By Nigerian author Amara Chidinma Ezediniru

Their Knee, Another Shackle?

Tears ran down my eyes as I watched the video of my brother ingloriously scragged. For a few nights, sleep was far from me. George Floyd’s murder reminds me of the stories I heard of slavery. My imaginations went wild.

The force, the brutality, the weapons, the outnumbering! Four men with detective training against an unarmed civilian in handcuffs is enough to give nightmares. Those men, had they not blood in their veins? They are modernized slave masters. In the days past, slave trade was private businesses. Today, it is supported with government fund. It is an organized institution that, on the surface, ought to protect all, but in reality is a segregator. I would have said those men were the exception, but how can I when there are various affirmations and videos attesting to the nefariousness of the red-necked police against the black man?

Africa would have developed at her pace if they did not come to us. We were moving at our stride. We were making our progress. We had our unity and our dignity. We had our style and our beliefs, our strengths and our faintness. We had our diversity that must have been our weak link.

They came.

We saw their smiling faces instead of their turpitude. Their shackles were hidden in their cases wrapped in goodness. Their ship was filled with collars, chains and cuffs. On one hand was a gift, the other bore a sword. Deceit and shame were their inner wears, they covered them with gentleness, wolves in sheep’s clothing. We were lured, we were coaxed, we were forced.

They came for us.

When we refused to tread their path, they unleashed their power, their muskets and their shackles. They overpowered us.

The captivity began.

They took not one but thousands of us. They harvested us like they did their plantations. We were their slaves, doing their bidding. We were their plants, they uprooted us as they willed.

Many years passed, even though the original slave masters were dead, they bequeathed to their children same hatred, same entitlement, same expectation. Like every growing thing, their children magnified their inheritance.

Over time, their land, now our land for we knew nowhere else. Our fathers, their slaves had also died. Unlike them, we were taught hope, resilience and forgiveness. We trudged on bearing our scars. We began to put our broken pieces together; we did so beautifully.

George Floyd is a reminder that nothing has changed except the uniforms and the cars that replaced the horses. The guns have replaced the muskets and the chains by the handcuff, they still outnumber us because weapons always outnumber people.

I struggle to deal with a red-necked man who thinks the world is his footstool. I cringe. I cry.

If not for power, how is Derek Chauvin better than the man he killed? Was he stronger or more intelligent? Was he kinder or more respectful? How would they have competed? With all his privileges, the most he could be is a murderer. For George, for us, we take pride in our sweat. Our minds and hands fetch our daily meals. Even so, they are perturbed.

Should they not blame themselves for bringing us? Should they not rather keel themselves? Why kneel over us?

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Amara Chidinma Ezediniru is a trained business administrator, a human resource manager, and a certified teacher. She is widely traveled, a compassionate Rotarian, the author of three books, and a mother. She is a managing consultant with Rald and Vid Consulting Ltd.