I grew up in a city where everyone I knew was black. The other races we knew were on TV, but we wanted to know the others. We wanted to learn the beauty of their cultures and what made them unique. We wanted to hear their stories and we wanted to tell them ours.
6 years after, I learned that my African story was already televised. They knew I grew up without civilization alongside hungry lions, swinging monkeys and all sorts of wild life. I didn't know I grew up malnourished and impoverished in a war-ridden society, or as a spoiled African prince who was sent abroad for a better education. I didn't know the color of my skin told a story about me; I didn't know it terrified people from wanting to know my story more than I wanted to know theirs. Maybe it is the reason my heavy accent or my non-western name was unwelcoming. I could never tell.
I migrated from a third world country to a first world country, then went from being referred to as Gozie, to that black guy - I learned that progress had its own meaning in this new world. For I was no different from every other black man, whether I was from Africa or the West Indies. I was simply Tyrone because I looked like him. Eventually, I started to act like him.
This new world introduced Tyrone to me. Tyrone is a street smart college drop-out. He doesn't belong in the classroom, but he's genetically good at sports. When he's not being a good sportsman, he's being a good rapper. This is the culture that makes Tyrone cool, so uncultured women flock around him. They crawl into his bed at night until it dawns that they still need daddy's blessings, so they make him drop them off a few blocks away from home. When he walks down the street, people randomly smile at him out of fear. Like Tupac, all eyes are on Tyrone, especially the men in uniform who drive around in vehicles with blue, white and red siren lights.
God created man, and earth for him. This society created Tyrone with no place for him. As a black man, I struggle with my identity. Yet I have no insecurities about the color of my skin. I lose myself everyday because of my altered and destroyed history. I make attempts to correct my history by telling my own story, but who listens to a black man if he's not an entertainer? The fact remains that when we're not entertaining people, we are not being entertained. The only other time we get other people's attention is when we have a trending hashtag. If it took the death of one Tyrone by the men in uniform to have a portion of our story heard, imagine how many more black lives it would take to have ALL of our stories heard? The guilt for the death of another black man is to be shared by everyone, not just the men in uniform. The policeman only completed what the rest of the society started.
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