Black Consciousness is an attitude of the mind and a way of life

Host: The night hung heavy over the township, a soft wind stirring the dust from the unpaved road. In the distance, the echo of a train moaned — long, tired, as if carrying the memories of those who once dreamed of freedom. The bar was dimly lit, a single bulb flickering above a wooden table where Jack and Jeeny sat. The walls were stained with smoke and time, and the radio whispered an old song from the struggle years.

Jack leaned back in his chair, his grey eyes sharp and restless. Jeeny sat opposite him, her fingers tracing the rim of a cup of tea, the steam curling between them like a ghost.

A poster of Steve Biko hung crookedly on the wall — his face steady, his eyes fierce with belief.

Jeeny: “He said, ‘Black Consciousness is an attitude of the mind and a way of life, the most positive call to emanate from the black world for a long time.’”

Jack: “An attitude, huh? Sounds nice on paper. But attitudes don’t feed a family or change a system. They comfort the mind, maybe — but they don’t move the world.”

Host: The radio crackled. A brief silence followed, thick as smoke. Jeeny’s eyes lifted, deep and steady, meeting his.

Jeeny: “You really think change starts with food and systems? That it has nothing to do with how we see ourselves?”

Jack: “I think change starts when you’ve got power, Jeeny. Economic, political, institutional. That’s what Biko never got — that belief alone doesn’t feed the hungry or end apartheid.”

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly what he did understand, Jack. He knew that power begins with dignity. You can’t fight for your rights if you still believe you’re less than the one who oppresses you. Biko wasn’t talking about comfort — he was talking about resurrection.”

Host: A truck rumbled past outside, its headlights momentarily washing the room in pale light, catching the dust in the air. The faces of the two seemed carved in contrast — one of steel, one of fire.

Jack: “You talk like belief is a weapon.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every movement that’s ever changed the world started with an idea before it had a gun or a vote. The civil rights marches, the women’s strikes, the students in Soweto — all of it began with the mind saying, ‘I am worthy.’”

Jack: “And yet, look around. People still suffer, still fight, still die. Ideas don’t build roads, or create jobs. You can’t eat consciousness.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can starve without it.”

Host: The words hung in the air, raw and electric. Jack’s jaw tightened; Jeeny’s eyes glistened, but her voice stayed calm. Outside, the moon slid behind a cloud, and the room darkened.

Jack: “You think Biko would be proud of what he’d see today? The corruption, the division, the violence? His ‘attitude of the mind’ didn’t stop greed from wearing the same skin it once fought for.”

Jeeny: “Don’t twist his truth into disappointment, Jack. He never said the struggle would be clean. He said it had to be conscious. There’s a difference. Freedom without awareness is just power repeating its own chains.”

Jack: “You sound like a priest, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But you sound like a man who’s forgotten what spirit looks like.”

Host: Jack’s hand clenched around his glass, the ice melting slowly. The bulb above them hummed, its light trembling.

Jack: “Spirit doesn’t fix poverty, Jeeny. It just makes people accept it more quietly.”

Jeeny: “No. It makes them refuse it more fiercely.”

Host: Their voices rose, then fell, like waves colliding. The barman pretended not to listen, but even he seemed to breathe with the tension.

Jack: “Look, I’m not against pride. I’m saying pride doesn’t run a country. You can have a thousand people chanting ‘I am black and beautiful,’ and still have no electricity or education. Reality doesn’t care about attitude.”

Jeeny: “And yet reality changes when the mind does. Do you think the Berlin Wall would’ve fallen if people hadn’t first believed it could? Or that Mandela would’ve endured twenty-seven years in prison without a mental revolution?”

Jack: “But those are exceptions, Jeeny. Symbols. They make for good stories, not good policy.”

Jeeny: “Stories are what shape policy! Stories tell us who we are, what we deserve, what we’ll fight for. That’s what Biko understood — that the black story had to be retold, not by the oppressor, but by the oppressed themselves.”

Host: The radio shifted to a news bulletin, mentioning load-shedding, unemployment, and a new corruption trial. Jack snorted quietly, as if the universe had just proven his point.

Jack: “See? All the consciousness in the world, and still the lights go out.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because consciousness is still just a word for most. It hasn’t yet become a way of life.”

Jack: “And you think thinking differently will turn on the lights?”

Jeeny: “No. But it will teach people not to sell their soul for power, not to betray their neighbor for profit, not to measure their worth by money. That’s where real freedom begins — not in the streets, but in the mind.”

Host: For a moment, the storm outside began to build, raindrops tapping against the window like soft drums. The air carried a smell of earth and memory.

Jack: “You always were the romantic, Jeeny. You see meaning where there’s just survival.”

Jeeny: “And you always were the realist, Jack — so afraid of hope because it’s harder to control.”

Jack: “Hope doesn’t build infrastructure.”

Jeeny: “No, but hopelessness destroys it faster.”

Host: A long pause fell. The rain grew heavier, filling the room with a soft, melancholic rhythm. Jeeny’s voice softened.

Jeeny: “You know, when Biko spoke of Black Consciousness, he wasn’t only talking about black people. He was talking about the human mind, about how we internalize our chains. He wanted liberation from the inside out. That’s why he was dangerous — not because of what he said, but because of what he made people see in themselves.”

Jack: “He made them believe they were free, even before they were.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And that’s what scared the system most. You can kill a body, Jack, but you can’t kill a mind that’s awake.”

Host: Jack looked at her for a long moment. The raindrops slid down the glass, catching the light like silver veins. His voice came low, almost tender.

Jack: “You think we’re still asleep, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes, yes. We’ve got freedom, but not freedom of thought. We’ve inherited the house, but we’re still living in someone else’s furniture.”

Jack: “That’s… poetic. But dangerous, too. If you keep looking inward, you forget to build outward.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both have to happen at once. The mind and the world, the belief and the brick. One without the other is a ruin.”

Host: The rain began to fade, the radio now playing a soft jazz tune. The bar felt lighter, as if the storm had washed away some invisible weight.

Jack: “You really think one attitude can change the world?”

Jeeny: “No. But it can change the one who will.”

Host: Jack’s eyes dropped to his glass, a faint smile breaking the edge of his mouth. Jeeny watched him quietly, her expression calm, as if she’d just forgiven something he hadn’t yet confessed.

Jack: “Maybe… that’s what he meant. Maybe Black Consciousness wasn’t about color at all — it was about courage.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The courage to be seen, to be whole, to be free — even when the world says you’re not.”

Host: The light flickered one last time, then steadied. The rain stopped. Outside, the streets shone with a thin mirror of water, reflecting the streetlights like constellations scattered on earth.

Jeeny stood, her silhouette framed against the window. Jack watched, his expression unreadable — but something in his eyes had softened, as if a door had opened in his mind.

Host: The night breathed, calm now, as if the world itself had heard the conversation and decided, for a moment, to listen.

And in the quiet, Biko’s face on the wall seemed to smile, as if to say:
“Freedom begins when the mind refuses to kneel.”