Tradition has it that whenever a group of people has tasted the

Host: The sun was sinking behind the hills, spilling golden fire over the worn rooftops of the old factory district. The air was thick with the smell of rust and the echo of distant machinery — remnants of a world built on labor and dreams, now decaying quietly into the twilight.

Inside a small, abandoned warehouse, the light fell through shattered windows, painting fractured shapes across the dusty floor. Two figures stood in the fading glow — Jack, tall and lean, in a worn coat; Jeeny, her black hair catching the last traces of sunlight like strands of ink in gold.

They had come there, as they often did, to talk. To breathe among the ruins of things built, taken, and forgotten.

Jack’s voice broke the silence, low and rough like gravel under boots.

Jack: “Steven Biko said, ‘Whenever a group of people has tasted the lovely fruits of wealth, security, and prestige, it begins to find it more comfortable to believe in the obvious lie — that it alone is entitled to privilege.’ Sounds about right, doesn’t it? History repeating itself in every generation, in every country.”

Jeeny: “And yet no one wants to see it. Once you’ve tasted that comfort, you start defending it. You build walls, laws, excuses — anything to protect what you think is yours. That’s the lie, Jack. The one that makes injustice seem like order.”

Host: A cold wind drifted through the broken windows, stirring the dust. The sound of a distant train rumbled — a reminder of movement, of lives still going on somewhere beyond this forgotten place.

Jack: “You talk like privilege’s some conscious conspiracy. Most people don’t even realize they’re benefiting from it. They’re just trying to hold onto what they have — their jobs, their homes, their sense of control. You can’t blame them for that.”

Jeeny: “Can’t I? When holding on means someone else is pushed down? That’s the poison of privilege — it makes oppression feel like balance. Look at colonialism. Look at apartheid. Every comfort built on someone else’s suffering was justified as ‘order,’ ‘civilization,’ ‘progress.’ It’s the same illusion today — just better dressed.”

Host: The light dimmed, leaving the room steeped in amber and shadow. Jack crossed his arms, eyes narrowing, as if trying to see through the moral fog her words stirred.

Jack: “You think everyone with wealth or security is corrupt? That they’re all guilty just for living a decent life?”

Jeeny: “Not guilty for living — guilty for not seeing. Biko didn’t condemn comfort; he condemned blindness. The moment we believe we deserve more because we already have it — that’s when we become part of the lie.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice was quiet, but the weight in it struck like a bell. Jack looked away, toward the broken window, where a red sun sank like a dying ember.

Jack: “You’re talking ideals. But people aren’t saints. They protect their own — their family, their tribe, their kind. It’s not just greed, Jeeny. It’s survival. The instinct to keep your world safe, even if it means someone else’s isn’t.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly how injustice becomes tradition. Every tyrant thinks he’s protecting his own. Every oppressor tells himself it’s survival. That’s what Biko fought — the normalization of selfishness dressed as necessity.”

Host: The wind rose, carrying with it the faint scent of smoke — someone burning trash nearby, maybe, or the city exhaling its old sins.

Jack: “You think we’re any different now? Look around. Every class that rises turns into the one it replaced. The workers become bosses, the rebels become rulers. You fight for freedom, and once you have it, you lock the door behind you.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said softly, “and that’s why revolutions eat themselves. Because we don’t change hearts, we just change hands. Power stays the same — it just learns new names. The privileged always find new ways to believe they’re righteous.”

Host: Jack lit a cigarette, the flame momentarily illuminating his face — hard, weary, touched by something almost like shame.

Jack: “You talk as if you’re immune. Like you wouldn’t cling to comfort if it were yours.”

Jeeny: “I’m not immune. No one is. That’s why it’s dangerous. The lie whispers to everyone. It tells you you’ve earned your peace, that others must deserve their pain. It’s a soft poison — sweet, invisible, slow.”

Host: The warehouse grew darker. Only the cigarette’s glow pulsed between them, a small red eye in the gathering night.

Jack: “So what then? You’d have us all live poor and guilty? Tear down everything until no one has comfort?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Just the illusion that comfort gives you more worth than someone else. The illusion that privilege equals virtue. The lie that says, ‘I’m safe, so the world must be fair.’ That’s what Biko warned us about — not wealth itself, but the blindness it breeds.”

Host: A pause fell — heavy, deliberate. Outside, the night deepened; the streetlights flickered to life, their cold glow spilling through cracks in the walls.

Jack: “You think it’s blindness. I think it’s fear. People cling to lies because truth demands change, and change costs. Most can’t afford that.”

Jeeny: “And yet the cost of denial is always greater. Ask history. Ask the ones who were silenced, displaced, forgotten. Privilege survives on their absence. It’s built on silence, and silence is the most expensive lie of all.”

Host: Her eyes shone now — not with tears, but with fire. The kind that belongs to those who carry the memory of others’ pain.

Jack: “You sound like you want another revolution.”

Jeeny: “No. I want awareness. I want the privileged to stop mistaking comfort for virtue, and struggle for failure. I want them to remember that justice isn’t a gift — it’s a responsibility.”

Host: Jack’s gaze softened. The cigarette burned down to its filter, and he dropped it, crushing it slowly beneath his boot.

Jack: “You really think awareness can change anything? People don’t give up comfort willingly.”

Jeeny: “They don’t have to give it up. Just see where it comes from. Share its light instead of guarding its shadow. That’s how the lie breaks — not through guilt, but through recognition.”

Host: A long silence. The air trembled between them. Jack’s jaw clenched — not in anger now, but in thought.

Jack: “You know... maybe Biko wasn’t just talking about societies. Maybe he meant individuals too. We all taste our own kind of privilege — love, luck, timing — and we start believing we deserve it more than others. It’s not just politics. It’s human nature.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And human nature is exactly what must evolve. Privilege isn’t inherited sin — it’s inherited blindness. Once you see, you can’t unsee. And once you can’t unsee, you’re responsible.”

Host: The final rays of the sun disappeared, leaving the world painted in shades of gray and shadow. Yet there was something new in the darkness — a faint luminescence, as if the words themselves had left a trace of light in the air.

Jack: “You’re right. Maybe truth isn’t supposed to comfort us. Maybe it’s supposed to unsettle us. That’s how the world moves.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Comfort builds walls; discomfort builds bridges. The lovely fruits Biko spoke of aren’t the problem — it’s the illusion they plant. The belief that we’ve arrived, that others are where they belong. That’s the rot that grows beneath the sweetness.”

Host: Jeeny stood, brushing dust from her coat. The sound of her steps echoed in the hollow room. Jack followed, his shadow long and silent behind her.

Jeeny: “We can’t unbuild what’s been built. But we can stop pretending it was always ours.”

Jack: “And maybe... start sharing the fruit instead of hoarding it.”

Jeeny: “That’s the beginning.”

Host: Outside, the night had cooled, the city lights burning like a thousand small promises against the dark. The two of them walked side by side into the street — not equals in answers, but partners in awareness.

Behind them, the warehouse stood silent — a monument to all that had been taken and forgotten. Yet in the distance, a faint bell rang — soft, persistent, refusing to fade.

And in that sound, in that fragile tremor of echo and night, the truth lingered: every privilege carries a shadow, and only by facing it can one be free.