Once upon a time, Kemi Badenoch stood in Westminster, smiling broadly, chest lifted, chin sharpened, declaring with missionary zeal that Britain was “the best place in the world to be black.” For her, the Union Jack was not just cloth but a divine banner, proof that all races could thrive under its folds without fear of prejudice. She was the poster child of post-racial Britain: black, female, immigrant-rooted, yet Conservative to the marrow. But now, irony has stepped in. Since ascending as leader of the Conservative Party, Sister Kemi has been forced to confess that she has faced more racism than she ever imagined.
Special to USAfrica magazine (Houston) and USAfricaonline.com, the first Africa-owned, US-based newspaper published on the Internet
Agbedo, a Professor of Linguistics at the University of Nigeria Nsukka and Fellow, Netherlands Institute for Advanced Study, Amsterdam, is a contributing analyst to USAfrica.
In an interview with The Sunday Times, she lamented a barrage of personal attacks, both online and from a small number of MPs, which she labelled as “Kemi derangement syndrome.” She further noted a rise in ethno-nationalist rhetoric on social media, adding that critics questioned her achievements purely on account of her race and ethnicity. “There’s a lot of ethno-nationalism creeping up, lots of stuff about my race and my ethnicity and the tropes around, ‘well, she couldn’t possibly have done this all by herself,’” Badenoch complained.
Finally, Britain – her eternal paradise – has shown her its fangs. The rainbow she described has turned grey, and her traducers have not hesitated to remind her—through sneers and whispers—that she is black, her lips are thick, her name foreign, and her presence an overreach. Yet perhaps this is no accident. For this is the same Kemi who never tired of disparaging her ancestral homeland, Nigeria. She wielded Nigeria as a rhetorical whipping boy: corruption, chaos, disorder. Each time she praised Britain’s order, Nigeria’s disorder was her backdrop. Each time she praised Britain’s meritocracy, Nigeria’s nepotism was her punch-line. Each time she spoke of her rise, Nigeria’s failures were the negative image that made her success gleam. And so, as the Igbo say: “Ọ bụ nkakwụ mere ihe e jiri bee oke ọnụ”—it is the shrew’s action that led to the chopping off of the rat’s mouth. Her own words, her own disdain, her own eagerness to trash her roots while polishing her adopted land, have returned to wound her. The shrew danced; the rat’s mouth was cut.
Even her surname – Badenoch – seems to have betrayed her. In Nigeria, where names are never idle syllables, it rings as “Bad Enough.” What irony! The Yoruba say, “Orúkọ ń rò ni”—a name molds its bearer. Was this not destiny whispering all along? Perhaps the Yoruba goddesses are already laughing softly. Perhaps the gods are reminding her that no amount of Tory orthodoxy can bleach the destiny carried in a name. Which begs the next question: to which of the Yoruba Orisha should supplications be made on Kemi’s behalf, to rescue her from her current travails?
Is it Obatala, the sculptor of human form, guardian of light and purity? Perhaps he could wash her in fresh moral clarity, scrubbing away the careless words that now haunt her. Perhaps, Oshun, goddess of beauty, love, and diplomacy? She might soften Kemi’s hard-edged rhetoric, teaching her the honeyed tongue needed to navigate hostile waters.
How about Shango, god of thunder and lightning? His fiery hammer could silence racist traducers with a clap of celestial thunder, though one fears his virility might also expose her to fresh storms. Perhaps, an appeal to Eshu (Elegba), the trickster, keeper of crossroads turn out successful. He delights in irony, and surely it is he who has engineered this farce, spinning Kemi’s praise of Britain into the trap that now ensnares her. Consulting him may be dangerous, for Eshu rarely rescues without extracting his laughter first. Or is it Oya, mistress of winds and sudden change? She could sweep away the clouds of racism in one stormy breath, but Oya also destroys with the same force that she renews. Would Kemi survive her cleansing hurricane? Perhaps then, Ogun, lord of iron, war, and industry possesses the silver bullet. He could forge her a new armour, a shield of steel to withstand the blows of prejudice. Yet Ogun is merciless, and politics is not spared from his blood-soaked forge.
Will Babalu Aye (Sopona), healer of diseases and master of affliction be the ultimate game-changer? Could he cure her of the spiritual infection of irony? Or would he afflict her further until she learns humility? One hardly knows which of these Orisha would be best placed to intervene for Britain’s embattled Tory leader. Perhaps all of them should be summoned, for her case is both comic and tragic, laced with vanity, irony, and wounded pride.
But before rushing to the shrines, Sister Kemi may wish to remind her traducers of something very important: she is not Nigerian. Heaven forbid! She is a British citizen, one of them. In spite of her skin and thick lips, she is their own, a beloved daughter of Westminster. She has done her part diligently—praising the virtues of Britain, the cradle of democracy, while denigrating Nigeria, the pit of dysfunction. Should this not count for something?
Yes, she must cry louder: “Do not mistake me for a Nigerian citizen, please! I am no denizen of subsidy chaos, no victim of airport bribe-collectors, no Okada hustler from Lagos. I am yours, a Tory leader, a proud child of Britannia, polished proof that the Conservative Party is colour-blind!” Surely, this reminder will soften the blows. For if loyalty is measured by rhetoric, then Badenoch has shown herself the most loyal of all, extolling Britain while spitting on Nigeria with the discipline of a seasoned chorister.
And yet, Britain is now teaching her that racism does not read manifestos or tally speeches. It does not stop to check her voting record or her passport. It does not reward her for ridiculing her homeland. It simply looks at her, measures her skin, weighs her lips, hears her name—and decides. That is the real tragedy of Sister Kemi’s gospel. She thought she could purchase immunity from racism by casting Nigeria as the eternal villain and Britain as the eternal saviour. But racism is no respecter of persons, much less of speeches. It is Britain’s heirloom, polished across centuries, and no amount of flattery from Kemi can erase it.
Perhaps the gods will pity her. Perhaps not. But for now, Britain may no longer feel like “the best place in the world to be black.”
It remains, however, the best place in the world to be Badenoch—Bad Enough—British citizen, Tory leader, occasional victim of racist traducers, and eternal performer in the theatre of irony.
