The Lion Excels: An Origins Story

By Mugi N. Nguyai

There seems to come a time in every ambitious corporate climber’s career, after years of hard work, long hours, and empty promises to a parade of potential mates that they’ll ‘make it to dinner with their parents’ the next time they are in town. After years of toil, they are finally able to smell the rarified air of middle management. These are not the heady peaks of senior leadership, no; those lofty heights are reserved for the truly brilliant, the unequivocally ruthless, or the lucky progeny of those already standing at the top. Middle management isn’t the peak, but it is high enough above the slaughtering grounds of junior talent for those that make it there to appreciate what they had to do, to become, to get there, and be apprehensive of what it takes to go further.

#

“We’re going to have to reschedule the meeting.”

“Which meeting?” I ask.

“The one on the 15th, at 2pm.”

“Oh. That’s the Discussion on Race and Diversity panel. Why?” I ask.

“Chuck has a conflict,” Shauna, Chuck’s executive assistant replies.

“That’s… unfortunate. But he’s not on the panel. Can’t we go on without him?” I ask.

“As the Head of our group, Chuck is fully committed to all diversity and inclusion initiatives. Their success is of the utmost importance to Chuck, and the rest of the senior leadership team here at WhiteRiver Investments.”

“Yes, thank you. I greatly appreciate Chuck and the rest of the senior leaderships commitment to our diversity and inclusion initiatives. But I don’t understand why we have to reschedule. Would you please ask Chuck if we can brainstorm an alternative? The conference hall has already been reserved, and we have some of the most influential Black leaders from across the Street confirmed to participate. If we have to reschedule, we may not be able to sign up all of them again,” I ask.

I see Shauna’s hands pause their crisp cadence across their keyboard. I hear the full weight of the authority behind her voice.

“Chuck has a conflict,” she says. “We have to reschedule.”

“Thanks, got it,” I reply. “I’ll reschedule to another time that works for Chuck.”

“Thanks Mwangi,” she replies. “We value your commitment to building a more diverse and inclusive workplace here at WhiteRiver.”

#

I Mwangi Kamau, a Kenyan born, American educated Black man living in the fatherland of finance, New York City, have suffered, scraped, and strived for long enough to earn the title of Vice President within the Advisory arm of WhiteRiver Investments. Or rather, I have almost earned it. This is my promotion year, that will take me from Associate to Vice President. My numbers have been fantastic, as they have been for the past two years I’ve been up for promotion. No, what makes this year, my year, is the change that is sweeping across America. A Black wave, sprinkled with White froth, has risen, carrying with it the rage of a society that has watched, unflinchingly, as large numbers of its own have disproportionately suffered greater injustice, solely because of the color of our skin. This wave was born when they choked us in the streets, crested when they shot us in our backs, and will crash when we enter the voting booths in November.

All this is to say, that it might finally be okay to be an ambitious Black man in America. In fact, I might finally be valued for it. My skin, which for so long seemed only useful for rhyming on a beat, dribbling with a ball, attracting police bullets, and repelling mentors who always say they are looking for mentees that they have ‘more in common with’. An excuse that hides the truth, that there are so few people in positions of power that look like me that it is nigh near impossible to find one with the capacity to mentor another. Those Black leaders that have done the impossible and reached the top of their respective fields, are rewarded a cup, half full, and told it is enough to feed themselves, and a nation. No wonder all Black people across this world feel as though no matter their successes in life they are mere moments from starvation. It is because we are.

But now a wave of discontent has risen and I aim to ride it all the way to the heights of my ambition. It will be my Trojan Horse, my Industrial Revolution, my Ladder of Chaos. They say that great men are birthed for great moments. That the unbeknownst cosmic energies that govern our universe coalesce around a select few, who in that moment grasp those forces and wield them all the way to divinity. I mean to mold myself into the type of being that can grasp such forces and claim my place amongst those that made themselves into gods.

My ambition is to scale the mountain tops of this world, and rise beyond them, towards Olympus, Valhalla, Nirvana, and Thugz Mansion. I wish to stand beside Alexander and whisper in his ear, “Alexander, conqueror of worlds, hero of heroes, whose accomplishments stand so far above, that they have become the standard with which greatness is measured. I Mwangi Kamau am better than you,” Why, he’ll ask, while he ratchets up the light that radiates from within himself, seeking to blind me with his superiority. A superiority he has earned.

I will laugh the laughter of thunderstorms and hurricanes.

“Alexander,” I’ll respond. “You were already a prince before they made you a king, and before you wielded that kingdom into divinity. I, on the other hand, am a stranger in a strange land, whose background and coloring make me the enemy of the ruling elite. I brought no titles, no gold, no armies to storm these patriotic shores, to wrestle my path to the divine. All I brought were the songs of a mother who loved me, unconditionally, and the pride of a father who bankrupted himself, his accounts, his life, his dreams; all so that the unequal scale that is the beginning of this life could be rebalanced more favorably towards his offspring. In the end, all his struggles, all her love, could only conjure up a single fluttering feather, to counterweight a world that was stacked against me the day I was born, and continues to be stacked against me with every breath I take. But, even in ancient times you knew well that a feather on a scale could tilt a soul towards heaven. So, thank you Mum, Dad, for giving me this feather. I will hold it forever close to my heart. I’ll use its delicate weight to help free a people, a country, a world.

Alexander, let me turn back to you a final time to tell you why I will outshine your legacy. It is because I had no titles, no gold, no armies handed down to me. Nepotism was your gift, a head start so far out ahead that few will ever make it to where you began. Nepotism will be your downfall; how could it not be? You were given more resources to conquer a smaller world. The trappings of your father’s gifts capped what you could have been. I weep for you Alexander; the world never gave you a chance to be as great as I will be. And now, I dismiss you. I must go back down the mountain of my accomplished Black brothers and sisters, so that I can use their words and tutelage to usurp you.

#

“We’re going to have to reschedule the meeting,” says Laura, my people manager, and one of the only two women Managing Directors within our group. “Did you get a haircut? Love it! It makes your hair look so poofy, like my bath sponge.”

“Thanks, I aim to be poofy,” I reply.

I roll my desk up, from sitting to standing position. I stand up and turn to face Laura. I notice she is still staring at my hair with a curious look in her eyes; I also see the crow’s feet crawling out of her eyes that she has tried to cover up. I continue, “Which meeting? The one with the bankers from Silverboy Baghs? Those tentacled foxes are always cancelling on us last minute. We don’t make enough money on that account to put up with their run arounds.”

“No, that meeting is still on the books for 5:05 today. The other one that you are planning. The one on race. What’s it about again?” Laura asks.

“White Privilege,” I reply. “I know, I already rescheduled. This time I asked Shauna for a list of Chuck’s availability, then chose a new date and time from it. We’re confirmed for the 15th of next month for noon. I’ve already sent an update to the panelists, and Chuck,” I reply.

“Yes. That’s the one. The firm just scheduled a luncheon for the 15th, to discuss newly proposed diversity and inclusion targets,” Laura replies.

“Oh, darn. Well at least we’re making progress. Any tid bits on what they might be planning?” I ask.

“Yup. They have some pretty ambitious goals. One is to increase the firmwide headcount of Black employees by 30% in the next five years,” Laura replies.

“30% in five years! Wow, I can’t believe they’re willing to have a third of the employees at WhiteRiver be a race that isn’t theirs. That’s putting their money where their paychecks come from,” I reply.

“No. Not to 30%, by 30%, of the current amount of Black employees at the firm,” Laura replies.

“Oh. Well how many Black employees currently work at the firm?” I ask.

“Approximately 3.9% of the firm’s employees identify as Black,” Laura replies.

“How much is that?” I ask as I type the sum into a blank Excel spreadsheet. “That would only be an increase of 1.17%. The total number would barely hit 5%, in five years.”

“Actually, they rounded down the current number of Black employees to 3% within their projections, to keep estimates conservative. They want to make sure the caliber of people hired at WhiteRiver doesn’t diminish too much, just because of some new diversity initiatives,” Laura replies.

“Why would they think the caliber would diminish if they let more Black people in?” I ask.

“You probably know better than I do that there isn’t enough talented Black people who want to work in finance; the work is too boring. It’s a structural problem, a pipeline issue. It takes time to put the systems in place to create a strong pool of Black talent,” Laura replies.

“Got it. Thanks Laura. At least Marie Lisa, the new Head of Diversity and Inclusion, will be there to propose more forward thinking solutions,” I reply.

“Well, from what I’ve heard she won’t be attending the luncheon. They want her to maximize her time ramping up awareness of the unique problems that Black employees already here at WhiteRiver face. She’ll present her findings at the next luncheon,” Laura replies.

“Okay. When’s the next one?” I ask.

“Q3 of next year. Though they may push it further if she flags deeper, underlying issues before that,” Laura responds, adjusting her sports jacket to conceal her growing baby bump. “Everyone within senior leadership wants to make sure we get this absolutely right the first time. Our new diversity and inclusion initiatives are very important to all of senior leadership here at WhiteRiver Investments,” Laura replies.

“Got it. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll ping Shauna for new times and plan accordingly,” I reply, turning back to my work station. I feel Laura still hovering behind me, so I turn back to face her. “Anything else?” I ask.

“This is a promotion year for you, right? You’re going for VP?” She asks me.

“Yes. I hope I get it this year,” I reply.

“Work hard over the next few months and you will! Focus on delivering! Maybe, spend less time on extra-curricular activities? Look at how hard Ryan is working,” She replies.

I pause before I respond, because I know we both know that my numbers have matched or exceeded Ryan’s, and others, over the past two years I was up for promotion. “Got it. I’ll work harder, more like Ryan.”

“Good. You know, only half the job is producing good work. The other half is making sure the people that matter know you’re producing great work,” Laura responds. “You have to make them believe that this job means everything to you.”

“Will do. I’ll find a way to make sure the people that matter know I’m doing a great job,” I reply.

“Do it! Go for it! This is your chance! Take it!” Laura says with a dark gleam in her eyes as she stares into mine.

“Got it. Will do,” I reply.

#

“I don’t see color.” These are the first words I remember Chuck ever speaking to me and the other analysts when we first joined WhiteRiver. A frank admission given in the warm collegial tone that only a White man born into money can affect.

I imagine that the words come from a good place, a place that seeks to reassure Black, Brown, and Yellow faces stepping into fields dominated by White authority that their exotic plumage will not work against them in the revered halls of WhiteRiver.

I imagine that the words are meant to transport minorities away from the realities of living in a nation stratified by race; and into a fictionalized version of the greatest nation to have ever existed. A version of America where, liberty, fraternity, and equality truly reign.

I imagine that the words come from a good place, and seek to transport us to a better one. But some of us are denied access to this better place. The bus to take us there is already stuffed full with those that were allowed in earlier. White American sons and daughters fill up the spaces, their bright faces shining with the hope and promise of a world where color does not determine one’s outcome in life. If only there was enough space on the bus for all of us. Those words that seek to comfort, gloss over the differences of opportunity, outcome, and treatment that those with colored skin endure in our lives. Like a coat of fresh white paint applied over a dark strain of mold that has grown upon the walls.

I think about those words as I see the ping from Chuck’s admin pop up on my office desktop. Chuck requests an audience with me, immediately.

#

“We’re going to have to reschedule the meeting,” Chuck says to me.

“Of course, will do,” I respond. “May I ask why?”

“Shauna said you were inquisitive,” Chuck replies. He lays his hands upon the solid mahogany desk that dominates the distance between us. The motion pulls his cuff linked sleeves slightly downwards, revealing the sporty face of a Rolex Daytona. A sheepish grin travels across his face, stopping just short of his eyes.

“It’s my fault,” Chuck says. “I have a conflict. Family issues.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope you and your family get through it. No need to say more, I’ll reschedule the meeting,” I reply.

At this, Chuck’s grin grows wider. He leans in, closer to me. I feel like a bird with a broken wing that has been trapped by a predator playing at being tame to deceive its owners. Without them present, the predator is allowed to play a more dangerous game.

“I think you deserve to know the truth Mwangi. Mwangi? Am I saying it right?” Chuck asks.

“Perfectly,” I reply, not knowing what else to say.

“Mwangi, is that African American?”

“No, just African. Or Kenyan to be more specific,” I reply.

“Ahh, even better. I could tell you were one of the good ones. I think, given your background, you will sympathize with my situation,” Chuck says. He pauses for a moment to adjust his sleeves to make his watch more visible to me. “You see Mwangi, the reason that I have to reschedule is because my wife has a green card appointment. Which is at the same time as the diversity panel. As I’m sure you are aware, it’s impossible to reschedule a green card meeting.”

“Yes, that makes sense,” I reply. “I’m sorry I was not aware you had a conflict at that time. I asked Shauna for a list of times of when you were free. I must have picked a time you were not.”

I pause, waiting for Chuck to reply. We sit in silence for what seems like an eternity, an age; several lifetimes live, wither, and die in that pause.

In one life I am a warrior. In a land with a name different from the one the White man has us call it now. There I meet a White man with a shallow smile. He offers me metal trinkets in exchange for my land, then my body, and finally my freedom.

In another life I am a slave. I’m taught to believe that my kind have always been slaves, even though the songs we sing tell us differently. I’m cultivating a White man’s land, when a young White woman smiles at me and offers me a drink in exchange for a chance to run her hand across my dark skin. We both know I cannot say no. I am brought before my master and whipped until my back cries red, while my master’s grin grows ever wider. My crime, trying to seduce my master’s daughter, to taint his pure lineage. He teaches me to be grateful for having spared my life. Few who look like me get to be so lucky.

In this life, I am an analyst at a prestigious investment firm, and the White man’s smile teaches me to be grateful once again to serve him.

“Yes, it is your fault, Mwangi. Thank you for apologizing,” Chuck says to me. “Shauna told me you asked for that list on a Tuesday, but then you didn’t reschedule the meeting until it was Thursday? Surely you should know that a man in my position has a very busy schedule, constantly being updated with new commitments. I expect you to be faster, better at finding a time that accommodates me.”

“Got it. Once again, I’m sorry it took me so long to respond. I had to wait until I could confirm with all the panelists if the proposed new time worked for all their schedules as well,” I reply.

“Mwangi, I didn’t hire you to make excuses, I hired you to solve problems. This firm only hires and retains the best, and we hold that standard for all our people. Regardless of their,” he pauses, as he fiddles with his watch, “upbringing. How did you even get into this firm? Who gave you a referral?”

“Actually, I applied online,” I reply.

“Fascinating. Back in my day, you had to know someone to get into this business. Modern conveniences have made your generation soft. And perhaps, unappreciative of the opportunities you have been given,” Chuck says to me.

“Yes,” I reply. “It sounds like things were far more challenging in your time.”

“They were! But modern times bring modern opportunities. Did I mention my new wife is from Africa? Ethiopia to be exact. The Cradle of Mankind. That’s close to where you’re from, correct?” Chuck asks me.

“Yes. Ethiopia is close to Kenya,” I reply.

“Fantastic. I think you’ll agree that Ethiopia has some of the most beautiful women in Africa, possibly in the world. Are the women as beautiful in Kenya?” Chuck asks me. “What shades do they come in?”

“Ummm. Many shades, I guess all shades. There are more than 40 different tribes in Kenya,” I reply.

“Amazing. You must have had quite a bit of fun growing up with so many choices,” Chuck winks at me as he says this. He leans further in across the desk, even closer to me. The space between us seems to vanish. The room around us, everything outside of it, falls away. All I can see is Chuck’s predatory grin spreading further across his face, consuming the world. All I feel is the tiny fluttering of my heart as he presses his paw onto my broken wing.

“The thing that I appreciate most about my new wife is that she knows her place. She knows her only purpose is to take care of her husband’s needs. A purpose that women born in America seem to have forgotten. It would be best for everyone if we remembered what our place in society is. To help make this country truly great again. Wouldn’t you agree?”

My throat clenches as I struggle to find the words to respond that will get me away from this man, this reality. I realize that there are no words that will free me from my place in life.

Chuck sees this and smiles, and for once his smile reaches his eyes. I glimpse something terrifying, stirring in those eyes. It ignites something in me.

Chuck dismisses me with a wave of his hand. The surface of his watch catches the sunlight coming in through the window, and throws it into my eyes.

For a moment the light blinds me.

I stand up and walk towards the door. I turn the handle to open the door. Then I clench my fist and close the door. I walk back towards Chuck. I open my mouth, and let what he stirred within me come out.

You think I am scared of you. You think I fear the weight of your tiny paws pressed upon my broken wing. You think I should cower in fear because of the authority this firm, this country, and your skin give you. Housecat, you think I fear your smile. That I am a caged bird, and I should take pleasure that you would have me sing for you?

I am Martin’s Dream. I am Mandela’s Freedom. I am Obama’s Hope. I am the Lion’s Roar.

I am the warrior that fought back when you stole my land, my people, my freedom. I fought until my bones broke, my body caved, and my blood ran free. Free into the rivers, rivers that flowed into the seas where your boats were docked, and my blood seeped into the timbers of your ships, and set sail with you into a new world.

I am the slave that fought back when you accused me of coveting yours while you raped mine.

Now I am the worker that produces your goods, drives your cars, and yes, even manages your money.

And what am I supposed to be grateful to you for? The privilege to still earn for you? What have you given me in exchange?

Lesser pay, longer hours, and poorer working conditions. Crumbs that have fallen off of your dinner table while you feast, growing ever larger off the fruits of my labors.

I am a lion. I demand my own feast.

When all you aimed to profit from was my work, my time, my youth. I thought the sum was fair, though less, always less than my true value. But I persisted. I put up with the ridicule, the abuse, the macroaggressions. But now you try to buy my morality for the same lowly value? For shame. The things that can be bought in the currency that you hoard can never be used to buy that.

What can you do to me now that is worse than what you have already done before? Murdered, enslaved, lynched, segregated, choked until I couldn’t breathe. Yet I’m still here. And now I’m supposed to be scared because you might fire me?

I am a lion. I dream of raising goats, don’t make me have to kill sheep.

As I walk out of Chuck’s office, never to return again, I stop and feel the call of the light towards me. Within the light there are figures. The figures are the heroes of a time that has just past, a time that never was, and an age of wonders. Within the figures I feel many calling to me, whispering the glorious ways they found to the mountaintops. They speak of adventure, of daring feats, and impossible loves. They are the tales told through humanity — I feel a strong pull from a group that has gathered together. That group is larger than I could have ever imagined. They whisper about the ways they found to the mountaintops, the secret ways they found when others were closed to them. They speak of torment, of unending hardships, and unquenchable rage. They are the tales told through our humanity, my humanity. I hear the sound of waves rising high, I know they are about to crest. I see a small wooden boat. The kind only a fisherman would know how to use. I turn towards the light and whisper.

Oh Alexander, can you hear me? They gave me a bigger world to conquer. And now my chariot awaits.

THE END