AS I walked through a neighbourhood made lively by the chatter of children, I came across a scene that weighed heavily on my heart.
A group of children were playing in the dusty streets, their laughter mingling with the warmth of the sun, until one boy who was coming from school, weary from the day, accidentally stepped on one of their toys.
Almost instantly, the joyful noise shifted to harshness as several of the children began shouting at him, calling him “Blackie.”
At first, I thought it might have been innocent teasing, but the look on the boy’s face told another story — pain, confusion and shame.
He stood still, his lips trembling, as the shouts from the group grew louder.
What hurt more than the children’s words was the reaction of their parents, who sat nearby under the shade of a tree.
Instead of stopping the mockery or teaching their children kindness, they laughed along, as if amused by the cruelty.
That moment, brief as it was, revealed something deeply unsettling about who we are becoming.
- Blanket Mine revenue rises 37%
- ED challenger nabbed
- Sunday word: Identifying ‘mother of earth’s abominations’
- Frontline Kids plots surprise reunion
Keep Reading
Children do not come into this world knowing hate or mockery — they learn it.
Every word they speak, every reaction they mimic, every judgement they form is a reflection of what they see and hear at home.
When parents laugh at insults instead of correcting them, they are not just failing as guardians; they are endorsing prejudice.
Those little giggles that adults dismiss as harmless are in fact the breeding ground of bigger social ills.
We forget that children are blank slates, absorbing everything around them and when we feed them with mockery, colourism, or disdain, we are shaping minds that will one day carry these same poisons into adulthood.
It is tragic and ironic that such slurs can come from one black child directed at another.
This type of self-directed prejudice shows just how deep colonial scars run.
We have inherited the habit of measuring beauty and worth by shades of skin, as if the lighter tones carry greater value.
This ignorance, passed down over generations, has slowly eroded our pride in who we are.
It has convinced some among us to bleach their skin or hide behind filters, chasing a false image that society has declared superior.
The laughter of those parents under the tree reminded me how normalised this sickness has become.
When we do not see anything wrong with mocking darkness, we are essentially mocking ourselves, our families, our very heritage.
The truth is, a society that teaches its children to despise their own skin is a society at war with itself.
Such behaviour silently kills confidence. It teaches children to measure their worth by things they cannot change, creating a cycle of insecurity and envy.
We cannot expect the next generation to be proud, united and strong if we continue planting shame and division in their hearts.
It is not enough to condemn racism when it comes from outsiders; we must also confront it when it lives within us.
The enemy is not only at our borders but also within our own homes and conversations.
That is where the attack on identity begins — whispered between jokes, disguised as humour, reinforced by silence.
The change we need must start with ordinary people — parents, teachers, neighbour and community leaders.
Every word we speak to a child shapes what they will one day believe about themselves and others.
We must choose those words carefully. Instead of laughing when a cruel name is uttered, we must let that moment become a lesson about respect and empathy.
We must stop treating skin tone as something that determines beauty or intelligence.
We must remind our children that black is beautiful, not just as a slogan shouted at rallies, but as a truth lived and celebrated every day.
It should be reflected in the stories they read, in the dolls they play with and in the heroes they are taught to admire.
Schools, too, can play a powerful part by weaving into their lessons the value of identity and self-love.
Children should be surrounded by positive images of people who look like them — leaders, inventors, artists and thinkers — so that they grow up knowing their skin carries a legacy of greatness.
The media must also take responsibility, for every image it displays and every commercial it airs teaches something.
If what we see constantly glorifies only one kind of beauty, then we will continue raising generations that despise their reflection.
The change must, therefore, be collective. We all share responsibility for what we are teaching the young.
What I witnessed that day has stayed with me not because it was unusual, but because it was ordinary.
That ordinary cruelty reflects a deep social rot that we must uproot. It reminded me that we have a long way to go in reclaiming our pride and dignity.
We cannot allow ignorance to masquerade as humour. We cannot laugh at the very things that keep us shackled to self-contempt.
Each of us must become deliberate in teaching pride, love and unity. We must actively replace shame with honour and silence with correction.
One day, I hope our laughter under the tree will not be at another’s pain, but in happiness and solidarity.
I hope the children in our neighbourhoods will grow up hearing not insults but affirmations, not mockery but encouragement.
The seed we plant today in the minds of our children will determine the kind of society we live in tomorrow.
If we teach them to love their blackness, to see it as a gift rather than a burden, then perhaps one day no child will cry for being called “Blackie.”
Instead, they will stand tall, proud and radiant — knowing that their skin carries the story of strength, resilience and beauty.
Who bewitched us? Perhaps it no longer matters. What matters is that we wake up, heal the wound, and teach our children to walk tall in their own skin.
Because until we learn to love being black, we will remain our own oppressors — laughing under trees while our children cry.
