Being black is not a matter of pigmentation - being black is a

Host: The night had a stillness that carried weight—the kind of quiet that didn’t soothe, but listened. A single streetlamp hummed above a deserted bus stop on the outskirts of the city. The air was thick with humidity, and the pavement still glistened from an earlier rain, catching fragments of neon light from a nearby bar sign that blinked without rhythm.

Jack stood with his hands in his coat pockets, a newspaper tucked under one arm, the headlines screaming about political unrest somewhere far but not far enough. Jeeny leaned against the bench, her umbrella closed, the drops of water still clinging to her hair like fragile stars.

They had walked out of a crowded gallery just minutes ago—the kind of place where art pretends to be about truth, but too often it’s about comfort. Yet what they’d seen inside still lingered between them: a series of paintings inspired by Steve Biko’s words, raw and defiant, each one like a mirror refusing to lie.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Biko said, ‘Being black is not a matter of pigmentation — being black is a reflection of a mental attitude.’”
Her voice carried through the humid air, soft but sharp, like a blade that had learned how to forgive.
“I think what he meant was that identity is more than skin—it’s consciousness. It’s the way you stand when the world tries to bend you.”

Jack: (lights a cigarette, the flame briefly cutting through the dark) “Or maybe it’s just another way of saying that people pretend pride can save them from reality. You can call it a ‘mental attitude,’ but the world still sees color before it sees humanity.”

Host: The smoke rose between them, coiling and disappearing into the thick air, like the ghost of an argument that had happened too many times before.

Jeeny: (turning toward him) “That’s exactly why it has to be a mental attitude. Because if you don’t own your meaning, someone else will define it for you. Biko wasn’t talking about denial, Jack. He was talking about power—about the kind that starts inside, not from permission.”

Jack: “And what good is that power when the system still owns the streets, the schools, the voices? You can call yourself free all you want, but if you’re still being choked by laws and labels, what kind of freedom is that?”

Jeeny: (her eyes flash) “The kind that no one can take away. That’s what he meant. They can shackle your body, they can censor your speech, but if they can’t colonize your mind, they’ll never win. That’s what Black Consciousness was. It wasn’t about pretending the pain didn’t exist—it was about refusing to let the pain define the soul.”

Host: The wind stirred the newspaper under Jack’s arm, and one page fluttered open—a black-and-white photo of a protester raising a fist, the caption barely visible in the dim light. Jack’s eyes followed it, but his jaw stayed tight, the muscles working beneath his skin like restraint itself.

Jack: “You talk about it like it’s all strength and clarity, Jeeny. But Biko died for saying that. His attitude didn’t save him—it killed him. The system crushed him, and it’s still crushing people like him.”

Jeeny: (stepping closer, rainlight in her eyes) “And yet, his words still speak, don’t they? That’s the proof. You can kill the man, but not the idea. That’s what being Black in his sense really means—it’s refusal. It’s awareness turned into defiance.”

Jack: (quietly) “You think defiance is enough?”

Jeeny: “It has to be. It’s where everything begins. The revolution doesn’t start with a gun; it starts with a mirror—when someone finally looks and says, ‘I am not what they told me I am.’”

Host: The rain began again—slow, deliberate drops that echoed off the metal roof of the bus stop. In the silence that followed, the city seemed to hold its breath, listening.

Jack dropped the cigarette, crushed it beneath his heel, and for a moment his eyes met hers—steel meeting flame.

Jack: “So what about those who don’t have that kind of strength? Who’ve been told for so long that they’re less, that they start to believe it? You talk like everyone has a choice, Jeeny, but conditioning is a kind of cage too.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Yes. But even in a cage, a bird can still sing. And the song spreads. That’s how movements are born—from one voice refusing to be silent. Biko knew that. He taught people how to see themselves differently before they ever saw the enemy fall.”

Host: Her words hung in the humid air, steady as prayer, dangerous as truth. The rain on the ground began to reflect the streetlight—small pools of gold on the black asphalt, like hope surviving under weight.

Jack: “You think that kind of faith still matters now? In a world that’s turned protest into hashtags, and pain into content?”

Jeeny: “It matters more now. Because now the enemy isn’t just outside—it’s the apathy inside us. The indifference that tells us to scroll past the injustice, to treat oppression like background noise. Being Black in Biko’s sense—being awake—means refusing to sleepwalk through it.”

Host: Jack’s brow furrowed. He looked out at the street, where two young men walked by, hoods up, music loud, their laughter cutting through the rain. Something in the sight made him soften, just slightly.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the attitude isn’t just for the oppressed—maybe it’s for everyone. A kind of mirror we all need. To see the bias, the fear, the systems we carry inside.”

Jeeny: (nods) “Exactly. Because it’s not just a Black condition, Jack—it’s a human one. Biko wasn’t talking only about race. He was talking about dignity, about the choice to define your own worth in a world that constantly tries to price it.”

Host: The rain began to ease, and a faint glow from the east hinted at the coming dawn. The streetlamp flickered once, twice, and then steadied, as if even the light itself had chosen to listen.

Jeeny opened her umbrella, but she didn’t step away yet. Her eyes stayed on Jack, soft now, but still fierce beneath the surface.

Jeeny: “Being Black—being awake—it’s not about color, Jack. It’s about consciousness. It’s about the refusal to see yourself as the world sees you. That’s the mental attitude Biko meant. It’s what keeps freedom alive even when justice hasn’t arrived yet.”

Jack: (slowly) “So you’re saying it’s not the skin that carries the truth, but the mind that remembers it.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Yes. Because freedom doesn’t begin when the chains come off. It begins the moment you stop believing you were born to wear them.”

Host: The first light of morning broke through the clouds, washing the wet pavement in silver. Jack looked at Jeeny, his face softened by the dawn, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke.

The city began to stir—a bus engine rumbling in the distance, a door opening, a child’s laugh echoing from an unseen street.

And as the camera of the moment pulled back, the two figures stood side by side under the soft rain, no longer arguing, only listening—
to the world waking up,
to the echo of a man’s words still alive,
and to the truth that being Black, in the deepest sense,
was not a color, but a state of consciousness—
a mental attitude that refused to bow,
and quietly, eternally,
rose.