We, the Enslaved

By Okachi Nyeche Kpalukwu

Rufus Emekuku is a university professor of African and African Diaspora studies. While interacting with his students, he senses disunity among the African and African-American students on campus, which he traces back to the damage inflicted by slavery and colonialism. He believes that these are the sources of the disconnection of Africans in the

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book Savvy International Inc.
• Release date: Apr 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9798891900523

Book preview

Chapter 1

Muted Questions

Professor Rufus Emekuku walked into his classroom hugging a stack of newspapers and looking quite unlike himself. The classroom was unusually noisy and disheveled, but the loud noises the students made were dampened by the rough weather outside. Upon seeing the professor, however, the class went into a semi-frenzy mood, as students scampered to get to their seats, amid shuffling their feet and shifting the desks and talking loudly still. Some students immediately sensed the professor’s unusual disposition and acted accordingly to avoid his, sometimes, intimidating stare at them, but others noticed nothing or cared not. Then, suddenly, silence stole their voices and kept it, as more students continued to sneak into the classroom in tiptoe to their various seats. As was his custom every morning, and as if it were too heavy for him to carry, the professor tossed the stack of The Washington Post newspapers he was carrying across his desk, as one would a single copy. Then he removed his glasses, deposited them carefully atop his desk, and then sat down gingerly, as usual, at the edge of his desk, facing the students—his lanky body bent like a bow, his dark-brown eyes darting here and there and seeming scarcely amused by the students’ sudden scramble for seats.

It was a cold winter morning—one of those that normally induced lateness in everyone—and more and more students were still leisurely strolling into the classroom and unconsciously using up the class time. Those who were unaware of the professor’s presence in the classroom while they were entering it shivered noisily from the cold weather, for it was bone-chilly outside! Although the classroom was well-heated and comforting as a fine refuge from a grumpy Mother Nature, it was not totally protective, or so it seemed, to the taste of every student in the class, as the pangs of the chilly wind on the walls of the building could still be heard inside. It was threatening and harsh, to say the least. As such, some students still wore their winter hats, while others had on still their heavy winter coats and jackets. Some joked loudly with their friends about the severe weather as they rushed into the classroom, but their friends merely nodded in agreement and then nudged them to attention, especially upon seeing the professor seated, somewhat loathingly, at his usual spot, as he waited patiently for everyone to settle down and for the population of the class to grow to his desired quorum.

When he was sure that those who wished to brave the weather that day were there, and that those who were not there yet may never come, he cleared his throat and spoke with all seriousness.

How many of you have read the papers this morning? For a second or two, no one spoke. The students merely looked on as the professor stared back at them, seeming in utter amazement. Then, suddenly, one brave soldier spoke.

Did we have to? I mean…is it a required reading?

No, replied the professor bluntly.

"Phew! sighed the student as if relieved, I thought I missed that one!"

No, Mr. Childs, you did not miss any assignment, assured the professor. It was not an assignment, he added. Now, he asked again, how many of you read a paper, any newspaper, this week? Again, for several seconds, no one spoke. Then, as if intent on breaking the deafening silence, the professor interjected. How many of you read a paper, any newspaper at all, this month?

Were we required to give a report or something? another student inquired.

No, replied the professor.

Then why are you asking?

Just curious, replied the professor.

Oh, said the probing student. Does the Internet count, continued the same student.

Why? Did you read the news on the Internet? inquired the professor.

No, but I browsed through one, replied the student.

But you didn’t read it.

No, I won’t lie, I didn’t, replied the student. With all the assignments we get, who has time to read newspapers nowadays? he continued.

Yeah, injected another student, especially when you can hear all the news read live on television.

So you let the television read the news for you instead of reading it yourself? scorned the professor.

Doesn’t everyone do that? inquired the previous student.

And you call yourselves students, students who let the television read for them…what good are such students? scorned the professor further. Anyway, let’s leave it at that, continued the professor. I have my reasons for asking you this question this morning.

Oh, I get it, roared a student sitting at the back of the classroom, laughing, as his classmates looked on, unsure of what their loud-mouthed classmate was about to say.

What did you get, Mr. Aturo? inquired the professor.

Are you meaning to say: If we don’t get it, we don’t get it? he said, laughing even louder at this time. And with that comment, he brought down the house, as they say, as every student in the classroom quickly joined in celebrating his smart brevity, which, of course, is the slogan of The Washington Post newspaper, which reads: If you don’t get it, you don’t get it.

No, Mr. Aturo, that was not what I meant when I asked the question, replied the professor, laughing along with the students. But now that you have linked them, I guess that I can now make the case or take the liberty to say that that is exactly what I meant. Yes, indeed, if you don’t read the news yourself but let others read it for you, then obviously you don’t get it. I believe I can say that now. Do you know why?

Why? a student inquired.

Because it baffles me, replied the professor. "It baffles me to know that you students wait for the news to be read to you before you know what is going on in the world. It baffles me to hear that you students are not curious enough to seek the truth beyond what others tell you. And what that does, if you ask me, is make you easy prey for deception, a pun of the society you live in. Anyhow, so much for that!

Another reason why I asked you this question this morning, continued the professor, "was because I wanted to know how many of you have read an article in The Washington Post today. That article concerns Africans born on the continent but now live in the United States. I was hoping that all or some of you had read it, and I wanted to know what you, all of you, thought about the article."

What does it say, professor? demanded James Aturo.

What does what say, Mr. Aturo?

The article, replied James.

Why don’t you find out yourself, Mr. Aturo? replied the professor jokingly. If someone were nice enough to find you a husband or a wife, would you also insist that he or she should show you how to sleep with him or her, Mr. Aturo? Almost all the students in the classroom laughed at this remark, except James, who, obviously, did not understand the adage.

What do you mean, professor? asked James.

I have told you what the article is all about and where to find it, right?

Yes, sir, replied James.

Then why should I not believe that each of you would leave this classroom and speedily run to the periodicals section of the school’s library or even purchase one copy of the newspaper yourself, which costs next to nothing, and read about it. Or better yet, read it on the web, replied the professor. Come to think of it, said the professor after looking at his watch and sensing that the class period was winding down, "why don’t we make reading the article our next assignment? To simplify things, I have some copies of The Washington Post here on my desk; you can each pick up a copy as you leave. And then we will hear each of your comments on the article tomorrow morning," he said, shaking his head and looking gravely worried still, as each student stopped by his desk, picked up a copy of the newspaper, and exited the classroom.

And that was all the professor said that day before he dismissed the class, seeming still in shock at the carefree attitudes of the students on world affairs.

The next day, however, as the professor had anticipated, the students were armed with thoughts and ready to discuss the newspaper article, and their fretfulness showed in their radiant faces. And so the moment the professor slammed his newspapers on his desk and, as usual, sat down at the edge of his desk facing the class, a student stood up and asked: Professor, why do Africans born on the continent act as if they are superior to Africans born in the Diaspora?

Did you read that from the article? asked the professor.

No, sir, replied the student.

Did someone say it here in the classroom this morning?

No, sir,

Can you summarize the content of the article in a few words? demanded the professor.

I believe I can do that, sir.

Then go ahead.

Well, in a nutshell, the article says ‘newly-arrived African immigrants are well-educated, thriving, and living the America dream.’

Does that indicate ‘superiority’ over Africans born in the Diaspora or over anyone for that matter?

No, sir.

Then where did that remark come from?

Somewhere, I guess….

But not from the article.

No…not from the article; in fact, my question has nothing to do with the article, replied the student.

Nothing? asked the professor, somewhat relieved that he had not inadvertently stepped on the land mine of what he had always suspected to be a fermenting but latent, muted questions of racism and discrimination at the Beke University campus community.

Yes, sir, nothing, replied the student.

And why do you suppose they act that way? I mean, how did you come to that conclusion?

By the way they carry themselves and talk down on you sometimes, replied the student.

How? queried the professor further.

Perhaps because their ancestors were not enslaved like ours were, replied the student.

Who told you their ancestors were not enslaved?

Well…isn’t it true?

To some extent…yes, but not totally true, said the professor. And if I may ask, he continued, how do they act? Or, rather, how do they show it?

By acting like peacocks on campus! someone shouted from the back of the class, and the whole class roared with laughter.

This is a serious matter, not a joke! blared the stern-looking professor. In other words, if I understand you clearly, pursued the professor, they tend to show off.

Yes, sir, something like that, agreed some of the students.

Show off what, though? How? asked the professor. What do they have to show? What are they showing off? And to whom are they showing off? he persisted.

Who knows? shrugged the student.

But you must know; you must know something, insisted the professor. Otherwise, it will not bother you or anyone else.

But I don’t know, sir, replied the same student. Honestly, I don’t know why they act that way, he affirmed.

You see, young man, said the professor in a somewhat somber tone, and this goes for all of you as well, he said, waving his fingers across the class. It is never wise to scratch a beautiful face, a wise man on my village once said, especially if you know that the scar will remain in that face forever! You know why?

No, sir, replied the student.

Well, let me share with you, my brother, said the professor, as the rest of the students looked on. "First of all, despite what you think they may have done to you, because I believe that false historical information that was fed you long ago has a lot to do with your attitudes toward them, and despite what you may have against them, what I heard today are not nice things to say about anyone, let alone your own blood relatives! Whether you know it or not, my brother, once you scratch a beautiful face, and if the mark is deep enough, the scar will never go away; and the reason that scar chose to remain on that face is to always remind the face of the one who made it ugly! That is why it is never a good idea to scratch a beautiful face. You see, my brother, continued the professor, what we human beings tend to forget is that whatever the mind cannot forget, it was the eyes which first saw it and refused to forget! The mind merely records what the eyes see. Your remarks today, in my humble opinion, my brothers and sisters, continued the professor, are neither brotherly nor are they sisterly. The people you are talking about are your own brothers and sisters. Granted, despite all the odds against them, they always appear proud, happy, and elegant—and so should you, always, despite all the odds against you!

But it is more than that, continued the professor. "Let me put it another way, my brothers and sisters, and, please, listen to me carefully, for what I am telling you now is the parable of our people, not something I made up. You see, a monkey in the forest heard a loud noise and soon realized that it was a huge tree which had fallen. Instinctively, the monkey burst out laughing and cajoling and mocking the fallen tree. What the monkey did not know, however, was that it was its own house which had fallen!

Now, if I may venture to ask, insisted the professor, do you prefer that they come off timid and unsure of whom they are? I mean, would that have been a much-preferred way for them to behave? Isn’t the way they are, naturally, telling you something about who you are, naturally? Am I missing something here? he muttered quietly as he seemed to search for answers in everyone’s face, and when none was forthcoming, he continued. But can they be who they are not? Is that really possible, even though in the eyes of the rest of the world the odds are stacked heavily against them as Africans? he queried serenely, searchingly. Have you forgotten who they are, who you are? Are they not the descendants of Queens and Kings and Sultans and Onis and Obis and Igwes and Ezes and Emirs and Pharoahs and Amayanogbos and Chiefs, as well as holders of numerous befitting titles—men and women of great powers and untold means!? And are you not cut from the same tree as they are? Each of you? Why, then, would they carry themselves with less dignity? Less swagger? Less pride? Oh, I see, teased the animated professor, "maybe because darkness suddenly came upon the eyes and a once busy and revered highly became a bushy path! Yet, Africa remains! And her people keep on thriving and surviving!

Do you not see yourselves in them? he cried. "Do they not see themselves in you? In the way you sing? In the way you dance? In the way you smile? In the way you laugh and remain cheerful and resourceful even amid chronic suffering? What, then, is the fuss over nothing? What is this insensate murmuring all about?

"And if it is not this, then it will be something else, besides muttering ‘they stink’…yes, ‘stink’ is the exact word I heard one of you say besides the comedic invocation of the Richard Pryor’s ‘thank you slavery’ epithet and thinking that everyone is laughing! But not everyone is laughing! At least not those of us who still see Africa as our Motherland and all black men and women as our brethren, irrespective of our poverty, irrespective of our backwardness as a people! Perhaps you thought I didn’t hear it, but I heard it clearly and kept quiet. What is this hatred for your own blood relatives all about? Where is it coming from?" demanded the seemingly troubled professor. At this time, none of the students ventured to say anything, for the professor’s stance had suddenly changed. Although none of the reasons the students gave in support of their claim, in his estimation, made any sense, he was willing to consider them as serious rather than total nonsense.

For a moment, however, the professor did not know what else to say to the students, for the sort of questions they were asking him was unexpected and unrelated to the article he had shared with them, but, as he later revealed to the university newspaper, not totally unanticipated, for he was quite aware of the politics of racism and discrimination that was rampant in American colleges and university campuses, and even amongst African peoples scattered all over the world, as the latter struggle to retrace their path back to their ancestral homeland. What choked him to tears a few days later, however, recalled the professor in the aforementioned article, was seeing an elderly African woman seated at a street corner near the Metrorail Station at Silver Spring, Maryland—and with arms stretched to passers-by for alms. Even though the professor had dismissed the student’s question as mere sibling bigotry and told the student so in front of the class, he was troubled by the source of such lopsided hypocrisy, as he later called it, and now he was face-to-face with a dumfounding reality that would, perhaps, haunt him for a long time. He looked at the woman in front of him and then reflected on the question the innocent and unbeknownst student had asked him in class just a day earlier. The facts, in his mind, did not add up, he had intimated to the campus newspaper. He dismissed the class that day without meaningfully responding to the first student’s question but promised to pick up on the question when next the class meets.

Now, as a matter of character, Professor Emekuku was a straight talker, a maverick of sort. He was always candid with his students and was never one to mince his words. As one student put it, he seemed to have a ready answer to any question, and hardly gave himself time to think or maul over a question, no matter how insignificant or important. His lectures were that way, too, —straight and without unnecessary detours. And when he was not lecturing, he was laughing and making jokes with his students, which was why he seemed to be very much liked and appreciated by every one of us."

A good percentage of his students hinted to the campus newspaper that the professor relished much in having a lively conversation with them, instead of lecturing them all the time. And the article in question confirmed that the professor’s popularity went beyond the confines of the classroom, as he was also talked about in the same praise-singing manner in the surrounding communities as a good-natured human being. Nevertheless, one pervasive, unmistakable fact was that while some of his students benefited from his playful nature as well as his maverick style of pedagogy and thanked him for it, others harvested it for their own insidious gains, and the results were not always good.

Chapter 2

What Superiority?

A few, long days after he had prematurely dismissed the class, the professor found himself still wrestling with the question the student had asked him in class, for it was, in his words, shameful and unsettling that "an African, no matter what hue, no matter what class, and no matter what geographical location, should harbor such an un-brotherly and un-sisterly attitude for a fellow black man or woman anywhere, amid what they had gone through in life as a group! Now, sighed the professor, nothing could be farther from the truth," as he looked at the elderly African woman begging on the streets of Maryland.

What superiority? he thought to himself as he stood transfixed at the spot—a short distance from where the African woman stood—just enough to gather his senses and to reflect upon the juxtaposition of fact and fiction. True, muttered the professor loudly to himself, "they were not physically enslaved. True, they had never been stripped of some of their values as one can say of their brethren in the Diaspora. And true, they value their blackness and would not exchange it for anything else no matter what, just as any proud black man or woman anywhere would not. But, superior! How? Why? Why such divisive, heavily-loaded, meaningless word? he agonized. What superiority, he continued, if, in reality, and as is known to be the case in many respects, they had undergone the same level of dehumanization at the hands of the white man as those of their brethren who were captured, sold or stolen and shipped across the sea? And what’s so ‘superior,’ the professor murmured to himself again and again, about voluntarily leaving one’s continent, one’s birth place, due to joblessness, hunger, war, and endemic power failures at home, he pouted, to be enslaved, literally, and to constantly live in indignity in another!? What is this idiotic murmur and self-hate hobnobbing all about?" he sulked. He then walked a short distance closer and observed closely the agony of the elderly woman. He tried to make sense of the whole thing, but no good idea came to mind. No one passing by seemed to mind the woman, and no one even looked at her or seemed to notice her presence. For a while, the bewildered professor felt as if he were the only one seeing the woman, and that everyone passing by was oblivious of her presence. And to make matters worse, the woman spoke her native tongue, or what sounded like it, and mixed it up awkwardly with the little pidgin English or Creole that she could muster. Yet, despite her desperate effort to make eye-contact with passersby, no one paid her any attention and, indeed, thought the professor, no one can be blamed for pacing by under treacherous weather, as the evening was windy and cold. And so people merely whisked by her, as everyone was hurrying to get home and to get out of worsening-by-the-minute weather.

When the professor could no longer bear watching the woman’s agony, he gathered himself and walked up to her. The woman saw him and immediately stretched her aged, wrinkled, black arm. The professor’s immediate reaction was to give her some money and walk away. And that was exactly what he did instinctively. He gave her a five-dollar bill, which was the only cash he had in his pocket and, as expected of a truly needy, begging, desperate human being, the old woman bowed and thanked him profusely for it. But the professor was not happy with what he saw, and neither was he satisfied with what he had done for the woman. His conscience could only let him take about two or three more steps away from the elderly woman. Within seconds, he returned to her—mainly to find out who she was and why she had decided to bring shame to all superior Africans living in the United States!

Why are you doing this, woman? he asked her. Why are you on the street, begging? The old lady murmured something about medicine and pointed towards a nearby Rite Aide Pharmacy store near the East-West Highway in Downtown, Silver Spring, which was near where they were at the time. But the professor could not make out what she was saying. He insisted that she tell him what was ailing her, why she was begging, and how he could help her. But the woman would not speak further. Meanwhile the wind was unrelenting and the cold, windy weather was slowly turning into a mild snow drizzle as the aged woman shook and shivered with cold. Evening was creeping in fast, yet the professor would not give up on the woman. When the woman finally realized that the professor would not go away unless he got an answer, she decided to talk. She told him that she had been at the Pharmacy to buy medicine for her aching body. No one warned her not to take the medicine on an empty stomach, which was exactly what she had done. And now she was hungry and desperate for food and had no money with which to buy it. Without bothering to know more, the professor helped her up and they walked into Einstein Bros Bagels, a corner deli. She didn’t know the menu and didn’t know what to order, so the professor did the ordering and paid with is debit card; they sat and talked while the food was being prepared.

So where are your children? asked the professor.

Children? I have none, replied the old woman dismissively, arousing the professor’s suspicion.

What do you mean?

No, no children she said, shaking her head back and forth.

Are you in this country alone?

Yes. Refugee.

Oh, you came as a refugee?

Yes, I am a refugee.

What country?

Sierra Leone.

And you came alone?

Yes.

You mean you never had children?

Five. Yes, I had five children. Three boys and two girls, she said and showed him her five fingers. She then went further to dig out some shriveled group photograph of all her five children and her husband and herself from her tiny, black purse.

And where are they now? asked the professor.

Dead…all my children are dead, she said, sobbing and wiping her tears from the tail of her lapper. Rebel army killed all my children and all my grandchildren, too. One by one they killed them in front of me. They cut their hands, cut their legs, cut their heads, and mutilated their body right in front of me. They also killed my husband and raped my two granddaughters in front of me before they killed them—that I will never forget! That rape! They killed my daughters and their husbands and children. I told them to kill me, but they would not. They let me live. Why? Why? What for? What am I living for? she cried. They killed all my relatives and almost everyone in my neighborhood and burned down our houses, too. I have tried many times to kill myself, but each time I have failed. So I am here poor and unhappy. They killed my spirit when they killed everything I ever loved. Now there is nothing else in my life to love. Nothing else for me to appreciate…. Just as she finished uttering those agonizing, very-hard-to-utter sentences, her number was called and the professor went to the cashier to collect the food for her. She ate quickly and silently, while she ate, she did not make eye-contact with the professor, and the professor did not bother but merely glanced at her while concentrating on his newspaper.

After she had finished eating, she drank some coffee and then began to sob again, this time loudly, arousing the attention of other customers and passersby. But the professor calmed her down. After she became calm, she walked to the professor’s side of the table to give him a kiss on his chick and a hug as well. The professor didn’t know what to make of these rituals, but he did not complain or object, for he understood that the old woman believed wholeheartedly that he had saved her life. She then sat back down and for a while the two did not utter a word. They just sat there and looked at each another, she, perhaps, not knowing what else to say, he, perhaps, seeming simply to enjoy her presence and feeling the thrill of having helped someone in dire need.

The woman looked beautiful, even in old age, and the professor could not help noticing her beauty while imagining how she must have looked in her prime. The professor could not help adducing that depression and hardship may have also aided in speeding up the pace of her aging, and in some subtle way, it showed. She was black as a freshwater stream—a term of endearment—as they say in Ikwerre, the professor’s native tongue, about someone whose skin was jet-black in complexion. Her teeth were pure white and agape in the middle. She wore multi-colored African attire, uniform lapper and head-tie. She also wore sandals that were almost brand-new and, unfortunately, unsuitable for the western winter weather! And to worsen matters, she wore no winter coat. She spoke lightly, with a voice so shrill you can barely make out what she was saying. It was during this getting-to-know-you moment that Professor Emekuku suddenly realized that the woman spoke good English, not just Creole, and was merely faking her accent, just to secure some alms. He could converse with her without strain, if only he lent her his ears, he gathered.

What is your name?

Rufus Emekuku.

What do you do, Mr. Eme-ku-lu?

Emekuku—yes, I teach; I’m a teacher, replied the professor.

No wonder, she said and smiled.

Why do you say that?

Do you know how long I had been sitting there? asked the woman, as she gazed searchingly and directly at the professor’s eyes, her chin pointed at him, too. "No one minded me until you came along. While I was sitting there, I waved my arms at blacks, whites, yellows, Africans, African Americans, and Latinos. But no one paid me mind, except you. And you did it, I know now, because you are a teacher. Teachers are good people. I always admired teachers, even when I was a child. And I always will. They are kind, and they are inspiring to me. They have a soul, at least, unlike the rest of society. And they are going to heaven to meet God—every one of them! And I know it. I know also that they are doing God’s work here on earth! I just wish they were compensated more by society for all the good work that they do.

If you ask me, she continued as the professor looked on, speechless, leaders and lawmakers across the world should be ashamed of themselves. Teachers taught them all that they know. But when they become whatever they are, they forget the ones who taught them all that they know. They pay them nothing that will earn them a decent living. Some, if not all of them, even have to do extra jobs on the side just to survive!

Wow, woman! said the professor. Those are nice things to say! I wish my colleagues were here to hear you say them!

Well…you tell them, said the old woman, shaking her head in approval of what she had just said. Tell them what I said because I mean them. I mean everything I am saying to you now, my son. Write a book about it and tell the world my pain. You may wonder how I came to know that teachers are not paid well, but, if you must know, my husband was one. I remember how much we struggled every month to make ends meet. Teachers teach change; they teach to change the world for the better, but they are paid change…mere change, if you ask me! she said and winked amiably at the professor like one whose good nature was returning after an unfortunate interval of misery.

That is a fact, not a myth, my son, she continued. "I married my husband not because I loved him so much initially or because he was so rich. No, that was not why I married him. I married him because I loved his brain and his profession first, and then I grew to love him, too. Most of the people he taught in school, unfortunately, were and are still the ones ruining Sierra Leone today; they are the ones that plotted to kill him, succeeded in killing him, and then ruined our family, just because of his beliefs—beliefs that are nothing short of