After the latest Boko Haram massacre, I called my brother in Nigeria — and finally started to understand what I’ve been missing.
In a year in which we saw time and time again how little black lives matter in the U.S. it was a sad reminder that to most Americans, African lives mean even less.
I couldn’t understand it. Why is it like this? Why can’t people see? Racism, yes, but not just racism; people I know to be dedicated to social justice had nothing to say about what had happened in Borno State.
But in the height of my self-righteous outrage I realized something: I hadn’t talked to my brother.