Special to USAfrica magazine (Houston) and USAfricaonline.com, the first African-owned, US-based newspaper published on the Internet.
Agbedo is a Professor of Linguistics, University of Nigeria, Nsukka, and a contributing analyst to USAfrica)
Identity is a journey, often fraught with tension, between origin and experience, tradition and transformation. It is kind of delicate tapestry, woven with threads of history, culture, and experience. For some, this fabric is vibrant and unbroken; for others, it frays under the tension of dual allegiances. For some, it is a balancing act; for others, a one-way road toward assimilation. At the intersection of these paths lies a complex story of identity and allegiance, best exemplified by the stark contrasts between the lives and legacies of Mutabaruka, the revolutionary Jamaican poet cum ragamuffin crooner, and Kemi Badenoch, the British-Nigerian politician. These two figures, though worlds apart in ethos and expression, embody a tension at the heart of diasporic existence: the push and pull of cultural heritage and the allure of integration in foreign lands.
The story of Mutabaruka (‘one who is always victorious’), born Allan Hope in Rae Town Kingston Jamaica, is a testament to how one can wield art to navigate identity and challenge oppression. Mutabaruka’s revolutionary meta-dub poetry gave voice to the voiceless, a weaponized verse against colonial exploitation and systemic inequities. Mutabaruka’s words – fiery, scathing, and unflinching – call for the reclamation of African heritage, rejecting the colonial imprints on Caribbean identity. His poetry is unapologetically political, unyielding in its critique of systemic racism and the lingering shadows of colonialism. In his art, there is a resounding call for unity among the African diaspora, a reminder of the shared struggle against forces that sought to erase history and culture. Through meta-dub, Mutabaruka becomes a bridge between past and present, his words echoing across generations as a rallying cry for justice and cultural pride. The cerebral Rastafarian leverages poetry to dissect colonial legacies, critique systemic racism, and implore the African diaspora to reclaim their history and heritage. His lyrics are ireful, acerbic, and deeply resonant, as exemplified in his iconic song, White Man Country. In this track, Mutabaruka offers a searing critique of the alienation that comes from prolonged detachment from one’s cultural roots.
The “white man’s country,” in his poetic imagination, is not a promised land but a place of spiritual dissonance and cultural erasure. The longer one stays, he warns, the more one risks losing the essence of who they are. His verses echo a plea to the African diaspora: remember where you come from, resist the temptations of total assimilation, and honour the sacrifices of those who came before you. Through this lyrical prism, Mutabaruka lays bare the emotional and existential dissonance of diasporic life in lands far removed from ancestral roots. The song is both a lament and a poetic reminder of the alienation, assimilation, and identity erosion that can accompany prolonged detachment from one’s cultural and historical origins. Through sharp, uncompromising verses, Mutabaruka captures the psychological toll of staying too long in “the white man’s country,” where the comforts of material progress often come at the expense of cultural authenticity and spiritual grounding. Mutabaruka’s message resonates deeply with the African and Caribbean diasporic experience, where the struggle to maintain identity in foreign lands is a daily reality.
In stark contrast, the rhetoric of Kemi Badenoch, the British Conservative Party leader, raises questions about how identity can be wielded not as a weapon of empowerment but as a tool of estrangement. Kemi, the British Parliament Opposition leader, tends to tread a vastly different path from Mutabaruka’s. She represents a counter-narrative to Mutabaruka’s ethos. Born to Nigerian parents in London, Badenoch has built her political career on a foundation of integration into British society. As a party leader, she has become a prominent voice in British politics, often celebrated as a symbol of diversity in leadership. Yet, her public rhetoric reveals a complicated relationship with her Nigerian heritage. Badenoch frequently praises British values while casting her ancestral homeland in a less flattering light, framing Nigeria’s struggles as evidence of systemic failure rather than as outcomes of historical exploitation.
Her seeming obsession with defending the British establishment, often at the expense of the African continent, raises questions about the role of heritage in shaping identity and the responsibilities of those who navigate multiple worlds. This divergence in perspective raises profound questions about the role of identity and allegiance in shaping the diaspora experience. Mutabaruka and Badenoch stand at opposite ends of a spectrum: one fiercely tethered to his roots, using his platform to critique the legacies of colonialism; the other seemingly unmoored, aligning herself with the establishment of a former colonial power. Clearly, there is no singular way to reconcile one’s identity. There is no gainsaying the fact that diasporic experience is inherently diverse, encompassing a spectrum of connections and disconnections. Nonetheless, Badenoch’s rhetoric, marked by its sharp critique of post-colonial nations and her aversion to acknowledging Britain’s historical complicity in their struggles, feels like a betrayal of shared history. It is one thing to celebrate British achievements; it is another to do so while downplaying the scars of colonial exploitation that countries like Nigeria continue to bear.
Mutabaruka’s life and work offer a counterpoint to Badenoch’s stance. Where the poet sees the colonial legacy as a call to action, Badenoch seems to treat it as an inconvenient truth. Where Mutabaruka builds bridges between cultures, Badenoch appears to burn them. Where meta-dub amplifies the voices of the marginalized, Badenoch’s words often seem to echo the narratives of those who have historically silenced them. In a world increasingly shaped by migration, globalization, and cross-cultural exchange, figures like Mutabaruka remind us of the power of heritage to inspire change. His poetry proves that identity need not be a source of division but a foundation for unity and progress. On the other hand, Badenoch’s approach risks alienating those who see in her a reflection of their struggles and aspirations. In White Man Country, Mutabaruka implores his audience not to lose themselves in a land that was never truly theirs. He paints the “white man’s country” not as a haven but as a gilded cage, where the illusion of prosperity often blinds one to the cost of severing ties with home. Mutabaruka’s warning is clear: the longer one stays, the harder it becomes to leave – not just physically but mentally and spiritually. Kemi Badenoch, however, embodies a narrative that seems to reject Mutabaruka’s caution.
Her trajectory appears to embrace the very risks Mutabaruka warns against. Her speeches often highlight her pride in Britain, while her Nigerian heritage appears relegated to an afterthought. Rather than using her position to bridge the gap between her dual identities, Badenoch’s language often aligns her more closely with British exceptionalism, downplaying the systemic inequities and historical injustices that continue to shape nations like Nigeria. Apparently gripped by the irresistible allurements of integration, Kemi is in a hurry to celebrate her ‘Brutishness’ while her ‘Nigerianess’ seems conspicuously absent from her narrative, acknowledged more as a footnote than as a formative influence.
This stance raises important questions about the responsibilities of diasporic leaders. Should their success in foreign lands be seen as a repudiation of their origins, or as an opportunity to push advocacy for those left behind? Badenoch’s detachment from her roots risks perpetuating stereotypes and erasing the complexities of the Nigerian story. By framing her achievements as a triumph of British values, she inadvertently casts Nigeria, and by extension, the African continent, as places of failure. This narrative not only undermines efforts to address historical injustices but also alienates those who look up to her as a symbol of possibility and representation. Mutabaruka’s White Man Country critiques the very mindset that Badenoch appears to celebrate: the belief that success in the West equates to a complete shedding of one’s origins. While Mutabaruka warns of cultural amnesia, Badenoch’s rhetoric often seems to endorse it, portraying integration into the “white man’s world” as a form of liberation rather than a potential loss of self. Yet, the dangers Mutabaruka highlights are not merely personal but collective. When individuals like Badenoch ascend to positions of influence while distancing themselves from their roots, they risk perpetuating a narrative that devalues the contributions and struggles of their ancestral homelands.
This stance can reinforce harmful stereotypes about African nations and undermine efforts to address the historical and systemic factors that continue to hinder their progress. Mutabaruka’s lyrics underscore the point that true empowerment lies not in assimilation but in the reclamation and celebration of one’s heritage. His words challenge the diaspora to remain grounded, to remember the sacrifices of those who came before, and to resist the pull of cultural erasure. Kemi Badenoch’s journey, in contrast, speaks volumes about the perils of forgetting one’s ancestral roots.
The question, then, is not whether one must choose between two identities but how one uses the privilege of navigating multiple worlds. Will it be to uplift or to divide, to inspire or to alienate? Mutabaruka answered this question with a microphone and a pen, choosing instead to fight for justice through the power of the spoken word. Kemi Badenoch has yet to answer it in a way that resonates with the people whose stories she carries, whether she acknowledges them or not. At its core, the tension between Mutabaruka’s warning and Badenoch’s rhetoric speaks to a broader question – what does it mean to belong? For Mutabaruka, belonging is tied to history, culture, and the unbroken thread of identity. For Badenoch, it seems to rest on integration and the shedding of ties that might complicate her narrative of success.
The tension between Mutabaruka’s snarky meta-dub and Badenoch’s rhetoric highlights a critical dilemma faced by diasporic communities – how to navigate the crossroads of identity and allegiance. Mutabaruka’s work is a reminder that cultural heritage is not a burden but a source of strength, a foundation upon which to build a future that honours the past. His poetry challenges the diaspora to remain rooted, to resist the pull of assimilation, and to use their voices to deepen advocacy for justice and equity. Badenoch’s journey, however, represents the allure of integration and the risks of cultural amnesia. Her rise to power demonstrates the possibilities of diasporic success, but her detachment from her roots points to the costs of losing touch with one’s origins.
The stories of Mutabaruka and Badenoch are not merely individual narratives; they are reflections of broader societal dynamics. At a time when migration and globalization are reshaping the world, the tension between heritage and integration is more relevant than ever. Diasporic leaders have a unique opportunity and indeed a responsibility to bridge the gap between cultures, to honour their roots while navigating new identities. Mutabaruka’s White Man Country reminds us of the importance of this balance. His words challenge us to remember where we come from, to resist the erasure of our histories, and to use our voices to reinforce advocacy for those who cannot. Kemi Badenoch’s story, in contrast, underscores the dangers of forgetting, of allowing success in foreign lands to come at the expense of one’s heritage. At this crossroads of identity and allegiance, the choice is clear: to honour one’s roots is not to reject new opportunities but to build upon them, to create a future that reflects the richness of the past. As Mutabaruka reminds us, the “white man’s country” can never truly be home.
Home is where the heart remembers, where the spirit remains rooted, and where the stories of our ancestors continue to guide us forward. In the end, Mutabaruka’s White Man Country stands as a timeless critique of the risks of prolonged disconnection from one’s roots. Badenoch, meanwhile, represents a counterpoint that underscores the urgency of his message. To stay too long in “the white man’s country,” whether physically or mentally, is to risk losing the essence of who you are. And that, as Mutabaruka warns, is a loss too great to bear.
On a final note, the parallels and divergences between Mutabaruka and Badenoch underscore the delicate balance, which diasporic individuals must navigate. While Mutabaruka urges vigilance against cultural erasure, emphasizing the power of remembering and reclaiming one’s roots, Badenoch’s story, in contrast, illustrates the risks of prioritizing allegiance to a foreign power over the richness of one’s heritage. The crossroads of identity and allegiance demand intentional choices. Herein lies the core of Kemi-Mutabaruka parallelism and the crossroads of identity and allegiance. While both paths offer lessons, the ultimate challenge lies in finding a way to honour one’s past while embracing the future. Diasporic communities must grapple with the dual imperatives of honouring their heritage and forging new identities in foreign lands. The African diaspora, and indeed, all diasporic communities must heed these lessons as they navigate the complexities of belonging, identity, and allegiance in a globalized world.
