Fidel Castro is dead and none of us know how to liberate his demise
I admit, I didn’t know much about Fidel Castro except that he was a global figure shrouded in mystery and barricaded by leaders of a section of the world that is supposedly free — but secretly harbors the intent of imprisonment.
When he stormed the scene back in 1959 — there was the perception that he was a renegade with too much heat behind his heels. He wanted the fate of glory at whatever costs. He needed to be recognized for his astute abruptness and unrelenting habit for making superpowers less confident in their conquests.
I lived through my fair share of military coups in my youth — as a Nigerian girl of American birth — waiting with relish for the day that I would be transported back to civilization.
Nigeria was once a British protectorate. We have stretches baptized Lord Lugard Avenue that represent the distilled residue of a time when my people were told that they needed the influence of White men to make them less brutish and more human. In some respects — colonialism brought a onslaught of eye-opening mechanisms — such as the realization that twins aren’t the evil specters deposited for our torment. So, the Igbos stopped killing them at will.
But, historical gems like Nigerian author Chinua Achebe manifested the truth in his works of art — that illustrated the fracture in a primal society — infiltrated for the gain of minerals that were spilling around for greedy consumption that always arrives in the form of poisoned martyrdom.
The over-wrought narrative of unblemished saviors decked in White with glassy eyes that match the stained glass of the cathedrals — has never been disconnected despite the overwhelming zeal of revolutionaries — that spent a lifetime fighting against this primitive view. This authoritarian manifesto continuously segregates people of color from the respect that their ancestors portioned for them — without the alliance of Scandinavian gods that couldn’t muster the strength to dispose of the likes of Oduduwa.
I should’ve been an historian because there was nothing more fascinating to me than the storied tales of how Nigeria became this whole nation determined by halves that couldn’t fit into the puzzle of intelligence and pride and yet the love of its brethren refused to leave the map unscathed.
The British devoured us because of our resources. They didn’t care how they divided Africa or whether or not the consequences would uproot family trees beyond the branches that sprouted with dignity but broke off with the woes of the lines drawn in earnest. Those fractures gave the routes to the pipelines of infinity and they were designated for the benefit of the fairer population and inevitably — whoever is reading this piece with electricity and running water in the background — absolutely gained something from the British invasion into unmarked territory.
Fidel Castro hated White men in power who could snap their fingers with relaxed briskness and schedule the script of far away provinces that housed one-sided interests. He wasn’t perfect in his execution and he certainly can’t be hailed as a hero.
But, there is something so delicious about a boy who once wrote a letter to President Franklin D. Roosevelt asking for $10. This is no ordinary act and it absolutely proves that revolutionaries are born and not contrived.
As America braces for a regime under a racist and fascist dictator who was voted in by citizens who are tired of being silenced because of their abominable views, I can’t help but wonder how this country will tolerate the intolerable.
Heroes aren’t really heroes — they are henchmen clothed in the manner that you see fit when they storm the pulpit and streets — speaking your language.
Most of us don’t know shit about Fidel Castro and very few of us admit that. I honestly can’t say what I feel about his legacy or the crib of his birth that expanded to make him the awesome figure he is today.
What I do know is that he meant something. He was a monster to some and a prophet to others. He was complicated and safely dangerous. He stood for for a lot and toppled into a stew thought that will forever arrest the minds of scholars.
You can boast and celebrate or hide and mourn — but you must admit the fact that we will never know how to liberate his demise.
His death won’t set Cuba free. And that is his final word.