Your bag is empty.
Once upon an evening in the spring of 2004, I waited patiently outside of the Marquee Theatre in Phoenix, Arizona. Mere hours removed from the torment of far too many months held hostage in a hospital bed, I struggled to remain upright as a horde of concertgoers began to swarm around me. Cameras flashed, fingers pointed. Cheers saturated the desert sky. Our Lord and savior Kanye West had made his auspicious arrival.
Unbeknownst to me, my girlfriend had arranged for he and I to meet before the Phoenix stop of his first ever U.S. tour. Days before the concert, she told his people about my military service. How I had somehow survived the perils of Operation Enduring Freedom and all that was left was a broken husk with an infatuation with the gospel of Kanye Omari West—particularly of the chapter Jeanius Level verse Freshman Adjustment variety. So there I stood, Amphotericin still coursing through my veins, in awe of the deity whose music had single-handedly—and quite literally—kept me alive.
As I stumbled to express my gratitude, he nonchalantly thanked me for supporting his imminent reign. We took a quick picture, then he dissolved into his entourage. And while it would be years before he would proclaim himself a God on his audacious sixth studio album Yeezus, on that night I felt like I had come face to face with one. But sadly, for all his splendor and bravado, Kanye would eventually reveal himself to be nothing more than a façade.
The Kanye of today is a far cry from his transcendent soul-sampled origins. His Dropout Bear has been replaced by a customized MAGA hat—the official regalia of Trump’s kleptocratic regime—his inner circle has been infiltrated by the likes of provocateur du jour Candace Owens, and he’s gone from admonishing George Bush for not caring about black people to dismissing slavery as a voluntary act. But in his maniacal quest to completely dismantle a legacy that’s taken him more than 20 years to erect, he visited the White House to exchange friendship bracelets with our pernicious Commander-in-Chief.
In what was branded as a working lunch, the quizzical quartet of Kanye, our president, his son-in-law Jared Kushner, and once-revered civil rights icon Jim Brown assembled to address Trump’s “historic work to benefit all Americans such as urban revitalization, the creation of Opportunity Zones, new workforce training programs, record highs in African American employment, the creation of manufacturing jobs, ideas from his meeting with African American pastors, potential future clemencies, and addressing the massive violent crime surge in Chicago.”
“Yet be it pride, narcissism, mental illness, or otherwise, Kanye genuinely believes he’s somehow acting in the best interest of black progress while basking in his starring role as Trump’s ventriloquist dummy. “
In other words, instead of discussing these very pertinent matters with actual experts on education, urban planning, or criminal justice, Trump was overdue for another* Django Unchained*-esque photo-op. And because neither Kanye nor Jim Brown are capable of distinguishing their conceit from an obvious ruse, they willingly complied.
In the span of this meeting, Kanye proposed love as a solution to police brutality, doubled down on his insistence of repealing the Thirteenth Amendment (of which he referred to as a “trap door”), praised Trump for sparing us from the wrath of North Korea (one of Trump’s favorite fallacies that has been debunked repeatedly), earned an endorsement from the NRA for his stance on gun reform, delivered a painfully obtuse tangent on our welfare system, revealed the depths of his own toxic masculinity by divulging that Hilary Clinton’s “I’m With Her” campaign slogan left him feeling alienated “as a guy,” and affirmed his MAGA hat is much more than just an accessory, but makes him feel like Superman.
Trump’s response to all this? “That was pretty impressive,” a delighted Trump told his prized pupil. “That was quite something.”
“It was from the soul,” West replied. “I just channeled it.”
While it’s common for celebrities to leverage their popularity into momentum for causes that they’re passionate about, the comradery between these two is unprecedented. Particularly because Trump diametrically opposes many of the tenets and policies that Kanye’s fan base subscribes to. Yet be it pride, narcissism, mental illness, or otherwise, Kanye genuinely believes he’s somehow acting in the best interest of black progress while basking in his starring role as Trump’s ventriloquist dummy.
Then when he’s informed that his nobility is misguided and is far more harmful than helpful to those he claims to be liberating, he resorts to playing the victim, asserting that he’s being “bullied for his beliefs.” All while remaining oblivious to the fact that his much-ballyhooed White House luncheon was nothing more than a ploy to mask Trump’s abysmal track record in criminal justice reform. So congratulations, Kanye. You played yourself.
I’ve always maintained that despite his heel turn, Kanye is far too valuable to the black community to completely abandon. Be it entertainment, fashion, or inspiring the next generation of innovators with his ingenuity, his contributions to the cultural zeitgeist are profound and impossible to quantify. But by aligning himself with the policies and practices of an aspiring despot, he’s nothing more than a Trojan Horse—a cancerous scourge masquerading as our infallible savior.
This is exactly why hip-hop royalty such as T.I (“I’m ashamed to have ever been associated with you”), Diddy (“Not black excellence”), and reportedly Jay-Z and Beyoncé, have cast him out of the kingdom. It might be time for the rest of the black community to seriously consider following suit. Because while the would-be God I met 14 years ago sought to deliver us from evil, his current incarnation will only destroy us from within.