“On Monday evening, shortly after 8:00 pm, officers from the Minneapolis Police Department responded to the 3700 block of Chicago Avenue South on a report of a forgery in progress. Officers were advised that the suspect was sitting on top of a blue car and appeared to be under the influence. Two officers arrived and located the suspect, a male believed to be in his 40s, in his car. He was ordered to step from his car.
After he got out, he physically resisted officers. Officers were able to get the suspect into handcuffs and noted he appeared to be suffering medical distress. Officers called for an ambulance. He was transported to Hennepin County Medical Center by ambulance where he died a short time later. At no time were weapons of any type used by anyone involved in this incident.”
If like most of the people reading this article, you are in Nigeria, you might be confused, and possibly a little bored by what you just read? Why did I begin a BusinessDay column with what seems to be a mind-numbingly prosaic police report from an American police department? Well, mostly because what you have just read is a masterclass in how to use the language of politeness to conceal the most heinous of crimes and present a thoroughly distorted picture of reality to the world.
The “suspect” in question was none other than George Floyd – yes, the George Floyd. The one whose murder by Minneapolis Police officer Derek Chauvin sparked off the biggest transatlantic protest movement since the 2003 Iraq invasion. Did that police report about the “incident” strike you as the description of the brutal murder of an unarmed man using the cruelest form of asphyxiation available to the police officer? Obviously not. In fact, if you did not know who the report was about and what it referenced, you would have no idea that this innocently-described incident is the reason why Mo Salah and Kevin De Bruyne kneel down for one minute before playing in the Premier League every weekend.
How “polite” language assists oppression
Anyone who is familiar with the rules of journalistic writing would immediately understand what the Minneapolis Police Department did to present the brutal, unprovoked murder of an unarmed civilian by an overpumped man-child in uniform, as a boring, unimportant encounter with a suspect who “resisted.” First is the use of the passive voice. He “was ordered to step from his car.” Derek Chauvin didn’t order him – he was just ‘ordered’. That makes him the subject of the sentence, as against G.I. Testosterone with the uniform.
Officers “were able to get the suspect into handcuffs,” which implies that this took an almighty effort on their part against the hefty brute who “physically resisted officers.” He then “appeared to be suffering medical distress,” which again implies that He – not the police – somehow did something. Of course “medical distress” is left undefined. Was it a toothache? An allergic reaction? A paper cut? Or having oxygen cut off from his brain for several minutes by the weight of a full grown man’s knee on his neck? You would have no idea by reading this report.
In fact, the only reason we know George Floyd’s name today is that a nearby teenager Daniella Frazier, happened to record the entire encounter on her phone and post it on the internet, where it quickly went viral. Left to the Minneapolis Police Department and its transparently dishonest record of events, George Floyd would have apparently died of some unspecified “medical distress.” The report even stated that he “appeared to be under the influence” – a medical judgment that a police officer is not qualified to make by just looking at someone. Thus without video evidence, anyone reviewing this politely-written report would add 2 and 2 and arrive at “drug overdose.” Just another Black drug user dying on the cold streets of Minneapolis. Boo-hoo. Big whup.
I am NOT ‘Polite’
“You’re not really a journalist.” “You’re not a real journalist.” “This is not how proper journalism is done.” These are comments that have been thrown my way for years, both from people from outside and from within the media ecosystem in Nigeria.
“Real” journalists apparently have a specific look, tone and style that is supposed to be as milquetoast, middle-of-the-road and inoffensive as possible. A person who digs up important stories and delivers them in such a way as to be the exact opposite of inoffensive and bland is not apparently a journalist. Speaking about me, a Nigerian presidential spokesperson – himself formerly a journalist – said last year “I don’t know what this person does, but it isn’t journalism.”
I have always found these comments halfway between funny and bewildering. You see, I come from a country where the vast majority of its approximately 180 million residents have never experienced one week of uninterrupted power supply over the past 30 years. I was born and raised in a country where people are conditioned to think of their government and institutions of state as their enemies – a country where police officers regularly commit robbery and soldiers routinely commit rape. I always wonder – which part of Nigeria’s story exactly, is mild, inoffensive and comfortable for everyone? Every time I ask this question, nobody ever volunteers an answer.
Because of course, there is no answer. Nigeria is violent. It is offensive. It is deadly. And boldly so. If I have taken it upon myself to tell the story of a place that is suitably described by these adjectives, then how, pray tell, should the story be told in a way that will be polite and comfortable to interact with? And so I choose to be bold. I choose to be rude. I choose to be offensive. I choose to be uncomfortable. Because at heart, I believe that journalism is essentially storytelling. As my university Creative Writing instructor David Kennedy told me “In storytelling, show, don’t tell.”
We are all here today because of stories that have influenced our existence in one way or another. Our religions are based on stories. Our political beliefs are based on stories. Our social norms and cultures and products of storytelling. Nothing on this planet is more powerful than a well-told story. This is why power finds storytelling uncomfortable and tries to muzzle it – because by telling stories about how power steps on the people it should protect, journalists like me help to mobilise the consciousness of people to challenge power. Power does not like being challenged.
Today I am in political exile and unable to return home because power threatens my physical safety. Why? Because I have told stories. Stories that are provocative. Stories that do not leave you with a warm feeling in your stomach. Stories that sting. Stories that alarm. Stories that are offensive. Stories without a happy ending. That is my job as an investigative journalist.
All I can say at this point is that anybody who is expecting ‘politeness’ out of me should give up. It is not going to happen. We cannot all be lacking in conviction and unable to verbalise issues with their appropriate energy and cadence. I am who I am. I do what I do. It is what it is.
Deal with it.
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