Prologue
Hello there. I am going to head right into pretending like Christmas didn’t end about a month or so ago. That being said, here we go:
Chapter 1
There’s nothing like the Christmas cheer. Forget about your financial woes; forget about our religious divides… Another end is here; another year has come to rot; and there is nothing like the Christmas cheer. The symbolism—the numerous symbolisms; most of them all inaccurate, yet them all—each and every feigned imagery—adding to the Christmas cheer! Take this tree for example—this pagan tree, uplifted in the West to the position of sacrosanct religious symbolism… Oh, you this Christmas tree adding to the Christmas cheer! The ecstasy you bring is better encapsulated in song. So, I present it here, butchered, yet poignant still, the age-old ode to the infamous tree:
O Christmas tree, o Christmas tree
Thy leaves are so unchanging
O Christmas tree, o Christmas tree
You’ll ever be unchanging
Each shining light, each silver bell
No one alive spreads cheer so well
O Christmas tree, o Christmas tree
You’ll ever be unchanging
O Christmas Tree, o Christmas Tree
How steadfast are your branches!
Your form inspires my song and rhyme
O Christmas Tree, o Christmas Tree
What happiness befalls me
O Christmas Tree, o Christmas Tree
Your boughs can teach a lesson
Adorning your formidable branches are ornaments of all shapes and sizes. Right there, hanging on your glorious branches are finials, figurines, sketchy angels and fraudulent White Jesuses, snowflakes, icicles, endless sparkling lights purging out darkness, and oh, the ball-shaped ornaments—the globes, the eggs… Those balls—all across the darn pagan tree! O Christmas Tree, you will indeed ever be unchanging!
Harness all the Christmas cheer you’ve got. Come with mother, father, daughter, son, extended family, friends… Come donning your best gear, wearing your best footwears; come clad in beaming smiles, bring along good foods and drinks too, meet us at the park, for on the nondescript tree yonder, we are going to hang a ball or two… A ball or two indeed!
Because isn’t the day just beautiful?! A beautiful day to hang another Black human by the neck… by the tree. All about that darn tree, a ball or two—a man or two. Women too? Certainly! Such a glorious day to hang another Black human being by the tree—by the neck. O Christmas Tree, o Christmas Tree. How steadfast are your branches!
Poverty’s Ugly Face
Some will go so far as to call Jefferson a rapist. Thomas Jefferson, that extremely well-read, seemingly well-meaning gentleman, the father of America’s freedom itself—the author of the Declaration of Independence, Mr. We-hold-these-truths-to-be-self-evident—a rapist?
I, for one, choose to spare him this very derogatory adjective today, and opt instead for a much tamer description—hypocrite. Hypocrisy may just be more like it, for it has been well-documented the fact that this highly-acclaimed champion of human rights and equality did in fact hold numerous slaves himself at a time when he decried that practice of human bondage. And it did not end there. There was also the matter of Sally Hemings… The Black woman with whom Jefferson had six children—the Black woman whom Jefferson (forcefully?) bedded several times. Sally would be out there in the cotton fields minding her own business, slaving away; bent over, her voluptuous African derrière in the American air, and Jefferson, liking what he saw—his mind on his crotch—he would call on Sally saying, “Say, Sally, I see that you ‘enjoy’ plucking ‘em cotton, why don’t you come on here and pluck my cotton…” [Oh, no, no, no I immediately regret this sentence—this metaphor; this attempt at euphemism. Metaphorically, it made little sense; phonetically, it ended very badly].
So, the story went, Mr. Jefferson—Mr. Freedom himself—third President of the majestic United States of America, an alleged rapist… Such stain—such filth smeared all across the Presidency! And that’s not even the end of it for those United States…
Oh, the American Presidency—ever so fraught with grimy salacious scandals. A very large chunk of these American Presidents, in one form or the other, perverts in their own right—in one form or the other, dirty serial womanisers; men marked by conscienceless infidelities—from FDR to JFK; from Lyndon Johnson, Clinton, all the way to unapologetic Trump. The list goes on.
The unfortunate JFK, for one, was before and during his Presidency known for his endless, inglorious dalliances. He was known to have had almost-orgies—right up there in that impeccably white White House. Kennedy, he would go skinny dipping in the White House swimming pool with his secretaries. Yes, wide in the open—with their darn wide-open buttocks. Mr. President—Mr. John Fitzgerald Kennedy—would let his johnson loose, and… splash, there he went in the pool, swimming deep.
Oh, Kennedy, he had been unscrupulous in his disrespect for his wife, and his office—particularly when the matter regarded his groin. And all this, he did with a bad back—ailed with chronic back pain as he had been the majority of his life. One can only imagine the depths he would have traversed had he been in the best of health.
The crippled FDR, that brilliant man, he… let’s just say that during his tenure he also found his way around—right at the heart of that same White House. In his case, it may just have been due to the fact that he found himself married to a lesbian—allegedly. I repeat, allegedly. But what the world knows for sure is that, on Roosevelt’s part, he did have extramarital visits—well, while his wife had hers. Again, allegedly.
It was the same and more for Lyndon Johnson. With a number of conscienceless infidelities under his belt, his wife, Lady Bird, would famously undergo a slimming course, begin re-working her wardrobe—start putting on them sexy formal wears—hoping to regain her husband’s attention. All without much success. Pardon me to say, but like John Kennedy, Johnson’s johnson had broken loose—and not even the pimped-up Bird could stop him.
Everyone knows about the infamous Clinton-Lewinsky mess, so we won’t bother going into that. But permit me to quickly comment that what we, perhaps, don’t know for sure is the fullest extent of the many of its kind perpetuated by Bill that has remained uncovered even in a post-Me-too America.
As noted, the list goes on. And we don’t have time to go through it all. But this tale of the filthy licentious American leader is a tale as old as time—a tale so long and established that Presidents who fall outside this grimy spectrum of unscrupulous womanising are almost given some sort of… side-eye. A bombastic, suspicious side-eye.
Take Lincoln, for example. That tall, handsome, brilliant man of a President, Abraham Lincoln… Blessed as he was in looks as he was with books, how was this great man able to exercise such self-restraint?! He must have been gay, mustn’t he? I am not the one alleging this. Some historians and observers of history, they have been unnecessarily loud in their suspicion of Lincoln. Riding on certain baseless, un-peculiar facts, they have attempted the conclusion that Abraham Lincoln might have just been a homosexual. And I, for one, don’t think their reasons lie only in that which they allege—those baseless, un-peculiar facts—but rather, in the fact that this man showed a level of self-restraint in the course of his life and Presidency, perhaps never before seen in another American leader. For a man with such power—a leader of such a massive nation—not to have gotten himself up in the mud… oh, he must indeed have been gay!
[It’s mighty sad when ‘good’ finds itself being the peculiar one, isn’t it? But that’s beside the point. Let’s move on].
This is all so telling. Firstly, the fact that such filth can be allowed to fester for so long. Secondly, the fact that no one has successfully disputed these men’s greatness as leaders. No one has sought to and succeeded in stripping Kennedy of the greatness he achieved in his short span of leadership, even though he was ‘famed’ to have treated the White House like a brothel—the whole darn time he was there. The world has not been total in its posthumous indictment of Jefferson—it sure did nothing about it when Jefferson was alive, and well, and in office. This is all so telling because here we are, sitting in 1860 through to 1950 United States of America ready to hang this Black man by that morbid tree—for daring to talk to a White lady. Strange.
Strange Fruits
- Doubting Thomas
We, men, are always falling into trouble. It’s about time we, all men, spread worldwide, gathered and asked ourselves, “Who at all has tasked us with this duty of ‘cheerleaders?!” Eh? That whenever we, women, are walking about, all we constantly hear, abruptly coming from nowhere, are these men, standing by the road-side, sitting in their cars, perched atop construction sites, cheering us on, calling on us: “Ahuof3!” “Ohemaa!” “Empress!”, “Sssssss!”
Oftentimes these cheerleaders—these men—are completely ignored, but that has never been enough to discourage us. Eh, who at all has sent us all?!
I hate to be the one to inform you, but it was this same “sssssss!” that landed Thomas Miles on this tree, on this fateful evening. Date: 9th of April, 1912. Just like Jesus, yet another man of Black ancestry mercilessly sent to his death by a tree (or its offshoot). For absolutely no reason at all—it’s April after all.
But it wasn’t precisely for the crime of catcalling that the White folk hanged Thomas, was it? No. You see, it was because Thomas dared to go the extra mile—he wrote a letter. A letter to a White lady.
According to the newspapers, this is how the matter unfolded:
During the very first week of April 1912, it got to the police’s attention that one Thomas Miles and his friend, Sandy McIntyre, were caught right in the act of attempting to woo a White lady or two—Thomas Miles had been carrying a letter in hand, and Sandy, love intentions in mind, both with White ladies as intended recipients. And there was no denying this, because right there in Thomas’ hands, sat those words, spelt out in ink—it was a proposal intended for a White woman; a letter inviting her on a date. Let’s go for a cold drink—or something along those lines. The audacity! Thomas could explain taya. Here it was spelt out in black and white—evidence! Right there in his Black hands.
So then, prison, right? Did someone say, ‘prison’? Absolute nonsense! Ah, but this wasn’t a crime for prison now. For a Black man in 20th century southern America, imprisonment was almost too fanciful a punishment. Of course, Thomas and Sandy had to die for this.
Naturally, the only way to save these two was silence—no one ought to hear about this matter…
Too late. Word had already gotten out; the White public was mad; and the police, they knew this. They were frightful of inciting an uprising in their quarters, for no sooner had this arrest been made than a White mob was sure to gather at the police station, demanding instant justice (injustice) for these two. So, what do these policemen do? They released these two the following day, with an assurance that they were going to investigate further, this ‘charge’ brought against them.
Unbeknownst to the police, the White mob had already gathered—hiding all around the station—awaiting these two men. Thomas takes the back gate; Sandy takes the front. Thomas isn’t lucky for he falls right into the trap of these White folks. We do not know for certain the fate that befell Sandy, although there were speculations that the same fate that befell Thomas befell him.
The fate that befell Thomas:
The White folks, they followed Thomas all the way to his room—his pool room—waited for him to go to sleep, then they grabbed him, gagged him, bound him, dragged him out of his house unto an empty field. Right there in the open fields stood a majestic oak tree…
There you go… Beat Thomas till you tire out—all of you, brutally exhausted.
After the White folk had exhausted themselves beating Thomas, they took him by the neck, hung a noose around it, and by that oak tree, they stifled the last few breaths he had left, right out of him. We do not know for sure whether the shooting came before, during, or after the hanging, but what we do know is the fact that poor Thomas’ body was found at the end of it all, not just brutally beaten, fatally hanged, but interestingly, also shot multiple times. That’s almost too much killing.
Thomas was a married man, but of course, the White folk didn’t know or care for this detail. It wasn’t the crime of infidelity they had against him—it was merely because he had dared to carry a note intended for a White lady requesting of her, a date.
Thomas was a successful businessman—that was his first offence. A Black man in 20th century America going about writing notes; going about, able to write notes; educated—that was his second offence. A Black man in 1912 America daring to have a family; a well-catered for family—that was his third offence. A negro with a pool-room—ah, the audacity.
His widow and 6-year-old son woke up to find their husband and father gone. Someone else’s child had, while going for a play in the park perhaps, uncovered the body of Thomas dangling on that oak tree. An image like that… that was for the Black child of 1860 – 1950 America, a totally normal image to stumbled upon.
So, this child, he runs to inform the town.
Oh, one sure does pray for comeuppance for their cheating spouses. There’s absolutely no need doubting Thomas here, because really who knows what his intention was, asking for this date—and at this morbid point, who cares what it was, really.
Yes, one sure does pray for comeuppance for their cheating spouses. And even if Thomas intended to be one (i.e., a cheating spouse) with this note of his, never would Mrs. Miles have dreamt that her husband’s comeuppance be that he be found hanging by a tree, mercilessly killed for having the balls to pass a White lady a note—whatever his intention was. Oh, by God, never had she dreamt that he be rendered dead so brutally and unceremoniously—leaving her to take care of their infant child.
Fearing for her life and that of her 6-year-old son, she took him, and together, they fled the South, leaving behind their business and livelihood—heading for the North to start life all over again. Fled a world that rewards one successful cheating man with the Presidency, and the unsuccessful one, death by hanging.
Thomas, Just Another Day
But this was all so normal, wasn’t it? There wasn’t anything particularly striking about Thomas’ case was there? Again, during the period between 1860 and 1950, lynching of Black folks was the order of the day. The Equal Justice Initiative (EJI) does such a profound work of documenting in detail—as much as possible—these many instances of lynchings. They estimate that during that 90-year period, a total of 4,084 of such mob lynchings were conducted by White America against Blacks. Forgive this wacky maths, but that’s like 45 random lynchings each year.
In fact, in the span of just 3 years—from the year 1868 to 1871—400 Black folks had been lynched in the country. And there was no science or math to it—offences were oftentimes decided on the spot, at whim, outside legal stipulations. For the sake of the Black folk, new, vague offences were cooked up by the White folk each passing day.
Eii, you didn’t show enough respect when you encountered a White person? “Herh, w’ombu ade3 w’ahu?!” Lynching! This early morning, you are out here, just walking about? That is vagrancy. Lynching! I told you to step off that sidewalk. You didn’t do it fast enough, so… Lynching.
As for you de3, these three White ladies claim they felt like you were trying to enter their room. Why were you knocking on their door? No need to explain. Keith Bowen, take your lynching!
It is 1894, look at this Black man, William Brooks coming with his big shoes, daring to ask his White boss for his daughter’s hand in marriage. Mister Brooks, there goes your lynching.
It is 1904 and a Black man named General Lee has attempted to knock on a White woman’s door—that’s not a metaphor or euphemism by the way. The negro essentially just knocked on a door. Lynching for you too, Lee!
It is 1940 and Jesse Thornton addresses a White police officer without adding the title ‘Mister’. Eii, Mister Jesse—bue! Take your lynching, eh.
You are in a rash to catch a train in 1916 America and you accidentally bump into a White lady? And oh, by the way you’re Black. Jeff Brown, of course you go down with a lynching too!
You had the audacity of going so far as to sue a White person? As for you de3 your lynching will be double-double.
Now, this is all so confusing. It is the year 1901 and this Black man William Crutchfield has allegedly found a lost wallet containing 120 dollars. See, Crutchfield kept the money. And so, we grabbed him, and naturally, were headed to hang him. But the negro just broke free. Oh, Willy! This is just exhausting—here we are at his home, and the negro isn’t here. But wait, who goes there? Oh, that’s Ballie Crutchfield. His sister. Oh, what the hell, you know how the saying goes: all Crutchfield be Crutchfield. Just catch her. We’ll lynch her in his stead. Hands bound to her back, Ballie is shot and killed and dumped in a creek. This is all so confusing.
Mister Eddy, this White woman claims you raped her… It’s 1906, and a Black man, Edward Johnson, is falsely accused of raping a White woman. Naturally, an all-White jury sentences him to death. On appeal, God works a bizarre miracle and this Black man is granted a stay of execution. Of course, the Southern White folk did not like this. So of course, they storm the jailhouse in which he is held, drag him into the street, his insistence on his innocence falling on deaf ears, they hang him, and as though to kill his soul, go the extra mile of shooting hundreds of bullets through him. Oh, they return his body to the jail with a note addressed to the adjudicating judge pinned on him saying, “To Justice Harlan. Come get your nigger now.” Years later, Edward was to be posthumously ruled innocent indeed. Ah, but what the hell…
And this hell, it really isn’t the full picture, is it? I mean, this, as noted, just covers some 90 years of USA’s history. This covers just ONE country—and in fact, just a portion of this country, the South. In the treasure trove of tortures meted out to the Black folk, spanning centuries, spreading across the entire world—from Africa to the Americas, the Caribbean to Europe—this is just a tip of the iceberg. In fact, an-often-ignored tip of the iceberg.
This wasn’t war—this wasn’t like WWI or II. This was sheer monstrosity even in peacetime. Unlike WWI or II this wasn’t a disturbance lasting a mere four-year period. This was evil spanning entire centuries—four centuries of slavery; a century of colonialism, and even more centuries of neo-colonialism.
Indeed, this was centuries upon centuries of pure, monstrous torture, rape—rape of human and natural resource capital. All perpetuated during otherwise peaceful times. From slavery to colonialism; from racialism to neo-colonialism—centuries of unadulterated devilish torture.
Outro: Blood Money and Sticky Fingers
The Germans, they surely did not hear right, did they? Did someone say, 132 billion gold marks? Surely, that must be a mistake, mustn’t it? Except it was not. The Allies, they were serious about this: US$33 billion, being then in their currency (German currency) 132 billion gold marks, that is exactly how much the German nation was charged to pay as reparations for this war (WWI)—a war of which, note, they hadn’t been initiators, but like the rest of the warring parties, enablers. US$33 billion, that was non-negotiable, the Allies, represented by the ‘Big Three’—Britain, France, and USA—they insisted. And that wasn’t even all…
The Germans, they bled both money and human resource capital to pay this reparation imposed on them by the victors of war—the Allies. 92 long years. That’s how long it took for the Germans to finally settle this debt. Just some 13 years ago—in 2010—the Germans made their final instalment payment under this Treaty. Because the Caucasian will never suffer themselves a fool nor a victim. All wrongs done to them must always be paid for in full—even in instances where they are just as complicit as their purported perpetrator(s).
Indeed, what kind of world have we created where one group of people can help incite a war, and come out of it with compensation for damages suffered; while another group can find themselves, even in peacetimes, dealt a bad hand, as though at war—yet receive diddly-squat at the end of it? Four years of warring, as against four hundred years of slavery (plus a century of colonialism, and even more centuries of neo-colonialism) … Yet, no monetary sorries given us. Strange.
*****
Harness all the Christmas cheer you’ve got. Come with mother, father, daughter, son, extended family, friends… Come donning your best gear, wearing your best footwears; come clad in beaming smiles, bring along good foods and drinks too, meet us at the park, for on the nondescript tree yonder, we are going to hang a ball or two… A ball or two indeed! Yes indeed, sometimes, the 20th century American Southerner, they organised these lynchings as picnics… Attended by feasting families—children inclusive.
And we’ll attend one of those picnics next week.
Author’s Info:
https://muckrack.com/yao-afra-yao
LinkedIn: Yao Afra Yao
ATTEMPTED PROPHECIES
The writer is a writer. And this sentence is circular
