By Faith Haushona-Kavamba
ON some Friday evenings, when I have had one too many glasses of Merlot, way past my bed time, in the company of my girlfriends, I become a hypnotic connoisseur in the art of dancing calypso.
See when I was younger, before all these pies and homemade pasta dishes I make caught up with me, I could belly dance better than any Caribbean goddess.
With the looming threat of a potbelly even in my younger years, I dedicated myself to mastering various dance form, so much so I became known as Shakira in high school. You laugh now, but it is true, go to my old high school and they will tell you.
Anyway, the point is whenever I am inebriated, with all these hips, thighs (and a potbelly that does not discriminate against pies) I revert back to that person.
I still want to belly dance and calypso like I have a flat tummy and can squeeze back into my size 30 jeans. It’s cute, albeit painful when it hits me that I have a couple hundred boot camp classes to hit before I can get back there.
Unfortunately, some of my friends do not have the same issues when they have had one too many. In fact, they become anything from Rambo impersonators, homicidal maniacs, and in extreme cases can become racist, xenophobic, separatist figments of themselves.
Now I know that there has been much talk about whether black people are capable of being racist or not. I may not agree with certain sentiments on the matter but I can respect them. However I will resort to being a drunken belly-dancer sooner than I will resort to being racist.
The problem I find is that the internal war waging between the two schools of thought on the matter seeming to be spilling out externally and not sparing anyone in its path.
I found myself profusely apologising to a companion of fairer skin recently because one of my close friends had a homicidal fiend residing within him who nearly got into a physical altercation my companion merely because of his skin colour.
I pondered and asked how my friend could think how this new person could be worse than hiss predecessors but all he could tell me was how his skin colour and his ancestors made him unfortunate casualty of war, although he personally had not committed any crimes against black people that we know of.
Initially he blamed his actions on the fact that he was inebriated, but they say drunken words are a sober man’s thoughts and he admitted to generally disliking white people.
I have an older brother who looks so mulatto most people question whether we are related or not. I have an Afro-Asian nephew, who sometimes resembles his Owambo grandmother with his cute button nose and on other days looks like a little Asian boy who has been transplanted into Africa.
I can’t help but worry and constantly fear for them. I fear that someday, someone who thinks like my friend decides to get even with them merely because of the colour of their skin.
What if someday I have a child of my own (heavens forbid) of mixed race and lighter complexion than my own and someone decides to take revenge on them because of “what their white ancestors did”.
I shudder at the thought, but it is becoming more and more of a possibility because of all the hate speech I hear from my black brothers and sisters. We seem to be getting angrier every day and some of the things we do in the name of that anger is frightening.
I’m not saying there is no reason or cause to be angry, but there must be something we can do as opposed to bottling up all this anger and carrying it around with us and exploding when there is no cause for it.
How are we better from the colonialist and white supremacist if we begin to spew out the hate and ignorance that they do/ did? We can’t all treat people with the same glove, just as we don’t want to be treated with the same glove. Let us not take on the mannerisms of the oppressor and call that justice.
Confidente. Lifting the Lid. Copyright © 2015