THERE IS A DOCUMENT known as the Willie Lynch letter which was allegedly crafted and perfected by a reputed planter from Barbados some say, and was purportedly delivered to fellow slave owners on the bank of the James River in Virginia, United States, in 1712.
This letter outlineshow to control the slave populations by exploiting colour, age, gender and social differences to theadvantage of the slave-owning class, rather than depleting slave numbers through random acts of violence.
Historians, however, have generally agreed that this letter was a hoax as there is no evidence to supportits existence.
Despite the claim to the contrary, the fact is that the practical application of this supposed letter was and still is in effect. This is evidenced historically and today by the treacherous behaviour exhibited at various levels in this country.
When black leaders from the public and private domain allow themselves to be used by capital and the unscrupulous black political class against the interest of the black majority, then we know that the Willie Lynch letter is a living reality.
When ordinary people at the grassroots level are used to annihilate each other over trinkets and destructive substances by nameless shadowy “big-ups”, then we know that the Willie Lynch letter has fulfilled its mandate.
When ordinary black people in this country who have built sacred institutions with their blood, sweat and tears and have ceded control to black middle class functionaries, who speak with forked tongues, while seeking to reverse the invaluable gains made by the masses, then we can rest assured that Willie Lynch’s letter has borne fruit.
How do these chameleons sleep at night? Don’t they have a conscience? Have morality, justice, integrity and respect ceased to exist? Is it the norm now to live for the moment rather than pass on meaningful legacies?
I guess, as they say, we deserve what we get because we too often turn blind eyes to the corruption that is eating away at this beautiful country. We complain, cower and retreat rather than chase the money changers from the temple. But, as my father always told me, “every dog got he day and every fowl cock he Saturday night”.
– IAN A. MARSHALL
