The Cult Of The Black Man - A White Woman Seduced And Bilked By A Canny Nigerian Scammer

Vicki Cabot gave unusual love a try - not today's meme of lesbian and transgender love and Folsom Street Fair S&M - but love with a Nigerian.

Her mother warned her against the relationship.  'They are scammers to a man', she said.  Her husband who worked for the World Bank had a No Nigeria clause in his contract.  So many of his colleagues had negotiated the same codicil that finding loan officers for the multi-million contracts concluded with the Nigerian government was well nigh impossible. 

'A shithole', said Frank Cabot who had learned his lesson the hard way, traveling to Lagos as a Bank intern, harassed and shaken down at the airport with not enough money to pay the bribes demanded by the taxi driver and hotel clerk, he sought refuge in his embassy after he had given up his silk ties, Rolex, and Armani suspenders.

The reputation of Nigeria was well deserved.  No one came out of there in one piece, thousands were conned by online fraud every day, and most savvy Washingtonians checked cabs for Nigerian drivers before getting in. 

Lagos was a stinking, festering slum.  Whatever money had been realized from the sale of Niger delta oil - before Exxon, Shell, and Gulf had pulled out, went into offshore bank accounts with nothing left to run the country.  In short order the whole country had become a toxic, gang-run, miserable, lawless place. 

'He's a professor', Vicki told her father who was unmoved.  A scam too, he said, informing her of the thousands of fraudulent CVs the Bank got every day from Nigerian 'professors'.  'They scam you coming and going', her father said, 'corrupt, dishonest, shady and nasty from the word go'; but Vicki had been charmed by this suave, polished African who treated her like the Queen of Sheba, and who was as far from the stereotype painted by her father as the man in the moon. 

Or so she thought.  The man, Adrian Adebayo, was as crooked as they come, in the United States on an overstayed tourist visa, and on the prowl for susceptible, credulous, and naive young women like Vicki.

'I hit the jackpot', he told his friends back in Lagos, for Vicki was the heiress of a considerable fortune.  Her father might be an international civil servant on salary, but her inheritance was unimaginable.  The offspring of one of Boston's finest families, first in line among the grandchildren of the patriarch of the family, she was the jewel in the crown. 

Now, why Vicki got caught in this tender trap is a simple story of doing the right thing. At college she had been convinced that the black man was at the top of the human pyramid. but because of slavery, Jim Crow, and persistent racism, he foundered at the bottom.  With effort, desire, and hard work, American society would be soon reconfigured and the black man would be restored to his primal place. 

Nonsense, of course. Brown University was not exactly an unbiased institution of higher learning, and had been coopted by social reformists and was now fully in their hands.  The administration, the faculty, and the students were all part of the same political cabal. The whole campus marched to the same drummer, flew the same flag, and prayed to the same gods. 

Where possible young white girls hooked up with black men, admitted to the university under a liberal affirmative action program, and who like every pimp from the ghetto were on the prowl for nubile white girls. There was a pecking order among the student body at Brown.  At the top were girls dating black men, then girls in lesbian relationships, then gay men together, and finally bi-sexual students who were testing the waters but had not yet committed to one side or the other.

Vicki, was an unfortunately homely girl who might have inherited Grandfather Cabot's money but none of the patrician, graceful look of the women of the family. Somewhere along the line she got a Jewish look - sallow skin, prominent nose and lips, and untamable hair.  She was often asked by her Brown classmates if she had changed her name. 

She was the perfect mark for Adrian Adebayo - a homely woman trained in the fantasies of cultural diversity and the myth of the black man.  The way into her treasury was as simple as could be.   

Vicki was not Adrian's first score.  He had been quite the man about town, showing up at progressive conferences, seminars, and public events.  He had enough money to keep him above water until he hit the jackpot - his second cousin had made his fortune in a devious but impressive Somali-like fraud in Atlanta, a Ponzi scheme where millions were invested in shell companies, and all of it siphoned off to Aruban banks. 

He had almost made it.  If it hadn't been for an annoyingly investigative father, he would have tied the knot with Alison Parker, a girl like Vicki born and bred in a culture of privilege and wealth and a graduate of Duke (where she had been immersed in the same cauldron of diversity and black idolatry as Brown).  

To her tears and flapdoodle, he left town before the old man called in ICE; but he had learned his lesson.  Chicanery has its limits, and the careful plotter must cross all the American t's and dot all the i's. 

Adrian and Vicki got married over the wild protests of her parents. His visa was regularized, the path to citizenship assured, and the marriage contract concluded without punitive codicils.  In short order he was legal, free, and rich, and was never heard from again. 

Now, Vicki, chastened, humiliated, and shamed should have at least admitted her 'miscalculation' as she called it, apologized to her father for having dismissed his warnings, and gone on to a more stable emotional and political life.

But she insisted that Adrian was a good man, and to throw him in with a bunch of thieves and worse to condemn an entire country and a whole continent was wrong, exactly the kind of racist opinions that set back the cause of the black man for decades. She had been blinded by his attentions, his demeanor and yes, although the hated to admit it, by his extraordinary sexual endowment.  

This had always been the worst racial stereotype in the white grab bag, but when it turned out to be true, she was as surprised as any white, liberal woman would be, but quite happy about it.  Serviced by this black man every night was a pleasure few women could imagine. 

No, Adrian might have had his faults; and yes, she was bilked and deceived by him, but all the more reason to blame colonialism for the persistent underdevelopment of Africa. He was a victim of oppression and racism, and it was white people's duty - her duty - to fight for the black man wherever he lived. 

Vicki was a defiantly unreconstructed liberal.  The roots of progressivism planted during her Brown days were still deep and strong.  Other weaker, less committed women might have turned conservative, tossed aside the whole idea of cultural diversity, and stuck to their own kind; but not Vicki. Political commitment and the philosophy which provides its foundation are not so easily dismissed.  She would be lifelong progressive, a believer in racial justice, and the lover of a proud black man. 

Why Hate Feels So Good - Social Justice And The Happy Jamboree Of Trump Loathing

Vicki Marks hated Donald Trump with a passion, and so did her friends, neighbors, and colleagues.  It was a friendly cabal of hate - nods on streetcorners, stories over the picket fence, knowing smiles, and bus rides to rallies.  

It felt good to hate, and never before in her lifelong progressivism had it felt so good.  This time around it was a soul-cleansing release.  After scouring the pots for so many years, rasping away at conservative backwardness and ignorance, now she could be as mad, foul-tempered, unrestrained like never before.  There was evil in the White House and nothing but exorcism would do. 

Each one of her venting moments with Margot down the street or Beatrice in the office or Henrietta at the gym was satisfying in a way simple political commitment was not.  There was a fire in her belly like never before.  Her life had new meaning, a clear and present purpose, a clear line of fire, an unquenchable desire. 

She was a glutton for news about Trump and flipped channels between CNN and MSNBC every morning over coffee, watched the news on the monitors at the gym, surfed the dark web for information about Trump's insider trading, collusion, corruption, and moral failure.  She fueled her hatred from the moment she woke up until the moment she went to bed.  Even her dreams were feverish with hatred. 

As counterintuitive as it may sound, hatred was happy time, an emotional orgasm for a crackly, older single woman who had been too picky to settle for second best, and a first best man had never come her way - not in the coffee houses of the East Village, not in her 9th Street non-profit, not on the barricades, and not in holding pens.  Politics is not simply a matter of preference or logical conclusion, it is the heart and soul of a person, and enhances or deforms as if it were a magic potion or vile poison. 

Vicki's hate was oxymoronic - it both rotted and corroded her insides and twisted and deformed every aspect of her outer self but gave her unlimited joy.  She might be as unappealing as a Wicked Sister, but she was bursting with joy every time she sallied forth with one of her untethered, bitter attacks on those who strayed from the progressive canon. 

The more bile that built up, the more venom that filled her viperous sacs, the more hate she felt, the happier she was.  Such hate was not a perverse obsession but the emotional force behind her sense of identity, self-esteem, and worth. 

Today was No Kings rally day on the National Mall, the biggest, most exuberant anti-Trump jamboree in the nation.  It would be featured on national television, covered widely in the press.  Thousands of women like herself would join hands and lock arms in solidarity and in mutual hatred for the incarnation of the devil. 

She couldn't wait, got up early, fed her cats who were surprised at getting fed before sunup, took her morning run under the streetlights, and waited on the stoop for the bus to come by. This was to be her day, a day like no other, a halcyon day. 

It felt so good to be with her sisters on this sparkling clear May day that she wanted to kiss them, hold them tight, go off with them and be happy forever.  They shouted, waved banners, chanted in a chorus of powerful women's voices, so much so that they almost forgot the object of their calumny, the beast in the White House.  The thousand voices ringing out from the Capitol to the Washington Monument was life-affirming, joyous, and spiritual. 

There was nothing like it.  Hate had become a raison d'etre, an expression of personhood, existential worth, and faith.  Vicki, tired but fulfilled after hours on the Mall and pub-crawling with her sisters up and down K Street, she went home. 

Few if any of these women could articulate exactly why they hated the President so much.  His policies and programs were classically conservative - closed borders, small government, private sector, strong military, traditional social values, patriotism, and individualism - and while he demonstrated a particular and unusual resolve in implementing them, he was well within Constitutional limits.  It was his opponents who resorted to fictitious claims, frivolous, unfounded lawsuits, left field impeachment attempts, and baseless information. 

Most of Vicki's friends when asked gave that 'Are you kidding?' look and railed on about racism, misogyny, homophobia, and mindless crony capitalism.  They refused to be pinned down because no pinning down was necessary.  The man's villainy was obvious, uncontested, there for all to see. 

Vicki's house seemed particularly empty this time around, perhaps because of the unbridled joy of such a large gathering, an epiphanic moment of solidarity and pure happiness; but there was a shadow of a doubt that fleetingly darkened her mood.  She was alone with her cats.  The plants needed watering. 

She shook off these morbid thoughts, rattled uncharacteristically around the kitchen, emptied the refrigerator and ate leftovers, put her head in her hands, and cried. 

'What am I doing?' she shouted, embarrassed, chagrined, and angry at herself for letting such pedestrian emotions overtake her.  She needed no man, no towheaded children, no backyard barbecues, not church dinners to make her happy.  She was as fulfilled as any woman could be. 

She looked at the calendar and saw every day filled with appointments, events, conferences, and seminars.  Every day was metro, boulot, dodo - yes, with more purpose and meaning than her neighbors who hopped on the N6 and spent laborious days at meaningless jobs; but somehow missing something, something she sensed was important but couldn't put her finger on. 

For the first time in months, she felt the bilious hatred for Donald Trump slip away.  She tried to conjure up images of him as a destroyer, a child killer, a Gestapo thug, a tyrant; but the old vaudevillian shtick was falling flat. Thank God tomorrow was the climate conference. 

Life went on like this, desultory, passionless, and increasingly morbidly without respite or recourse.  The die had been cast years ago and there was no wiggle room now.  A leopard cannot change its spots. Too many sunken costs, too much water under the dam. 

Furthermore, hate had become her personal zeitgeist.  It was as hardwired as any exogenous factor could be.  It was part of her persona.  How could it be dwindling away like this?  How could her very lifeblood be trickling from her veins?

'Is it too late?', she wondered, but could not finish the question.  Too late for what had never had to be asked; but too late for something other than this! A cat jumped on her lap but she threw it off into the corner, screeching and climbing up the curtains.  'So this is what it feels like', she thought; but there was still time to regain her footing, to rekindle the old fires, become a social justice warrior in the avant garde, the first phalanx. 

Yet, the next morning the funk had not disappeared and she had to face the day without that marvelously joyous hatred that greeted her as soon as she opened her eyes. 

'I couldn't have wasted my life', she said to herself, but that niggling doubt was there.  If after years of fighting the good fight for civil rights, gay rights, the climate, redistribution of wealth, diversity, and equity, conservatism was now the ethos of the land, the zeitgeist, the meme, what were her struggles worth?

Very little of course.  Epictetus had been right all along.  Take what comes, let it be, what goes around comes around.  La Dolce Vita is not so bad after all; but these a posteriori thoughts didn't do Vicki much good.  'You made your bed, solie in it' her mother used to say, and that was as pithy a nostrum as there ever was. 

Which didn't do Vicki any good whatsoever. 'I'm stuck'. she said; and like many old spinsters before her, fixed herself a lovely cup of tea. 

Trump In China, Haters Delight - Egg Foo Young, Chop Suey, And How Was I To Know? They All Look Alike

President Trump landed in Beijing yesterday (5.13.26) to fanfare, ceremony, and high expectations.  With him were thirty of America's top businessmen, the most influential leaders of the tech and information revolution in the country if not the world.  This was a delegation of import, weight, and influence, and it made clear that the President was bringing the captains of the new industry not only to advise him, but to show the Chinese that America was a world tech power and that concluding a favorable economic and political agreement would be in China’s interest.

 

As soon as the trip was announced, Trump haters raised a ruckus. Crony capitalism, they shouted, a Jewish cavalcade of stars, an adolescent-minded buffoon sent on a man's errand, a fool who thinks egg foo young is the jewel in the crown of Chinese cuisine, an idiot who said that he was unsure who to shake hands with 'since Chinese all look alike'. 

Maggie Flynn was well-armed for her anti-Trump screeds.  After saturating herself with every bit of damaging evidence that the trip was only in Trump's self-interest, and concluding that he was simply paving the way for post-Presidential deals for himself and his family, how could any reasonable person doubt his treachery?  

He had corralled the big men of Silicon Valley and strong-armed them to come on the China trip, threatening them with sanctions and federal investigation if they did not comply. With The Gang Of Thirty in tow, he set off on Air Force One. 

Of course he was in it to make money but for America. What else was there?  China held all the cards.  They held a whopping big piece of America's debt and could pull the plug at any time, thanks to the trillions in foreign currency and gold they held in reserve.  They, in a short space of time had become a world economic and military power, and thanks to Confucianism, their Mandarin empires, and a long history of racial and social unanimity they were strong, unified, and impregnable. 

As much as the American president at home was rolling back the worst of the divisive, corrosive, and damaging Leftist woke agenda, the country was still a side show of freakish identity politics - a clown show, the venality of Congress reeked with smarmy self interest, and the nation had lost its moral ethos.

Trump was going into the Chinese negotiations behind the eight ball and with not much of a leg to stand on.

Yet, who better to try than Trump, a man who made his living out of threat, intimidation, coercion, quid pro quo compromise, and favorable deals.  The best man to have in a card game where an opponent has all the cards - a card sharp, a bluffer, an intimidator - and Donald Trump, billionaire victor of the most brutal battlefield in the world, New York real estate, is just the man Americans should want at the table. 

 

And yet, but not surprisingly the Left wants him to fall on his face, to shame himself and the country, make ludicrous, outrageous statements far beyond the pale of diplomacy and making backroom deals with Chinese oligarchs.  

'Jews', said the haters.  There was no better sign of the international Jewish conspiracy than this stable of of Jews Trump was bringing along with him.  Icons of high tech? Yes, but in a conspiracy with Jewish bankers and financiers in collusion to establish a sub rasa power cabal of unimaginable proportions. The military alliance between the United States and Israel was no more than a cover for the expansion of world Zionism for the benefit of the Jews and the President of the United States. 

Maggie snarled at her husband who wished the President well.  'So do I', she said, but meant not a word of it.  The sooner the fool was exposed as the bigoted, capitalist tool that he was, the better.  She was as glued to the television as Nixon haters were in the days of Watergate, watching for, hoping for the stake that would be driven into the heart of the vampire of the Oval Office. 

She flipped channels and surfed the web.  CNN and MSNBC were not enough, BBC was too compromising. Commentary, The Nation, Politico, and the Daily Kos went straight to the point - the moral corruption of the President and his sycophantic family - but they too pulled their punches; so she went deep web and found arcane sites barely visible but untamed in their exposure of the President as man in the clutches of the international Jewish conspiracy, an autocrat in waiting, a bulldozing enemy of the people.  

The comments heard in Maggie’s neighborhood - a universally rock solid progressive enclave - were not surprisingly anti-Trump but this time their scorn and bilious hatred was completely unhinged.  'How will he know whose hand to shake', they laughed.  'All Chinese look alike'.  

His parade of high-tech entrepreneurs was nothing less than Robber Barons redux - a collusive billionaire cabal of men with no restraint, all marching together to engineer an AI takeover of industry, destroying the working man and his unions, creating financial instruments that beggared those of Enron, Jeffrey Skilling, and Bernie Madoff, deployed data centers in the heartland sucking energy and water, and helped engineer a two tiered American society - they, the billionaires, and everyone else. 

'Where's the egg foo young?', they chortled, 'and the chop suey?', imitating the President, a man who had not one sophisticated multicultural bone in his body and was bound to make a fool of himself in front of the world.  Yes, it would be embarrassing, but if it hastened the end of this bottom-feeding goon the better.

The Chinese politburo, reviewing the state of affairs in America had a good laugh over the No Kings rallies, the march of the transgenders on the National Mall, the hoopla over former slaves who were touted as the world's best and brightest hope, and the campus political frenzy which eroded any ethos of learning and academic excellence. 

Kowtowing to a race of racist pigs', Maggie’s neighbors said, referring to the Chinese Han hegemony.  'Tell it to the Uighurs', they said, unaware of the Muslim fundamentalism of the region which as everywhere else in the world threated civil order and social unity.  Trump wants to join the international cabal of dictators, Putin, Xi, and Trump, in an unholy alliance of soulless Machiavellian ambition, they added.   'Down with Trump', these otherwise recondite neighbors shouted.  

This China charade was the last straw, the neighbors agreed.  Destroying the federal bureaucracy in an attempt to distort and finally eliminate democratic, popular rule was one thing; sending SS Storm Troopers into American communities to round up and deport peaceful asylees was another, but this...this blatant, outrageous international collusion was more than they could take.  The guillotine was too good for this pretender, this usurper, this morally deformed creature. 

Maggie panted, breathless with the anger and hatred which had overcome her.  She stood there, open-mouthed, trembling, and lost in feverish apoplexy.  

She slowly made her way back home, but it - in all its quiet suburban charm - now seemed out of place.  Trump had defiled it, had corrupted it, had robbed it of any decency.  'What's a mother to do?' 

She rummaged through the medicine chest to see if any of her husband's hip replacement Oxycodone pills were left over, accidentally knocked the Tylenol and witch hazel into the sink, scrambled on the bottom shelf for that familiar brown plastic CVS container, and finally found them, a bit past their expiry date, but who was counting.  This day could not continue as it started. 

Trump didn't seem so bad after two Oxy, nothing did actually, so why not top it off with a stiff drink. 'I know it's a no-no', she said, 'but what the fuck', and with that she headed off into never-never land as happy as could be.