The Lunch Date Part 7.5

Read Part 1 here   Read Part 2 here   Read Part 5 here
Read Part 3 here   Read Part 4 here   Read Part 6 here
Read Part 7.1 here Read Part 7.2 here  
Read Part 7.3 here Read Part 7.4 here
He watched her carefully as the meeting progressed, trying to be surreptitious about it. Aside from his parents, Morrison and Iya’s assistant, no one at Morrison & Roth knew of their affair. He and Iya had always kept their visible relationship friendly and professional. The emotions he was feeling right now, however, would be visible in his eyes if anyone saw him looking at her. The questions loomed in his mind.Was she or wasn’t she? And if she was, then was the baby his? Or Max’s? Sebastian pushed the thought away. Iya wouldn’t have kept on sleeping with Max after they rekindled their affair…or would she ? He was after all her husband.  A baby could be the one thing that pushed Iya and Max to work on their marriage. Which would mean he would lose her forever. 
Dread curled in his stomach.
Get a grip man, you don’t even know if she is actually pregnant. He chided himself quietly. 
At the front of the executive conference room of Morrison & Roth’s New York Office, his father spoke in his quiet but authoritative voice, discussing the outline of the direction the company was to go in as they expanded their reach into the African continent. He spoke mostly with the people who had put together the project. They had an office in Durban, South Africa but they intended to set up more banks in other African capitals. They had initially been targeting Lagos, Nigeria  and Dar es Salaam, Tanzania for the pilot project but the recent conflict in Nigeria had pushed them further out West to Accra, Ghana. The project had been Iya’s baby and the plan was for her to take on management of the region. He watched her calmly and competently answer his father and Roger Morrison’s probing questions and swelled with pride. They’d both come a long way since those coffee soaked days at Cornell spent poring over business and finance text books. She had assumed with everybody else that control of the project and the eventual responsibility of directing the African region would go to Navnit Bharathan with whom she had worked on the project. Navnit worked with their Durban office and had better contacts within the business community in Africa. Navnit was also loyal to Morrison. The elder Roth had made it clear that he wanted his own person taking point on this project. It had taken some arm twisting and outright bullying but the voting members of the board had voted in Iya’s favor. His father and the elder Morrison had apprised him of the decision earlier that morning, in the limo that had picked them up from La Guardia airport where they had flown in from Chicago to attend this meeting. He had wanted to tell Iya  in person before they had filed into the conference room. He had wanted to privately enjoy her celebration before anyone else, but she had been no where to be found. She avoided non professional contact with his parents like the plague. It would be at the end of this meeting that the announcement would be made.
The position would likely make enormous demands on her time and energy and would need her to spend significant amounts of time in Durban, Accra and Dar. She would have to travel constantly between the three countries in the upcoming years. Would she be able to while carrying a child and then caring for a newborn? What would Max think? What did he think? The baby could be his own blood for all he knew. Another thought popped in his head as he sneaked a glance at her. What would the board think when they found out that they had entrusted one of the company’s biggest and most delicate projects to a woman who was about to become a mother? The reaction was bound not to be a good one and the Morrison faction certainly could leverage that to their advantage. Iya deserved this promotion. She may not have the contacts Navnit did but she was  just as, if not more, brilliant and she had worked on the project just as much as he had. Plus it would make the company look very, very good to have an African woman at the helm of their first foray into the choppy and complicated waters of the African financial markets. 
Nathan Roth finished the reviewing the outline and smiled after sharing a nod with Morrison. 
“Excellent work as always, folks. This is a go then.  Navnit and Iya have coordinated this from the start and will both continue to coordinate through phase one. We are, however, assigning ultimate project control and responsibility to Iya.” He focused his gaze on Iya, who looked a little shell shocked.  “Successful completion of this venture is your path to managing directorship of the African division of Morrison & Roth, Mrs. Litumbe. Congratulations. I am positive you will not disappoint.” 
The room erupted into polite applause, the expressions on people’s faces ranging from shock (mostly the assistants), through approval, to barely suppressed anger. Navnit’s face was a smooth mask of civility as he congratulated Iya. Morrison had obviously warned him ahead of time.  He gave her a hug which managed to be friendly, despite the antagonism Sebastian knew the other man felt. Iya looked his way and Sebastian felt his breath hitch. Her face was luminescent with her joy even though a faint worry line marred its brown perfection and her eyes looked slightly panicked. He knew than that his suspicions were correct. 
Iya was pregnant.  She had met every other professional challenge with cool and collected grace but this, the highlight of her career brought out panic. 
He tried to smile reassuringly, giving her a thumbs up but she shifted her gaze away quickly. Another realization hit him. 
The baby was likely his.
Iya avoided his eyes only when she was trying desperately to hide something from him. She knew he could read her body language easily and that her eyes were the first giveaway.  He was lost in his thoughts but his head whipped up and towards his father when he heard the name Hammond. 
I’m sure you all know that Kyle, Secretary Hammond’s son is running for Congressman here in New York.” His father was saying. “We are supporting that campaign. Bob Hammond has been friends with both Roger and I since our school days and he has been a friend to this company. I am saying this in the interest of full disclosure. We don’t hide who we back politically and the Hammond kid is going places his father never did. We want to stay on board that ship.”
Nathan Roth met his son’s eyes then, his gaze, previously warm now shuttered and cold. 
“Secretary Hammond and his wife Carol will be joining us for lunch, after this” he said “They’d like to personally thank us for our donation. They will be accompanied by Kyle and his wife Josie, their other son Andy, his wife Adelaide and their daughter Carolyn. Carolyn’s a pistol. She’s about to start undergrad at Harvard and will be interning with us for the summer. She’ll be on this project with you and Navnit.” The elder Roth nodded towards Iya as he spoke.
Sebastian felt his jaw slacken and it took all his self control not to let his mouth drop open in shock. The familiar red hot ball of anger that always accompanied thoughts of Kyle Hammond expanded in his chest. What in the fucking hell was his father doing? Casually he leaned back in his chair, using the movement to look at Iya. She stared straight ahead, her eyes glazed over, her back ramrod straight, her pallor grey instead of the warm brown it normally was. Her lips moved silently and her chest rose and fell erratically even as her fingers clenched and unclenched on the pen she held.
Son of a bitch. Sebastian thought to himself, knowing immediately that she was in the beginning stages of a panic attack. He swung his gaze back to his father, his father who had followed his gaze to Iya. The elder Roth was looking at Iya’s pale drawn face, a nasty, satisfied gleam in his eyes as he took in her rapidly deteriorating state. Sebastian did the only thing he could do. He made as if to adjust in his chair but casually tipped over the stack of leather bound folders which contained details of the project. They fell to the carpeted floor in multiple thuds. They also tipped over his glass of water and it spilled into this lap, drenching his shirt and pants.
“Sorry about that…” He said smoothly, pushing back his chair to stand up, effectively pulling everyone’s attention. He waved away the help of the assistants who scrambled forward to help. “Ah…hell…” he looked down at his soaked crotch and then up at the room, his face heating up. “I’m gonna have to change. I apologize folks, please carry on.” 
He caught his father’s eyes and gave him a murderous look. Nathan Roth was no fool. He knew that the spill had not been an accident. He quickly dismissed the meeting, after making a joke about Sebastian’s accident. 
“Dad? A word?” Sebastian said loud enough for Nathan and everyone else in the room to hear, then he left the room, fury running like fire in his blood. He hoped Iya found a way to get out of the room quickly. The distraction was the best chance he could give her. He wanted to kill his father. Wanted to pound his fist into the elder Roth’s face till it was bloody and broken. It was outright cruel what he had done, not just to invite the whole Hammonds clan here knowing what Kyle had done to Iya, but to have invited them on the one day Iya couldn’t exactly excuse herself from the meeting. And then to put Bob Hammond’s granddaughter, the project Iya was leading, meaning she would have to mentor the girl. It was incomprehensible.
His long legs made short work of the walk to his suite of offices. He glanced back only once to make sure his father was following. 
He was. 
It was also good that the executive suites were sound proof because what he was about to do would dismantle the company his family had spent their entire existence creating.
It was with great effort and self control that Iya managed to smile and thank the people who still wanted to congratulate her on her imminent promotion, after the meeting was adjourned. She finally excused herself saying she wanted to call her husband to share the news and escaped on shaking legs to her office suite. The moment she was behind closed doors, the true horror of what was about to happen sunk in. For the first time since that fateful night she would be expected to talk to Kyle Hammond directly. Not just Kyle, with Carol and Adelaide and Andy. Not just talk, make nice and reassure them that Carolyn Hammond would be in the most capable hands.
She began to tremble, cold to her core even though her skin felt feverishly hot. She kicked off her shoes, shrugged out of her suit jacket and stripped off the rope of pearls around her neck even as she struggled to gasp in air into her lungs through her constricting airways. She clenched and relaxed her muscles, breathing shallowly and tried desperately to stop the panic attack that was brewing wild.
Sebastian. She needed Sebastian. But he was not here. Where was he? 
She made it over to her small refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water. She gulped it down within seconds and pulled out another. She rubbed the cold bottle against her forehead, then her temples, down to her neck, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth, still trying to calm her racing mind.
Why would Nathan Roth do this? He knew everything. He couldn’t possibly have forgotten. He had to know that facing the Hammonds with barely any warning would be near impossible for her. He had to know that this arrangement for their granddaughter would be a nightmare for her. He had to know.
He knows. The thought came unbidden to her. He knows exactly what he is doing. He knows exactly what effect it would have and he did it purposefully because he wants to push you to leave. He must know about your affair with Sebastian. Must know about the video Morrison has and this is his was of cleaning up. He knows you will never agree to the terms he has set. He expects you to back out right here, right now as you try to get as far away from the Hammonds as you can. He has drawn the line and showing you whose side this company is firmly on and what your options are if you plan to stay with them.
Iya felt a hot surge of anger as the realization dawned on her. The sad thing was, he was right. There was no way in hell she would mentor Bob Hammonds granddaughter or put herself in any position where she would have to deal with the Hammonds again, whether personally or professionally. 
Had Sebastian known? He had not looked surprised when her unexpected promotion had been announced which meant most likely he had. The least he could have done was warn her by text or something. Her initial panic morphed into rage. How could he have kept this from her? How could he?
The possibility of his betrayal burned in her stomach. 
A knock on her door. 
Certain it would be Sebastian, she called out for the person at the door to enter.
Kyle Hammond walked into her office.
“Hello, Iya.” He smiled as he sauntered in.  It was the same predatory smile from the cafeteria at Cornell. “You look well.”
At first, she thought the cramping pain was from clenching her stomach muscles to calm her anger but she soon realized that the source of the cramps was lower in her belly, deeper. They felt almost like menstrual cramps except… Iya froze as she felt the warm sticky wetness trickling down her inner thigh…
Oh God NO!
Read Part 7.6 here

The Lunch Date Pt 7.4

Read Part 1 here   Read Part 2 here   Read Part 5 here
Read Part 3 here   Read Part 4 here   Read Part 6 here
          Read Part 7.1 here Read Part 7.2 here  Read Part 7.3 here
“Yekouni, I am dying.”
“Yes mama.” Mabel’s voice was hoarse from crying. It sounded small to her ears, weak.
“You will go and stay with Tata Bernadette and finish upper sixth. She has the money I have saved for you and she will sell the house to add to those funds. Make sure you prepare for your A Levels. You must pass and pass very well. I have spoken with Uncle Dieudonné. He has already started looking for a school for you in America. The money I have will cover all your tuition for maybe a year, so you must get scholarships. Listen carefully and do everything Dieudonné  tells you to do when the time comes. He works for a school there so he will know.”
Mabel nodded silently.
“I don’t want you in this country after upper sixth. You must make sure you leave. People know about my illness and those stories will continue to follow you. Serge will also make sure you can’t get a good job here, he is vindictive. I am also afraid of his people. So leave. Go to America and don’t ever come back here. Promise me that.”
“I promise, Mama.” 
“Good. When you go there, study something substantial. I’m not going to tell you what to do. You are smart and you can do anything you put your mind to. Whatever you choose make sure it results in a real job that pays you well.”
Beatrice Mbemba paused to cough. The hollow, hacking sound continued for the next ten minutes and her emaciated form shook so violently with each gasp, Mabel feared she would break. Tuberculosis was a hard disease. Tuberculosis made worse by HIV was a harsher combination. Mabel rubbed her mother’s back and held the folded towel up to her lips as she coughed. The pristine white of the towel was soon speckled with the telltale greenish yellow blood streaked phlegm. The coughing subsided but Beatrice continued to wheeze, struggling to fill her lungs with air. It was a horrible sound, desperate and hollow. Almost a death rattle. Mabel fought back tears as she murmured reassuringly to her mother.
The portable oxygen concentrator Dieudonné, her mother’s brother, had sent from America lay unused in a corner. It had been like a gift sent from heaven when it had arrived, helping Beatrice to breathe a little easier even as the deadly virus ravaged her body. But it had malfunctioned and no one had been able to repair it. Dieudonné  was going to send another one but Beatrice had refused. She’d asked him to save that money for Mabel, who would need his help after her death. 
The wheezing eventually subsided and Beatrice sank back into her pillows. Mabel cleanedher mother’s face and discarded the towel into the bucket of bleach kept in the room. She washed her hands  and then brought a glass of water  to her mother. The routine was one she had performed hundreds of times in the last months. Beatrice  sipped at the water gratefully. When she could speak again, her words pulled startled laughter out of Mabel.
“All my life, I dreamed of  a life where I didn’t have to do anything but lay in bed and be tended to, head to toe like a queen. Who knew all I had to do all along was get AIDS?”
“Mama… Don’t make jokes like that” Mabel said, smiling in spite of her bitterness and crushing sorrow. She sat down again next to her mothers reclining form and fixed the sheet covering her, tucking the edges in around the frail body that once used to be lush and full. A blanket would have been too heavy for the Douala heat. seeping in from outside despite the efforts of the ceiling fan. They had turned off the air conditioning to save money.
“But if I don’t, how else will I see your beautiful smile, my darling daughter? I love your smile. So like your grandmothers. I don’t want you to lose that smile, Yekouni.”
“How can I smile,Mama? How can I smile?” The tears that she had been fighting spilled down her face. She buried her face in the crook of her mothers arm, careful to be gentle. The lesions on Beatrice’s body had spread as her condition declined. The doctor had said that this was a sign that her immune system was already severely compromised.  “You are dying Mama. How can I smile?”
“I know, my sweet  baby. I know. And I am so sorry you have to see me go like this. I wish I could change all the decisions I took that led me here. But I can’t.”
“You did what you had to do to survive, Mama.” Mabel said her voice hard.  “…and you were faithful. He is the one who slept with all those other girls and then blamed it on you.”
Serge, her mother’s lover, had refused to pay for antiretroviral therapy even though his position as director general of the Cameroonian branch of a H.W Telecom a South African company providing 4G mobile technology to Cameroons elite, meant that he could easily afford them. He had accused Beatrice of infecting him with the virus, conveniently ignoring his predilection for the underage prostitutes whose presence in Douala and Yaounde was an increasing source of concern in those cities. So sure was he of his conviction, he’d carried out a vicious but private campaign of vengeance on her.
Beatrice was not a stupid woman. She had used her connection to Serge to build cyber cafes which used 4G in Douala, Yaounde and Buea. She had also started a mobile phone retailing business of her own, importing the latest models of phones, tablets and accessories to sell. The profits from those ventures was what had enabled her to live relatively easy, take care of her family and send her daughter to the best schools she could afford. It was also what had enabled her to purchase the treatments for herself after her disease was diagnosed. Business had dried up, Serge having cut her out of the 4G deal and blacklisted her among her suppliers. Soon enough, Beatrice had decided to stop purchasing treatments and save the money she would have been spending to secure her daughters future.
“I am the one who stayed with him even after I knew about his indiscretions. I am the one who stayed even though it was clear he would never marry me or love me like I loved him.” There was sadness in Beatrice’s voice. She had loved Serge deeply despite his faults. And the contracts he had sent her way had meant the difference between a miserable life and one with some promise for her and her daughter.
Her mother had named her Mabel to respect the wishes of her father, who had liked the name. But she had stopped using the name, reverting instead to the name she had given, the name which was her own mother’s name. Mabel suspected it was because using the name her father had chosen reminded Beatrice of her first love who had died in a car accident on the famously deadly Tiko-Douala road ,when Mabel was barely a toddler. 
 “Yes, Mama?”
“You have to promise me one more thing.” Beatrice made sure her daughter was looking her straight in the eyes before she spoke. 
“They say a woman’s virginity is the most precious thing she has. That virtue is an organ put between your legs by biology and its functions, all of them, are pure biology and nothing else. The most precious thing you have is your trust, your devotion, your unconditional love. Don’t give it away lightly. Don’t ever trust a man to take care of you. Never make yourself that vulnerable. I don’t care how much you love him or what promises he makes or what he has. You must always be able to stand by yourself. Don’t ever give a man control over your life. Ever. Until he has proven himself worthy beyond doubt, do not change an inch of who you are to accommodate him and even then, it has to be give and take.”
Beatrice paused to cough again and Mabel tended to her gently, repeated the familiar routine. When Beatrice could speak, she continued.
“Be happy, my child. Live your life fearlessly. There are risks you must take but always be careful. Do not lose yourself for anything or anyone. And not for love. Especially not for love.”
“Yes, mama.”
Beatrice had taken her daughter’s hand  in hers and held it silently. The gesture communicated everything else she wanted to say but could not say given how exhausted the incessant  coughing had made her. The room remained silent, the whirling fan and crickets outside being the only noises Mabel could hear. Her mother had chosen Bali in Douala to build her home because it was quieter and respectable enough to shield her from the busier commercial neighborhoods but was not as expensive to live in, as Bonapriso where all the foreigners and richer Cameroonians live. She was grateful for the silence now. She felt so tired. So tired. Aside from her aunt Bernadette who stopped by to check in on her, she had  assumed all responsibility for the care of her mother after she had been discharged from the Laquintinie Hospital – sent home to die because she could no longer afford to stay in the hospital. Night and day, she tended her mother, watched over her. Talked with her, bathed her, fed her, watched her wither away, dying slowly but surely as the virus given to her by the man she loved, the man who had refused to help her in her time of greatest need, destroyed her body.
I will never love a man who cannot be there for me one hundred percent. Mabel swore to herself even as her eyes fluttered and her body gave into her exhaustion.  I will never love someone who would not give me back everything I give him. Never.
Her mother’s hand was stone cold when she woke up the next morning.
Mabel came awake from the dream, which was more a memory than a dream, with a sob. Her chest weighed down with the heaviness of a loss so deep her sorrow and heart break was still plunging to find the depths.
Her promise to her mother echoed in her mind.
She knew then what she had to do. 

Read Part 7.5 here

On Marriage Again…

I’ve ranted before about people (both male and female) without even the simplest understanding of what it means to be feminist opining on the feminist agenda. Simply defined, a feminist is a person (male or female) who believes in and advocates for social, political, legal, and economic rights for women equal to those of men. 
Take a moment to think about that.
If I were to break it down further, it means a person who believes in and is working for a world where “…because you are a woman/girl…” is no longer a reason for a woman or girl, who is aware of and willing to deal with the consequences, not to do/say/be whatever she wants.
This does not in anyway suggest that feminists hate men, even though because we refuse to pander to the male ego and are quite often outspoken about the dumbfoolery of men, people think we are. Also, this does not in any way suggest that feminists do not want to get married. This is another conclusion that many people jump to which I find  completely bewildering. 
A friend recently made a comment to me along the lines of “So…I’m guessing you’re not going to get married, since you’re a feminist.” Most people who know me well know that I am not a patient person. I am prone to sarcasm and snark so it was quite an effort on my part not to roll my eyes and respond accordingly.
This is a bit of a silly question. A silly question because it comes from the erroneous assumption that it is the natural state of women to want to get married (it isn’t), and be subservient and without any agency and as such, being feminist is a deviation from the norm. Also, it ignores the fact that women have not yet and for the last 2000 years at least, have not been given the option of living in a world where marriage for  the sake of sheer survival sometimes, wasn’t a necessity or a requirement from society, so it is hard to define the “natural state of women” where marriage is concerned. We do know that many men choose not to get married, with barely any repercussions or  condemnation from society, because they simply can.
So anyway, this is what I told her.

Marriage is not a goal I have set for myself. If I eventually meet a guy who I get along with well enough to make that commitment, a guy whose philosophy towards life aligns well enough with mine and with whom I feel confident that we will make a cohesive family unit and raise secure and balanced children, then sure. If that doesn’t happen, I will not consider myself to have failed at life because, again, getting married is not a goal I have set for myself. Do I date? Yes. Do I enjoy the company of men? Absolutely. My female parts are in perfect working order, thank you very much. Do I approach every relationship or friendship as the first step towards finding a husband? Nope. Will I die if I never get married? No. Will it get lonely? Yes. Will I like it? Not always. But will I marry just because that’s what is expected? Nope. 

Did this happen automatically? Nope. I grew up in Cameroon which like many other African countries is patriarchy central, and I cut my teeth on romance novels so up until my late teens, I rolled with the age old dream of having it all : education, job, man, babies and success was defined as having all those things. It is a process I am putting myself through, deliberately, to unlearn that way of thinking.
Why am I doing this?
It is a quintessentially African thing to see women who are brilliant and accomplished, beautiful human beings with a lot to offer the world, but who are depressed and convinced that they fail at life because they have not married and have no children. I have no intentions whatsoever of becoming one of those. My worth and usefulness as a human being is not ultimately tied to whether I bag a man and bear children.
This is a choice I am making for myself, a path I am choosing.
This is hard for some people to believe. 
I get told, “Oh you’re young, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Once you hit X age, your views will change.”
“You’re going to get lonely…”
Etc Etc


Right. Which maybe is why I am starting now, at this young age of  mine, to condition myself out of that mind set and into the mind set of being able to live a life and be happy even if I am unmarried and childless at said X age – to create the life I want.
It is not to say marriage and children is a bad thing. It is beautiful. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t stalk the Nigerian Weddings Facebook page and fantasize. I still get in my feelings when I see two people who are so in love with each other it’s like an aura around them. I attended a friend’s wedding recently and watching them make those vows to each other was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. One of my supervisors at school just had a baby boy and seeing how she relates with her baby, the love, the devotion is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Do I want those things? Of course I do. But is achieving those things a parameter by which I will judge my worth as a human being, as a woman?
Hell no.

Read my first thoughts  on marriage here

Not The Struggle I Signed Up For

First of all, this is not me saying white guys are better or anything silly like that. The first and only guy who ever tried to stick his fingers in my panties – in full view of everyone on the dance floor – was a white guy. They may or may not know where his body is. 
Kidding… but I came close. Close. 
Anyway yeah, let me throw that in there before the reading comprehension challenged come at me because you see, being a black woman in this space where one constantly has to negotiate these two dynamics usually means that you can’t even criticize any thing a black guy does without the “throwing brothers under the bus” accusation getting lobbed at you.
But I will throw them under the bus. Heck. I will tie them up, toss them on the street and drive the damn bus myself in this case because I. Cannot. Deal. With. It. Anymore.
Picture this.
You and your girls are out and you just happen to find yourselves at a bar/club where the black:white ratio is a little lopsided, as it tends to be the case quite often here in the Midwest. But the music is good and the drinks are cheap and post racial America, so you go in and swing into things. You’re dancing and having an all round good time and inevitably a guy comes up and tries to dance with you.
This is how it usually goes down, for me at least. 
If he’s white, he usually just wants to dance and maybe eventually get your number. If you say no, he almost always will back off.  If he’s brave, drunk or stupid enough, he will try other shenanigans in which case he gets the “eye,” at which point every single stereotype he’s heard about angry black women probably runs through his head and he backs off. 
The black guys are of three kinds:
1. Those who are normal and respectful and out to have a good time. They will be visibly disappointed if you turn them down but they will back off.
2. Those who don’t mess with black girls. As Luvvie would say… “All the welps that ever welped in Welpington.”
3. Those who come in expecting that since y’all are the only black folks in there, it is your civic duty bestowed upon you by Martin Luther King  himself to dance with them. 
It is with Type 3 that I have a problem. 
These are the ones who will refuse to take a hint. These are the ones who if you dared to agree to dance with them, will never leave your side for the rest of the evening. These are the ones who will follow you around the room silently stalking you. The ones who will cuss you out for the horrible act of rejecting them. These are the ones who eventually you either have to call security, pretend to be lesbian or pretend to have a boyfriend lurking in the corners waiting to kick his ass to kingdom come if he doesn’t leave you alone (I used two of those three tactics last night). And if you turned them down and danced with a white guy, some of them will actually have the nerve (as one did last night) to come up to you and accuse you of “only liking white guys.”
First of all, notice I didn’t say I have a problem with Type 2. We all have preferences, whatever they are based on and I have neither the time nor the energy to dissect that. 
But I have had it with black guys who have trouble managing their insecurities and shitty behavior and want to put it on me and other black girls. No, asshole. It’s not that I only like white guys, I just don’t want to dance with you or any of your friends who would stand back and let you act like such a dipshit. Martin Luther King didn’t die so you and your boys can have unlimited access to black  girls on the dance floor. 
This body right here? It’s mine to do with as I wish. If Vulcan or Klingon or Wookiee from Kashyyyk is what makes this body feel good, Vulcan or Klingon or Wookiee is what this body is getting and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it. 
Besides, I don’t see them lobbing accusations at their brothers who only mess with anything but black girls. 
I will fight for your right to be treated as a human being. I will ride or die for you when the law treats you unfairly and you don’t get  the justice you deserve. I will do my best to uphold you as more than what society has painted you to be. I will do all this even though quite often you brothers drop the ball in doing the same for us. But I will never hold you any less accountable for how you treat me and my sisters. If making that comparison is what will drive the point home, then so be it. 

This is not The Struggle I signed up for.