This is what I would tell President Bush

My dear President, Master and Dispatcher, please listen to me. Will you drop that golf club and come sit near me? Closer, closer, President. Now what do you see behind the mask? Do you see your wife? Do you see any trace of white in my skin? Do I look like someone who has ever  enjoyed white supremacy even for a day? Please tell me, don't  start dozing off, it's not bed time yet.....now what do you see...a happy princess hailing from the hills of Europe or a miserable daughter of a former slave?

My dear Boss and Dispatcher, you may think this woman is somehow different from her co-sisters in Palestine or Lebanon, but deep down, they and I are one and the same. If they are suffering today from made-in-the-USA atillery and bombshells, I too had born the brunt of made-in-the-USA whips and white man's hands. 

My dear Boss and Dispatcher, yes I do love the limelight and do derive huge pleasure from having my speeches written and my make-up applied by white folks. And yes, I do get high everytime my dainty feet touch on a red carpet and shake the hand of a male who thinks he is something. But have you ever wondered about the kind of thoughts that run through my head as my white hair dresser plays tricks with my African locks?

My dear Boss and Dispatcher, if there is anything i hate it is to sound like a slave driver, but isn't that what my job entails outside the White House? And by the way, why the White House? I know i am digressing, but why are we operating from the White House? Is white the only color your white minds could come up with? Or is this just a co-incidence?

My dear Dispatcher, I do understand your handicap, you were never blessed with common sense, imagination or even curiosity, nor does your job give you the liberty to be a normal human being. But don't you ever forget that I am a woman whose ancestors  had landed on these shores in chains. 400 years later my people are still im chains. I say to you go take a round in US jails and count the many caged black birds in these holes. My Dispatcher, if you knew how many times I had twirled my tongue around the name Kinti Kuntu you would understand why my lower lip always trembles whenever I parrot your boss's commands.

My Dispatcher, I may get my hairs untangled every now and then, but I am no Tony Bair, nor would I ever hope to become a Princess Diana no matter how many times I run errands for the White House or the Keneset Camp.

I do agree with you, I am a driven woman and I can't tell you where my black dainty feet will lead me from here. Once I leave these whitewashed corridors I don't even know if I'll come back to tell the story. I have a fifty-fifty chance of surviving Israel bombardment once I set my feet on the Holy Land. I also very much doubt if any of your Zionist friends would allow your black Messenger a moment's reprieve in a Christian Monastery or Church. As we both know a Christian Monastery was just hit in Lebanon.

The point I am trying to make here is that you have taken me, a black woman and a daughter of a former slave,  a ride. If you must know Condeleeza Rice is a fabrication. She doesn't exist. As of today could you please call me by my real name, Mbowe Ulayme? Mbowe Ulayme hereby gives her resignation to her white Master; sick and tired as she is of carrying her Master's Whip for him.