his rights he is the hero standing up against oppression. This is his justice.

He led the world to war, called all the righteous up against Hitler, and we too fought and bled for that was just. But on his park he still bows to the statue of King Leopold who depopulated Congo, and nor was he alone. He writes the history that he chooses to teach.

Crime knows no colour or creed. All have the capacity to be good or to do evil. But when you do wrong you are the epitome of your race, it is in your blood to flout the law and break the social contract. When one of his does wrong he whitesplains: it is high jinx or some disorder of the mind, not something deep beneath his hall pass skin.

You say they made a black man chief, a brown man mayor and see how we now hold some offices of state. I turn over the page and show you all the vitriol and the hate and wager: see how long he keeps his seat before the bigot or the braying fiend displaces him.

Come my coloured brethren, let us bow our heads. Remember that the white folks won, and we will always be the spoils.

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