Why I Have Lost My Shit SO Many Times Over Bill Cosby

Throughout my 6-month struggle to actually engage in an authentic conversation in Kinyarwanda, there have been many frustrations as I slip over all those syllables that make no sense in the configuration the Rwandan people have decided equates to real life sounds that people should understand. This is the first time my frustration has been this intense. This is the first time it has taken place with someone who was not my weekly language tutor.

Yes, this fool I am cussing out in English speaks my language perfectly fine. But, I want him to know in HIS language that he has no right to try to negotiate with me. He has no right to silence my friends and expect them to deal with his bullshit.

Why are there about 27 ways to say the number 1 in Kinyarwanda, but no way to say: You dirty fucking bastard. I am going to crack this mother fucking glass over your mother fucking head if you don’t get your mother fucking ass out of this fucking house. Right. Fucking. Now!

This is not my house. This is not my party. This is not even really my fight. But I am mad as hell.

Four months ago, Bill Cosby didn’t realize the mic and camera were still rolling. So, he spoke softly in his sweet Grandpa voice to this reporter who watched him repeatedly refuse to speak about the village of women who are accusing him of using their bodies as his own personal playground. America’s favorite dad looked perfectly vulnerable as he suggested to the journalist: “If you want to be taken seriously by your peers, you shouldn’t show this part of the interview. Maybe you should talk to your superiors and tell them to cut that part out.”

And here, clear across the world, I am standing in my friend’s living room, watching this pig who has repeatedly made my friend feel uncomfortable try to explain to me that I am not speaking to him respectfully enough. That he didn’t mean any harm. That just because I am cute, I have no right to kick him out of my friend’s house.

“I have told you nicely it is time for you to go. I am out of niceties. I do not give one single solitary fuck about how you feel. You need to go.”

I have no idea what this Rwandan Bill Cosby has said to my friend, Cecelia. But, I know she is sitting on the sofa next to him, eyes turned down, body curled as far away from him as possible. Another friend is looking toward me and mouthing, “Come get this dude.” Since I am the only one at the party who knows this fool through someone else, I know it is my duty to rid this fun, lighthearted gathering of this parasite that is sucking the joy out of it.

“Just wait,” he continues to negotiate. “We are having a good time. No problem.”

“No, there is a problem and it is you. Get out.”

Bill Cosby has delivered several performances in the midst of the parade of women – both wealthy and regular folk, famous and unknown, respectable and whorish – who have told the same story over and over and over again. He has joked about these women’s audacious tales, quipping to one female audience member to be careful not to leave her drink out around him.

And here this fool is sitting his ass on my homegirl’s sofa and looking at me as if all I have said is: “You so crazy. Boy, you need to turn it down.”

Unlike all the men in the states who have found endless reasons to explain away 25 women accusing one rich, powerful man of violating them, the men on this night at this party oddly believe one female voice is more than enough. They have no idea why I am cursing in perfect English and horrific Kinyarwanda, but they know both are directed toward one person. And they join me in my campaign to get him out.

“Look, Bruh,” one of them mediates. “We all are leaving anyway. So, let’s just call this a night.”

In the west, in the east, in the motherland, a sole soprano needs the aid of at least one bass and maybe a baritone in order for folks to heed the gospel. Only when the men in the room finally realize something is amiss does the creator of the chaos make a move. He finally takes his leave.

On facebook, people just don’t understand. Why now? Why are all of these women coming forward now? If it happened 30 years ago, why would they wait until NOW? There has to be something behind that, they say. “They” want to destroy his legacy. After the preeminent philanthropist and career-maker in Black culture drugged and berated her before throwing her out on the street, Beverly Johnson did not mention that Cliff Huxtable was a sick fuck to her manager the next day at brunch. Even a whole year later, she hadn’t told anyone that the man who had created a multi-million dollar empire in only a matter of decades had tried to rape her. She, too, must be a liar.

“I am so glad y’all got rid of that man,” my friend Josh says once Rwandan Bill finally gets on a moto and carries his ass away. “When we were out on the balcony talking, he was trying to get me to go into business with him. He was talking about some vaguely illegal prostitution ring that may or may not have involved trafficking women into Rwanda. It was weird.”

“What the fuck? Why didn’t you say something before?”

Josh looks remorseful, but is unable to explain why he didn’t summon up his much more superior Kinyarwanda skills to take that fool down. He just sighs and says, “It was so surreal. I was like, if he is at THIS party with THESE people, I can’t be hearing him right. He cannot be talking about setting me up with hookers.”

Suddenly, I am struck by the image of Cecelia cowering on the couch and I am again filled with rage. “Did that mother fucker actually proposition CeCe?”

“Yes and no. Yes, he said he wanted to sleep with her…like tonight. But, the prostitution/possible trafficking business…that was a private conversation he felt he should share with only me.”

When Phylicia Rashad waxed poetic about how influential Dr. Cosby was in creating a positive image of Black middle class life, she never once launched into a sililoquoy that said: Bill Cosby is an upstanding man of such high moral character. I know in the depths of my being that he would never do what these women are saying he did. Yet, she, too, has been used as evidence that Bill Cosby, like the fictional television character he and a staff of writers created, could not possibly be a power-wielding pervert.

My phone begins ringing. I already know who it is. I assume the mutual friend through whom I vaguely know Rwandan Bill has gotten the text I sent to him, which said something to the effect of: Come and get your fucking friend.

“I told him to get on a moto or I was coming back over there,” the friend begins. “He says he is on the main road getting one now. Is that true or do I need to come and put him on one?”

At this point, I am done.

Done because when Camille Cosby finally opened up her mouth, she said: “We really need to ask ourselves who is the victim here.”

Done because on facebook a person who actually possesses a womb posted: Some of the sex was consensual and what were these women doing there in the first place.

Done because this arrogant, entitled bastard took my own repeated and very vocal NO as the beginning of a discussion instead of the ending of one.

My friend wants to know what Rwandan Bill did. “I know he can be a little stupid sometimes, but tell me…what happened? Are you okay? What has he done to upset you so much?”

Tomorrow, there is supposed to be an exclusive interview with some women who Bill Cosby has not drugged or raped. They are going to tell us how our ears are lying and we should be more suspicious of our eyes. They are going to tell us why all those women who their father and husband did drug and rape should not be trusted. They are going to convince a lot of people that for the sake of dismantling racism, we should tolerate patriarchy just a little bit longer.

Bill Cosby is going to sit his ass on America’s sofa while those 25 women cower next to him. When the camera is turned off for real this time, far too many people will actually ask themselves Camille’s twisted question.

And I have not yet learned the word for fuck in Kinyarwanda or French.

2 Responses

  1. Tell it, Keturah! I am already tired of telling both males and females that Cosby is a man and NOT the character he played on TV. Slut-shaming is real and an evil, ugly boil on our society. We who know better must keep speaking up. We cannot be silent while other women are violated. A luta continua…

    • The people who still defend him or who keep wanting to “at least consider the timing of these allegations” make. my. blood. boil. As if the media is only allowing a village full of women to accuse Cosby of simply being a whore. When dozens of women keep saying he is enjoying women’s bodies AFTER drugging them, ain’t shit to discuss about legacy, and white women using black men and whatever else bullshit that people want us to “at least talk about.” This ain’t Hillary Clinton choosing to stand behind her man after a woman VOLUNTARILY gave him a blow job. Camille fixing her fucking mouth to imply that her husband is a victim??? I need to stop now before I lose my shit for the millionth and one time.

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