Rango Finito

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Buena crítica a Black Panther por la gente de Africa is a country en línea con algunas de mis observaciones de hace unos días. Obviamente mejor presentadas y contextualizadas:

Killmonger embodies the old adage “you can’t go home again.” His quest to “return” to the soil of his ancestors (a place he has never been) is portrayed as tragic and unattainable. Yet there is a great deal of history behind that emigrationist impulse.

For centuries, African Americans and other members of the African Diaspora have sought “repatriation” to the Mother Continent. This yearning for reunification and restoration of kinship bonds is a byproduct of the historical experience of dispersal. Dispossessed and exploited throughout the globe, generations of black folk have craved a land base where they might find security, prosperity, and power. Often they have looked to Africa for such a foundation.

After World War Two, however, the US Cold War establishment sought to disavow any form of grassroots black internationalism. Pundits argued that “the Negro” was exclusively American, that African Americans and Africans were strangers, and that Pan Africanism was a futile and dangerous fantasy.

Fútbol y nacionalismo

El nacionalismo futbolero, a diferencia de su contraparte fascista, admite con agrado a todo aquel que quiera sumarse a la masa ilusionada con una victoria. En las selecciones europeas los hijos de inmigrantes son, para cada hinchada, héroes, orgullo y ejemplo. Por noventa minutos la xenofobia, los regionalismos y el racismo dominantes se diluyen (o cambian de blanco negro) y los países (salvo excepciones) parecen de verdad compuestos por sociedades diversas e integradas. Es gracioso ver a los jugadores cantar el himno con solemnidad, como si no notaran que ese equipo que conforman constituye un símbolo de identidad nacional más consolidado y extendido que cualquier bandera o canción de guerra nostálgica.

The meaning is in the swinging

As I swung gently by my heels in the thick fat fucking breeze of sheer humidity, I had a clear view of the court and could see and hear all that went out there. So this is humankind. Swinging. Backwards and forwards. Swinging through history. These are my people. I am their people too. Crucified upside down by my heels. My Golgotha a chickenyard. Father! Father! Why the fucking shit did you conceive me? You have no meaning. I have no meaning. The meaning is in the swinging. And that is ridiculous. Absurd. Ha! That fucking bitch, my mother, why did you open up to receive him? After that annunciation, that lecherous gleam of his single glittering eye. Did you writhe and shake our history’s shirt front? As now I grind my teething people in a cocoon. Swinging. Swinging in a cocoon of chickenshit. Europe was my head, crammed together with Africa, Asia and America. Squashed and jammed together in my dustbin head. There is no rubbish dump big enough to relieve me of my load. Swinging upside down, threatening to burst the thin roof of my brains. Those years of my travels. Years of innocence and experience. Motherfucking months of twiddling my thumbs with insecurity. In search of my true people. Yes, in search of my true people. But whenever I went I did not find people but caricatures of people who insisted on being taken seriously as people. Perhaps I was on the wrong planet.

In the wrong skin.


And sometimes all the time. You know. In the wrong skin.

This black skin.

—Dambudzo Marechera, Black Sunlight