A Black man should be more independent and depend on himself for

Host: The night was heavy with the scent of dust and rain waiting to fall. A single streetlight flickered above a small community hall on the edge of the city — the kind built by hands, not by funding. Its walls were lined with posters faded by time: protests, marches, faces of men and women who once dared to speak when silence was safer.

Inside, the air carried the soft echo of a drumbeat from somewhere beyond the open window. A rhythm that sounded like both a call and a memory.

Jack sat at a long wooden table, his shirt sleeves rolled, his eyes intense but tired — the kind of tired that comes not from work, but from years of watching others decide his fate. Across from him, Jeeny, her hair tied in a simple braid, her face glowing in the warm light of a single bulb. Between them, a newspaper lay open — the bold headline screamed of another promise of reform. Another speech. Another delay.

Host: Outside, the thunder rumbled — distant, restrained, like something gathering its courage.

Jeeny: “Steven Biko said, ‘A Black man should be more independent and depend on himself for his freedom and not to take it for granted that someone would lead him to it. The blacks are tired of standing at the touchlines to witness a game that they should be playing.’ He wrote that decades ago, but tell me, Jack — has anything really changed?”

Jack: “The players changed. The rules didn’t.”

Host: His voice was low, calm — but it carried the deep crack of disappointment that no longer needed to shout to be heard.

Jeeny: “You don’t believe in leadership anymore?”

Jack: “I believe in ownership. Leadership is just a word we keep recycling to hide dependency. We’ve spent too long waiting for saviors — men in suits, men with microphones. Freedom doesn’t come from followers. It comes from builders.”

Jeeny: “But someone has to light the way, Jack. You can’t build in darkness.”

Jack: “The way’s already lit — by our suffering, by our history. Every scar, every riot, every mother burying her son — that’s light enough. The problem is we keep looking for permission to walk into it.”

Host: The wind pushed through the open window, carrying a faint smell of burning wood — perhaps from a distant cooking fire, perhaps from something else.

Jeeny: “You talk like you’ve stopped believing in people.”

Jack: “No, Jeeny. I stopped believing in dependency. Biko didn’t want pity; he wanted participation. But we’re still standing at the touchlines — cheering, protesting, waiting — while someone else plays our game.”

Jeeny: “And what if some of us are still too afraid to step onto the field?”

Jack: “Then the field remains theirs. Freedom’s not rented, Jeeny. You either own it or you don’t.”

Host: The rain began softly now, tapping against the tin roof like the faint beat of a marching drum. The sound was steady, rhythmic — the kind that made old anger feel new again.

Jeeny: “It’s not that simple. The system was built to keep us watching. Even when we move, it shifts the goalposts.”

Jack: “Then we build our own field.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound so easy.”

Jack: “It’s not. It’s blood and work and pain. But it’s real. Look at the history of this country — everything we have came from people who refused to wait for permission. Biko didn’t die so we could keep asking.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes darkened — not in anger, but in recognition. The kind that comes when truth cuts clean.

Jeeny: “You think we’re cowards?”

Jack: “No. Just tired. But tired isn’t an excuse for silence.”

Jeeny: “And you think shouting changes things?”

Jack: “Not shouting. Building. Organizing. Educating. We can’t keep begging for space at tables we didn’t build. We build our own.”

Host: The thunder cracked closer now. The single light bulb swayed, its glow trembling like the tension between them.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve already given up on hope.”

Jack: “No. I’ve given up on hope that waits. I want the kind that works. The kind that picks up a brick and says, ‘Let’s start.’”

Jeeny: “But Biko also said the greatest weapon in the hands of the oppressor is the mind of the oppressed. Maybe the field we need to build isn’t out there — maybe it’s in here.”

Host: She touched her chest, softly, just above her heart.

Jack: “You think changing thought is enough?”

Jeeny: “It’s where everything begins. You can’t build freedom with enslaved minds.”

Jack: “And how do you free the mind when the world keeps reminding you that you’re less?”

Jeeny: “By refusing to believe it. By remembering what you are before they told you what you were allowed to be.”

Host: The rain grew stronger, drumming now in steady rhythm. The window rattled. A flash of lightning revealed their faces — Jeeny’s fierce and unyielding, Jack’s shadowed and burdened.

Jack: “You think empowerment is enough? The system doesn’t care how empowered you feel when it owns the factories, the banks, the land.”

Jeeny: “Then take them back.”

Jack: “With what?”

Jeeny: “With knowledge. With unity. With action. Freedom isn’t a gift, Jack — it’s a harvest.”

Host: He looked at her then — really looked. The firelight reflected in her eyes made her look like someone standing on the edge of history, daring it to move.

Jack: “You really think we can build something new in the ruins they left us?”

Jeeny: “That’s the only place new things ever grow.”

Host: The room seemed smaller now, the air thicker with conviction. The rain was a roar, the storm full of its own wild applause.

Jack: “You ever get tired of fighting?”

Jeeny: “Every day. But I get more tired of kneeling.”

Host: The thunder boomed again, closer, louder, as though echoing her words. Jack rose slowly from his chair, walking to the window. He looked out — at the empty street, the puddles reflecting the faint neon glow of a nearby store, the darkness beyond that felt alive with both threat and promise.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I used to watch my uncle come home from the mines. His back was bent, his hands bleeding. He’d sit on the porch and say, ‘One day, we won’t dig for others anymore.’ But he never saw that day.”

Jeeny: “Then make sure someone does.”

Jack: “And if it costs everything?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s worth it.”

Host: There was a long silence — the kind that sits between two people when both realize they’re standing on the same truth, but from different sides.

Jack: “You think Biko knew he wouldn’t live to see the world he was fighting for?”

Jeeny: “He knew. But he fought anyway. Because real freedom isn’t about winning — it’s about refusing to surrender.”

Host: Jack turned from the window, his eyes wet but bright — not with sadness, but with something far deeper: resolve.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s time we stopped waiting for leaders.”

Jeeny: “And started becoming them.”

Host: The rain eased, the thunder fading into the distance. Outside, the streetlight flickered once more, then held steady — its glow warm, defiant, small but unwavering.

Jack stepped forward, picked up the newspaper, and tore it clean in half. The sound was soft, final.

Jack: “No more touchlines.”

Jeeny: “No more waiting.”

Host: They stood in the quiet aftermath, the air smelling of rain and renewal. The storm had passed, but its energy remained — alive in their breath, in their eyes, in the space between them.

Outside, the city exhaled. Somewhere, a child’s laughter broke the silence — small, bright, unbroken.

And in that sound, beneath the slow drip of water from the roof, Jack and Jeeny understood: freedom is not inherited. It is built — with hands, with minds, with courage that no one can give and no one can take away.