Dear President Trump, I Hate You, But I Can Love You If You Promise to End This Madness
It’s not the religion. It’s the people that are just as insecure as you. They share the same need to dominate and utilize their power for greater evil. They have no regard for humanity, they trample on the rights of the ones they besiege with violence and contempt — and they rearrange the blueprint of freedom and the American Way — which really is the transcript of global adherence.
Mr. President, growing up, my favorite superhero was Superman. He came in the form of Christopher Reeve — with jewels for eyes and the blue-black hair that coiled in front. I believed in his beauty because it represented everything that the country of my birth had waiting for me.
Being Nigerian had major drawbacks, but being American was the lottery that guaranteed a lifetime of surefire hits. I would tackle each element of life with the bullseye that was imprinted on my forehead when I released my first cry at the Contra Costa Medical Center in Martinez, California
My mother and I would have died if she had been admitted to the Lagos University Teaching Hospital, because her emergency C-Section, due to her narrow passageway and my determination to push through — would not have been received with the level of diligence and precision that is needed for such potentially dire circumstances.
President Trump, my father lost his father when he was just a lad. Unlike you, he was the eldest son, and the weight of his loss propelled him to seek greener pastures in an effort to end restore much-needed dignity to his family name.
Nigeria was a British Protectorate until we gained our independence on October 1, 1960. Most Nigerians during that time of transition — were given permission to migrate to England without consequences. My grandfather was one of those who took advantage and made good by attending the University of Exeter and eventually completing law school.
My father worked for the Nigerian Railroad Corporation in Lagos and while enjoying the rewards of an exceptional worker — he was privy to the fact that instead of heading to Great Britain, he could very well try his luck in America.
It was during the The Nigerian Civil War, (Biafran War), and the whole nation was in chaos and disarray. Sound familiar?
He knew the only way out was to escape to the land of the free, where he could truly focus on his dream and perhaps begin the fairy tale that would include the ones he loves who were waiting from above to join him.
After a tense few hours that included trying to evade being identified as an Igbo man because that would not have ended well — considering his tribe was at war with The Republic — my father boarded the plane that would take him to Arizona where he would attend Thunderbird School of Global Management.
He exceeded his short-range vision. And even in the midst of his transformation that saw him as a victim of bigotry in the form of almost being killed by cops who were called to his friend’s house when a White neighbor saw him step outside for some fresh air. Or that time he went shopping for spices to bring back to his pregnant wife who was alarmed when her husband was given a police escort back home.
My dad remained bolted to the American Dream.
My father was frequently ordered to produce his passport and immigrant papers in order to prove that he was in fact supposed to be in America.
Does that sound familiar, Mr. President?
That was so long ago — but both my parents remember it like it was yesterday. They are alive today and what is currently happening enhances why my father risked his life to come here.
Mr. President, I hate you so much right now, but I could love you if you would immediately reconsider this frightening disposition that you have encased us in.
You are a White man with all the privileges that accrue with such an honor. Your circle mimics your heritage, so you really have no clue what it means to be anything other than what the Southampton crowd has to offer.
I grew up with the blessing of a caped wonder that gave Lady Liberty reason to smile and the added itinerary of waking up to the Islamic Call to Prayer while waiting for the morning darkness to give way to light.
The Mallams chanted with a beautiful urgency that gave more calm and security than The Lord’s Prayer that I was forced to memorize. Boarding school exposed me even more to Islam as I watch with envy as my schoolmates rolled out their mats and began the ritual of a dance that I could watch but not participate in.
President Trump, what you are doing is atrocious and immorally incomprehensible, It’s also so very wrong and plays into the rhetoric of militants like Boko Haram and ISIS — who are hyped that you are finally giving them even more incentive to be destructive on the grounds of their dangerous obstinacy.
The families you are destroying need your immediate compassion and thorough regard for all the reasons why they don’t deserve to be punished for the acts of criminals that hide under the cloak of a doctrine that was developed for weaklings like you.
President Trump, please don’t do this. Please restore the world to its rightful settings. You are an asshole but in this case, you could be labeled a murderer.
All that can be erased — if you would just be what you were born to be.