Friday, July 13, 2012


Unlike other immigrants in this country, continental African Diaspora are always making excuses why they can't do this or that, because we hopelessly dream of going back to Africa and making our riches there.  While the Asians have taken full advantage of the potential successes of this country, we as Africans don't know where we belong, hanging above the Atlantic Ocean, not being a part of the enormous potential of Africa or that of the United States.  We don't participate in any meaningful way in what is happening in this country, whether it is politics, immigration, the economy: the immigration problem is ferociously defended by the Latinos, the economy is dominated by Indians who have invaded and conquered black America without firing a single shot (it is another discussion) and they have conquered the political terrain – their first generation politicians have already climbed to the highest level of politics, becoming right-wings and biting the hands that made it possible for their parents to become Americans – Louisiana Governor Bobby Jindal and South Carolina Governor Nikki Haley.  We haven't even been able to elect an city councilperson.  Our first success in electoral politics, the Mayor of East Cleveland – Mayor Emmanuel Onunwor – ended in disaster as he is in jail for corruption.  Does the fruit ever fall too far from the tree?
"Medicine After Death" is a term we use back home to describe a situation whereby relatives or friends begin sending you urgent messages about the deteriorating health of your father/mother/sister/brother or somebody very close to you.  But you continually ignore these appeals because you have more important things to do, like dining at the finest chick restaurants, buying the most expensive cars so that people would think you have arrived or going out to buy one of those $250 Michael Jordan sneakers.  Eventually, one day the call comes in the morning: the person you have been warned several times is sick is now dead.  You begin to weep crocodile tears and start running around, looking for other people to help you find the money to make arrangements for the burial, that would probably cost from $5,000 to $10,000.  But this tragedy could have been avoided if you had sent a $100 or $200 to buy the requisite drugs to care of the sick relative.  It is not to say that people don't die, but you could have prevented it if it wasn't the right time for the individual to die, but because of your neglect the individual is dead and you begin to scratch your head and doing a mea culpa of 'if I had known.'

Chika A. Onyeani
African Sun Times:
Host: All Africa Radio:
Tel.: 973-675-9919
Fax: 973-675-5704
Cell: 917-279-4038

"It is not what you call me, but what I answer to, that matters most" - Capitalist Nigger: The Road to Success, Onyeani's internationally acclaimed No. 1 bestselling book.

Have you bought Onyeani's new blockbuster novel, The Broederbond Conspiracy, or, adapted by the San Francisco State University "to teach students how to write a spy novel."

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