A few months ago—after she’d been alerted by a colleague to a rumor that I’d apparently written (but had yet to publish) an ‘attack’ article about her on my big, scary blog—Mutale Nkonde spent an afternoon stress-tweeting about a 100% nonexistent post of mine to her 12,000 followers.
Instantly, progressive white women, like a fleet of rescue vessels rushing toward the lurid glow of distress flares launched in the distance, sprang into action. And as Nkonde continued to tweet for hours about an entirely imagined plot against her, they all convened in the comments, safespacing the threads with heart emojis and somber pledges of their boundless allyship.
Nkonde—bracing for the impending persecution—gave them all a solemn thanks and told them to join her in awaiting what was to come.
In a way, you can sort of see this as Nkonde creating her own kind of Garden of Gethsemane moment. Consider the words of Christ as He walked with Peter, James and John, knowing the hour of His betrayal drew near: “My soul is deeply grieved, to the point of death; remain here and keep watch with Me.”
But of course wherein Christ there is righteousness, in Nkonde only wretchedness—an absolutely foul, vulgar and hostile lust for prestige which comes at the expense of the truly and enduringly persecuted. That, after all, is exactly what her Disinformation creep article was.
It was conceived purely to obliterate a great cause on the move; a movement that in just its birth alone had imbued America’s bottom caste with a sense of possibility that vastly surpassed what the frail and doddering ‘pro-Black’ organizations of the past fifty years have evidently been capable of inspiring this whole time. It was conceived to help rob that same caste of their due inheritance; to deny them their right to even think they might aspire to real freedom in the country that their shackled ancestors were made to build—a country that would seek to continually remake their condition of exclusion and draw it out as long as possible. That was the goal that Disinformation creep—with its pages upon pages of outright lies—aimed to support. And wouldn’t you know that those same decrepit organizations—the ones that make such a grand spectacle of their apparent inward hatred of bigotry and anti-Blackness in all forms—applauded it? They cheered and praised that despicable effort to put the leash of white supremacy in the grubby hands of validation-starved POC and instruct them to go and give the prong collar around ADOS’s neck a quick, sharp yank and remind them of their place.
But it failed. And it failed in direct proportion to the perseverance and drive of the activists who today are united in cause and need like never before.
And so then let the retraction of Disinformation creep—the formal declaration of that categorical failure to effect the masters’ wishes—be the first of the pike-mounted heads that have been sent by white supremacy toward the wall of the ADOS organization. Let it be an advertisement of what awaits those whom white supremacy next invites to feel for themselves the supposed thrill of giving ADOS a taste of the lash. And lastly let the movement itself continue to be a cleansing and devouring flame in a landscape teeming with Mutale Nkondes, with Shireen Mitchells, with Jess Aiwuyors, and let that flame eventually consume the whole loathsome, sprawling apparatus into which all of these cretinous things so desperately try and plug.