Think Like a White Man. Dr Boulé Whytelaw III

a lot of white ass. That was your place, and you’d better be happy with it. Or you could fuck off back to Mudhutistan.

      So, after a childhood witnessing that pandemonium, I was determined to see to it that I emerged above cattle class. I wanted what had eluded us all along: to be middle-class, white-collar and paid-like-a-White Man; to be a professional, a contender within society, a winner. I wanted this so badly that I was willing to achieve it by any means necessary. I was happy to die trying – well, not really, but it makes for a hell of a catchy phrase. The problem, I learnt, for black professionals is that ‘succeed or die trying’ is not just a hyper masculine 50 Cent-inspired catchphrase: it is real. If your body and soul don’t part ways during the struggle, your mind and sanity almost certainly will.

      I made a few minor adjustments to my identity – slight alteration to my name, changed address to a white friend’s place who lived in a more desirable area, started wearing a wedding ring despite being single, wore glasses though I have perfect eyesight – general stuff that helps white people feel more relaxed around black people, and eventually, after hundreds of applications and hundreds of rejection letters, humiliation, fake smiles and patronising nods, I was offered a job – a job with one of the best firms in the world, in fact. A firm whose very name was synonymous with integrity, profitability, professionalism and, most importantly, long-distance-jogging white people in expensive attire.

      And as any remotely sane black person knows: where there are salad-loving and long-distance-jogging white people in expensive attire there is money to be made.²

      Screw the glass ceiling; I’d cheated on fate. Hallelujah! Halle Berry! Show me the motherfucking hard-cold cash money! I’ve made it.

      Such were my youthful thoughts.

      I woke up to my first day on the job feeling the excitement a rosy-cheeked spoilt white child goes to bed with on Christmas Eve. I said my prayers with a smile and tears of joy running down my face and walked into the living room to meet my father ironing my clothes, something he hadn’t done in … ever. I took a shower and spent around five minutes in the mirror making sure my waves were tight.³ I threw on my suit and tie. And then my shoes. I looked open-casket sharp.

      ‘Let’s do this,’ I said to myself.

      As I flung open my bedroom door to leave, my entire family was standing there, waiting for me with pride in their eyes. They quietly shuffled into my room. My mother asked me to drop to my knees. The family each put a hand on me and prayed (not entirely dissimilar to what black payola prostitute-pastors do for racist politicians during elections).⁴

      As I left, my mother offered some advice: ‘You have to work twice as hard as everyone else. Don’t forget where you came from. Don’t forget who you are.’

      And with those wise words/clichés ringing in my ears, a lot of Jesus and the warm wishes of my family, I left to take on the world: the white corporate world.

      I was due to start at 9.30, so of course I arrived an hour early – this is known as transcending via racism-driven low expectations – and was kept waiting eagerly in the immaculate reception, complete with awe-inspiring fountain.

      The lovely receptionist invited me to take a seat but I decided to stand up while waiting. I thought it gave a better indication of my seriousness and focus. Like a colonial governor general with a head full of white supremacy (and a body full of lust for anything in black skin), I meant business and I wanted to let it be known to the ‘natives’.

      Two men who looked eye-wateringly rich and white – at the time, interchangeable terms to me – were talking to each other as they walked in. They saw me, stopped and said, ‘Good morning.’ Friendly, I thought. Then they started to pat themselves down looking for something as they stood in front of me. Much to his personal relief, one of the men found what he was looking for in his wallet.

      ‘I thought I left it at home … there you go, mate,’ he said as he showed me his company identity card. His colleague found his and did the same. So did the next few people coming in after them. From there it snowballed; almost everyone showed me their identity cards as they passed by. Some would greet me, others wouldn’t even make eye contact, yet they all showed me their ID cards.

      The naïve feeling of having broken into the white corporate world had lulled me into a false sense of security, so I was initially confused. Then it clicked: how could I forget? I’m black! They thought I was a security guard. A brother in a suit in such an environment is usually only there for a range of plausible reasons: manning the door, giving talks on ‘the importance of diversity’, wringing bleeding white hearts for cash for his latest youth-mentoring scheme or providing barely legal gigolo services to some bitter white divorcee.

      As embarrassing as the realisation was, even this didn’t dent my enthusiasm. I was there for my expertise and intellectual prowess. I belonged there as much as they did. I was as good as them and soon I’d prove myself their better. On the bright side, no one tried to tip me. I often wonder if I would have accepted the tip if they had: I was as broke as Greece after all.

      And then she turned up in all her Fox News-peroxide glory, smiling like that beautiful intersection between an abolitionist and a capitalist. Dripping with middle-class whiteness, Sarah⁵ the Sloane Ranger, my first ever boss, arrived to welcome me to the firm.

      Luckily for my newbie zeal, my closet-racist-radar (or, as I call it now, my ‘shy Trump Voter/Brexiter detector’) didn’t go off in Sarah’s presence. She felt like a genuinely nice, non-racist white person (i.e. a bearable white person who probably grew up listening to Brand Nubian and Public Enemy and embraced the anti-white supremacy rhetoric). We kibitzed warmly as she took me to meet the rest of the department.

      The lift door opened and, whooosh, welcome to Caucasiastan. I hadn’t seen that much white since the last time I watched the final scenes of Scarface. All 116 of my new colleagues were white. Very white. Whiter than a pre-Meghan Markle royal wedding. Or a Richard Ayoade film.

      My black-dar didn’t register a single blip. There was not a discernible fraction of a drop of black blood in the room. No Tom Jones-like suspicious curls, no marginally wider than expected nostrils, no dubiously brown eyes and no slightly olive skin. Absolutely no sign that white mummy may have bagged herself a reefer-smoking Barack Obama⁶ in a bar one lonely night and unleashed her love for the hot cocoa on him. And in the interest of balance, there was no sign that white daddy met a sister and got his Thomas Jefferson on, either. No quadroon cousin passing for a Sicilian sibling. Nothing. The company was as white as post-gentrification Brixton.

      This should have been surprising, given the oft-touted ‘rich’ diversity of the city where the company was based, but it wasn’t: I had expected that to be the case. The only diversity that concerned such firms at the time was – and still is – likely to be in an investment portfolio or a pack of M&Ms. Anything other than that: ‘Pristine virgin Aryan white, please. Thank you.’

      Later on that morning, I was dispatched to go and attend a few hours of induction training. We were warmly welcomed and went through the usual jarring motions of enthusiastically introducing ourselves and profiling each other based on our hierarchy within the company. And then came the obligatory corporate propaganda video.

      As the short film was about to start, a young man with a distinct Australian accent rushed into the room and sat beside me.

      ‘Sorry I’m late. Sorry I’m late. Aussie People’s Time! Aussie People’s Time!’ he said, evoking a chuckle from the room as the lights dimmed for the video.

      When the corporate porn ended I started speaking to the Aussie guy. He seemed like a nice chap and we struck a chord. Feeling that profoundly black urge to prove that I was there on merit, I carefully explained my qualifications and background and what I’d be doing. I then learned that he’d be working in the same department as me, but in a different and far more desirable and lucrative role. Anyway, having shown him mine, I naturally wanted to see his. So, I asked where and what he studied at university.

      ‘University? Now that’s a big word from a big fella. No university