Who Shot Who? What!

by Zamounde the Footstepper

I had just gotten off of work and sat down outside to catch my ride. There was an older brother already on the bench. I nodded to him as I sat down. He began to speak but I didn't catch what he was saying right away. He continued to speak.

Security was at its highest, but that particular day it was so hot that people naturally let down their guard. I was there when it happened so I know for a fact that the story I'm telling you happened before you were born or probably was just a baby.

He told me his story in a dramatic tone of voice with great concern that I'd listen. I was at first stuck in my disbelief, but he told it so well that I had to listen. We sat there waiting for the late as usual bus with a nice summer polluted breeze flowing off the street mixed with dust and city paper. He smoked a nasty smelling cheap cigarette, but what does it matter since it was killing him the same way I thought.

I smiled at that thought as he continued to break down his story that had a flow that was good enough to be narrated on the best of television shows. I felt that it had validity because I have found that a lot of the far fetch storys of the past when exposed today seem to be so obvious, but like they say times change and along with it our mindset.

The bus pulled up and we boarded it slowly moving up into the old smelly beast that smelled of old urine, weed, funky feet, and everything years old with a mixture of exhausted new soap. I thought that the old man might forget what he was talking about in that moment of silence as we took our seat, but he continued on just as if he was turning the page. I sat down by the window because I don't like people standing next to me with their behinds in my face when the bus gets crowded. A couple of young brothers were now listening to his story too with the same look I'd had on my face in the beginning of his story. One of the brothers had missed his stop and had to leave in a hurry so he wouldn't have to walk no further then he already had to so far.

We continued to listen to his story of a time when he was living down south in the sixties, as he described the day when the streets were crowded with spectators and security personnel from every level possible. A couple of eager security guards also tried but failed to get in on the action, but hung out instead on the cordon area to have the appearance of involvement in the action. He said that he was one of those security guards that day when it happened. He said that a man that he knew was a member of the (BLA)Black Liberation Army sat perched a with a rifle aiming at the black target moving down the street with men tall as small trees running along side of it in a professional sweat.

Then it happened! He paused for a minute a couple of men on the ground who I thought was part of the security forces drew their weapons and took aim too, but the shot from the window came first. In a moment of shock the (SF's) Security Forces on the ground swatted down to take cover and took shots at the target too. Then all hell broke loose as people were running all over the place as the black car now approaching my area sped up. The men that were shooting from the ground were all simultaneously running for the building. In the confusion no one notice them carry that brother out of the building and throw him in their car trunk. I don't know if he was dead or not but as hot as it was that day and as long as he was in that drunk before they drove off I knew that he was close to it.

I left the area after giving my name and place of employment to this over zealous plain clothes cop who was just pissed at my black behind regardless of what was going on. Later that day on the news I saw a totally different story and some White man being held as the shooter, but I know for a fact that it was a Black man that did it. I called the FBI from a pay phone down the street from my apartment, and told them what I had seen. They started giving me the run around so I hung up and ran home and locked my door. Later on I saw the man that they were holding shot on national TV with a room full of cops standing around in a secured area.

I don't know why they covered it up like that. Maybe they were embarrassed that a Black man took out their top official, or maybe they were mad because he got to him first. I don't know all the details but I know that what they're telling you young people as facts of history is a lie to cover up what really happened. Those men on the ground who were shooting after that first shot was fired were on their own mission separate from that of the brother in the window. They planted that rifle as evidence in the building just like they did with King, with one difference; they replaced the truth with a lie. I think that they wanted to avoid the real civil war from breaking out in America, or maybe even start it, but not by a Black man; it was the communist nigger that they wanted to be the bad guy.

He paused and gazed at me with a look of assurance that what he was telling me was the truth as he knew it. I think he knew that he was not going to live much longer and wanted someone to know. I departed the bus at my stop and stood there as it drove away. My brain felt heavy with a burden of truth that I felt that should be told but with caution. I will never look at that part of history the same.

I left the bus in a surreal daydream, a deep reflection came over my spirit. I told a couple of my friends and they laughed, but I could tell by their tone of voice that they too wanted to believe it. Well time past and one day while riding the bus I ran into that same man, but he acted as if he didn't know what I was talking about. Who shot who? What! he said in a calm but forceful tone. Oh I get it, the truth is a one time deal.

Who Shot Who? What! by Zamounde the Footstepper

© Copyright 1999. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

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