![]() I remember watching a bit when I wasn’t worrying about homework. You couldn’t watch it without crying – they said – even if your tear ducts were surgically removed. Prior to my watching the show, my friends and an uncle had warned me about it they said the drama was a sad thing to watch – humans, our forefathers, reduced to cotton-picking animals, and chained to trees like dogs. When I was very young, I caught a few episodes of Kunta Kinte during reruns of ‘Roots’ on Nigerian state television. Home of the Brave.Ĭharlottesville, Virginia. Images from a drunken nightmare.Īs I watch the spine-chilling scenes unfold on my television screen, I wonder whether I am witnessing filmed segments of a much earlier time when racism was blatant and obvious. Surrounded by reporters trying to make sense of his previous noncommittal and half-hearted denunciation of white nationalism, the American president boasts about the size of his winery in Charlottesville. Throaty chants of “Jews will not replace us”, “You will not replace us” and “Blood and Soil” – the late 19th century slogan of German agrarian ultranationalists in Hitler’s Third Reich – hover above the crowd. Heavyset men adorned with tattoos, crawling moustaches, baseball bats and bandanas mingle with unremarkable but no less animated men that could actually pass for friendly neighbours.įlags bearing the swastika and the blue ‘X’ of the Confederacy flap about listlessly.įists punching the air and Nazi salutes perforate the thick, ominous atmosphere. ![]() White bodies shift here and there in vengeful unison. Burning torches with their smoke tails thread the night, casting an amber glow on angry faces.
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