Stupidity Masquerading as Tradition

Some Mis-Educated Than His Ancestors—the Metha—have risen against me once again. I wrote recently about certain new weapons the Russians had managed to produce within the last year, merely to illustrate a lesson in scientific and technological advancement—chief among them, the Poseidon, a torpedo that carries a miniaturized nuclear plant.

My intention was neither to glorify war nor to praise destruction, but to draw attention to a simple truth: the implications of this invention are immense—far beyond weaponry. A self-sustaining, miniature reactor capable of powering unmanned voyages through the abyss is not just an evolution in science; it is a new chapter in the human covenant with energy and the stars. The development in Russia is as earth-shattering as the first man in space. Energy production and space travel with a miniaturized, unmanned nuclear plant are as universe-bending as the discovery of light itself.

Yet, as always, my illustration turned to farce, thanks to the Metha. They rose to portray the lesson as a kind of sacrilege—a betrayal of African existence itself. One self-anointed guardian of “tradition” wrote that we must not “drop our heritage, abolish chieftaincy, and use our brains to create weapons of mass destruction.” He declared that to do so would mean losing our “direction.” To him, intellect must serve only “imminent problems” of our society.

Thus, my attempt to illuminate the horizon of scientific thought was recast as a crime against culture. The Metha—ever mistaking nostalgia for wisdom—claimed that I “bastardized” the traditions of the villages.

You have to admire the Metha’s sheer depth of intellect—buried far below the ocean floor, where even the light of reason cannot reach.

These same Metha cannot be entrusted with their own health. They cannot produce medicine for their children; they must import their salvation from foreign laboratories. They cannot treat malaria; instead, they place their faith in the A-S genotype, as though nature’s cruel lottery were a talisman against extinction. Their children die beneath mosquito nets they did not weave, while they pray for immunity their science never earned.

That Metha!

It is no wonder they cannot comprehend the magnitude of Russia’s advance. The Metha are a generation unworthy of inheritance. They cannot educate their children without foreign aid, nor feed their families without selling their land to strangers who dig its belly for almost nothing. Their hunger has become their commerce; their poverty, a franchise.

The Metha permit the annihilation of forests, rivers, and sacred lakes in the name of gold. They destroy what their ancestors prayed to, in exchange for the paper faces of men they have never met. They have traded the spirits of their land for signatures on a contract.

And now, the villages they inhabit are hollow shells—parishes without priests, thrones without kings.

The Metha is a species that has forgotten so deeply that even his forgetting has become a habit. He has forgotten that not long ago his ancestors were raided by Europeans—and by hired hands among themselves—for slaves over three centuries. Before that, his people were raided by Arabs for hundreds of years. And after all that bleeding, he was colonized yet again for another century. And when the chains were finally broken, he mistook the weight of freedom for the luxury of idleness.

What, then, is wrong with the Metha? He is a mimic who has forgotten the original. A beggar who mistakes his chains for ornaments. Lazy, yes—but worse, incurious. His mind wanders in circles, convinced it is moving forward.

And when I write to stir him—to awaken him from his stupor, his laziness, his crass stupidity (a form of ignorance unmatched anywhere else on this spinning world)—he musters enough strength not to act, but to argue. He critiques the very breakthroughs he cannot comprehend, the very science that might one day deliver him from the dust.

I was, at first, amused by the peculiar kind of bovine excrement that oozes from the Metha’s mind. But now, I confess, his grotesque stupidity has caught my full attention—not because it is extraordinary, but because it has become so ordinary.

The Metha is proof that tradition without intellect becomes superstition, and intellect without courage becomes mimicry.

And that, dear reader, is how the savanna loses its future—one lazy Metha at a time.

Narmer.

(Image: Poseidon: a torpedo with a miniaturized nuclear-power plant, capable of loitering underwater, undetected, for unlimited time; then, at a command, strikes enemy coasts with a nuclear payload, a radioactive tsunami. Exceeds the destructive power of the Sarmat, Russia’s largest ICBM.)