They ask why we’re poor. Why we’re still trying to catch up.
Why our schools crumble, why our youth run from home, why we still wear borrowed clothes in a global economy we never designed.

But they forget—or choose to forget—what came before.

If you came into my country, stole my resources, enslaved my ancestors, erased my language, broke our systems, and then left us to “develop” on your terms—how could I possibly compete with your richness?

You didn’t just take the gold, the oil, the diamonds.
You took the people. You took the knowledge. You took the future and sold it at a profit.

And then you drew borders, set the rules, and told us to “modernize.”

You came with flags, not friendship.
With missionaries in one hand and weapons in the other.
With contracts we couldn’t read and chains we couldn’t break.

You destabilized economies to enrich your own. You backed dictators to protect your interests. You wrote our debts in your ink and called it aid. You built your empires on our silence, our soil, and our stolen labor.

And now, generations later, you look down and ask, “Why are they still behind?”

How can I catch up to your wealth, when your wealth was built on my loss?

How can I compete when the race started centuries ago—and I began it in shackles?

This is not about excuses. This is not about blame.
It’s about memory. About reckoning. About justice.

Because until we acknowledge that colonialism wasn’t just a moment in history—but a system whose echoes still shape the present—we can’t move forward honestly.

Don’t ask me why I’m struggling.
Ask yourself what you took.
And then, maybe, ask what you’re willing to give back.

Still here. Still rising. But never blind to the roots of the inequality you pretend not to see.