The Education of a Coward

To: Mrs. Margaret Whitely, The Inspector, The Boss

Subject: On My Readiness to Resign

Date: March 5, 2025

A quiet confession sealed in humility — The Education of a Coward, from Samuel D. Keller to Mrs. Margaret Whitely, never to be sent.

Mrs. Whitely inspects Mr. Keller's cleaning duties

Madam,

I suppose it is customary, when a man resigns, to thank his superior for the opportunity, to explain himself politely, to leave the door open, so to speak. But what is there to explain? I have nothing polite to say, and the only door I see is the one I should have walked through the day I started here.

You inspected the floor yesterday and found it wanting. Fair enough, so did I. You spoke to me as one speaks to a child, though you and I both know I am no child. In fact, I know you knew it too, because when you saw me hesitate, cornered, your eyes glimmered with a little satisfaction. That is how it is, is it not? You live for that moment when a man, however slightly, lowers his eyes before you.

So I told you I was ready to resign. And later, yes, I said the most ridiculous thing I could have said: “You know I am educated.” And you smirked, as though education were something laughable. As though you had never heard the word before.

Well, laugh, then. Why not? After all, education is useless here. A man who has read Kant and Aristotle wipes the same stains off the same floor as a man who has read nothing at all. And if he dares to point out the difference, the educated man is the bigger fool, because he actually believed the world would care.

But let me tell you something, you who inspect floors at dawn: it is precisely because I am educated that I can see how petty this little power of yours really is. That you stand over me not because you are better, but because you are willing to pretend you are. You keep your hands clean while I dirty mine. You do not have to think. I do.

And so here we are: you, the inspector, the boss, secure in your small authority; me, the cleaner, secure only in the knowledge of my own absurdity. The others do not notice. They are happy enough to wipe and go home. But I — no, I am cursed to notice everything, to feel everything, to see through everything.

And so, yes, I was ready to resign. And perhaps I still am. But know this: if I do stay, it is not because of you, nor because I need this job so badly, though I do, but because it amuses me to watch you think you have won.

There is nothing more contemptible than to obey a petty tyrant out of necessity. But there is also nothing more human.

Yours unwillingly,

Samuel D. Keller

---

Mr. Keller writes to Mrs. Whitely

To: Mrs. Margaret Whitely 

Subject: And Another Thing 

Date: March 6, 2025

Madam,

Forgive the intrusion of yet another letter, though why I say “forgive” when I know you will not is beyond me. The truth is I could not sleep. That often happens to men who think too much and clean too little.

I realized after sending my last note that I had not quite finished saying what I needed to say. It always happens this way: I stew and mutter, and the words boil over later, too late. Well, better late than never.

I said, and still say, that your power is petty. Petty, but effective. And is that not the genius of it? That you can make a man of education, a man who once stood at a lectern quoting Aristotle, now stand before you, mop in hand, silent, shamed, afraid. A man who has read about virtue and freedom and human dignity, yet quivers like a dog when you scold him for missing a spot under the machine.

Why? Why do I quiver? Why do I stay? Because necessity is stronger than pride, and you know it. You count on it.

And yet you must also know, though you will never say it aloud, that I despise you for it. Not just you as a person — perhaps you are no worse than the rest — but you as a symbol of the whole miserable little order of things. The floors must be cleaned, and somebody must inspect them. But does it have to be you, and me?

Do you ever feel ridiculous, I wonder? Standing there in your little shoes, clipboard in hand, frowning at a stain? Do you ever think, even for a second, how absurd it all is? Or are you blissfully unaware, like the others?

It must be a kind of bliss, that ignorance. To never question, never see. To inspect a man’s work without seeing the man.

But I am not ignorant, and that is why I suffer.

And so tomorrow night, I will return. I will scrub, as I always do. You will inspect, as you always do. And nothing will change. Not yet. Not outwardly. But know this: every time you glance at me and see only another pair of hands, know that there is a mind behind them, a mind you cannot reach, and cannot bend, no matter how petty your power or how sharp your little notes.

And so: until the next inspection.

Samuel D. Keller

P.S. If you find this letter impertinent, good. It was meant to be.

---

To: Mrs. Margaret Whitely 

Subject: You Will Never Read This 

Date: March 9, 2025

Madam,

How strange, to address you as though you might read this, when I already know I will never send it. You will never see these words. You will never know what I thought of you as you stood there with your little note, telling me I had missed something again, your tone just sharp enough to sting, but not sharp enough to leave a mark anyone else would notice.

Oh, but I notice.

Every time you pass by with that clipboard of yours, something in me recoils, and something else in me smiles. Do you know why? Because I see you for what you are: a little queen of a little kingdom, ruling over a realm of dust and grease and tired men. And you think yourself grand. You think yourself in command.

But I know better. I see the absurdity of it all, the absurdity of you, and that knowledge is my secret revenge.

You think I fear you. And in a way, I do. I flinch when you scold me, I mumble apologies, I even consider quitting just to escape your gaze. But that is only the fear of a body, not of a mind. My mind sits in its corner, arms crossed, laughing at both of us.

You will never know how many times I have written this letter to you, in my head, on scraps of paper, in the air as I drag my mop across the floor. Every time you raise your voice, another version of this letter begins. Sometimes I taunt you more cruelly. Sometimes I pity you. Sometimes I imagine you reading this and realizing, with horror, that I see right through you.

And yet I never send it. Of course not. I am far too much of a coward for that. It is one thing to feel superior in my mind, it is another to risk whatever small scrap of dignity I still cling to by actually saying these things aloud.

And so you will go on inspecting, and I will go on scrubbing, and you will never know how much I loathe you, and how much I loathe myself for loathing you.

But sometimes, in the small hours, I imagine you reading this. I imagine the look on your face when you realize you have never really beaten me, not where it counts.

That is enough.

Yours, but only in the shallowest sense of the word, 

Samuel D. Keller

---

To: Mrs. Margaret Whitely 

Subject: An Apology (Of Sorts) 

Date: March 12, 2025

Madam,

I owe you an apology. I should not have spoken to you the way I did. I should not have told you I was ready to resign. That was childish, dramatic, and, worst of all, dishonest. Because the truth is, of course, I am not ready to resign. I never was.

I do not have the courage. I never have. I like to imagine myself as a man of principle, a man of education, a man with a spine. But the reality is, I am spineless. And you knew it the whole time, did you not?

Oh yes, you knew. That is why you pressed me, cornered me. You could see in my eyes that I would never actually walk away. That no matter how high and mighty I pretend to be, I will always come crawling back to this miserable little job, because I need it.

You have won, and I know it. And what is worse, I know you will win again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.

So yes, I apologize. Not because I respect you — if I am honest, I do not. Not because you deserve it — if I am honest, you do not. But because I have no choice. Because I am weak. Because this is what weak men do.

They grovel.

So here I am: groveling. I hope you are happy.

Pathetically,

Samuel D. Keller

P.S. Please feel free to keep this letter in my file as evidence of my utter, permanent defeat.

Obscurity and Futurity: Rethinking Fanon’s Generational Imperative in Postcolonial Contexts

“Each generation must, out of relative obscurity, discover its mission, fulfill it, or betray it.”

Contemplating The Wretched of the Earth - Frantz Fanon

Abstract

This essay offers a critical examination of Frantz Fanon’s generational imperative as articulated in The Wretched of the Earth (1961), where he asserts that “each generation must, out of relative obscurity, discover its mission, fulfill it, or betray it.” While this formulation has become emblematic of the moral and political stakes of decolonization, it also raises unresolved questions about agency, temporality, and the conditions of collective action in postcolonial contexts. Drawing on postcolonial theory and contemporary African thought, particularly Achille Mbembe’s analyses of subjectivity and futurity, the essay interrogates the dichotomy of fulfillment and betrayal, which risks oversimplifying the contingent and contested nature of historical processes. Through engagement with historical examples, feminist and decolonial critiques, and contemporary social movements, the discussion reframes the generational mission as a fragile and provisional practice of invention and critique within conditions of structural constraint and epistemic uncertainty. In doing so, it foregrounds the ethical and political significance of embracing obscurity as a constitutive feature of historical action, and of sustaining open and plural conceptions of futurity beyond inherited paradigms of liberation.

Introduction

Frantz Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth (1961) remains a foundational text in the canon of decolonial thought, notable for its uncompromising critique of colonial domination and its vision of liberation. Among its most widely cited insights is the assertion that “each generation must, out of relative obscurity, discover its mission, fulfill it, or betray it.” This statement has often been taken to encapsulate the sense of historical responsibility confronting those living in the aftermath of colonialism. It also raises important questions about the nature of agency, the temporality of political action, and the conditions under which a generation can come to recognize and define its task.

This essay examines Fanon’s formulation through the lens of postcolonial theory and contemporary African thought, with particular attention to Achille Mbembe’s reflections on subjectivity, temporality, and the ambiguities of the postcolony. The analysis argues that Fanon’s binary of fulfillment and betrayal risks obscuring the complexities of historical action in contexts shaped by structural violence, epistemic rupture, and competing imperatives. Rather than conceiving of the generational mission as a linear discovery of a latent purpose, the discussion situates it as an open-ended and contested process of invention, negotiation, and critique. In doing so, the essay foregrounds the ethical and political challenges of acting within conditions of uncertainty, emphasizing the generative possibilities that emerge from the obscurity of the present.

Fanon’s Generational Mission: Between Agency and Determinism

Fanon’s assertion that “each generation must, out of relative obscurity, discover its mission, fulfill it, or betray it” reflects a specific conception of historical agency. His statement situates the political subject in a dynamic and contingent relationship with history, in which responsibility and possibility intersect within a field of structural constraints. It suggests that a generation does not inherit a clear or predetermined program of action but must discern its own horizon of meaning through engagement with the material and symbolic conditions of its time. In this framing, history appears not as a linear unfolding toward inevitable ends but as a contested terrain that demands active participation and ethical deliberation.

The notion of “relative obscurity” is especially significant. Fanon does not assume that each generation confronts its task fully aware of what is required or even fully equipped to define its mission in advance. Obscurity refers to the ambiguity of the present, shaped by competing narratives, residual forms of colonial domination, and the disorientation that accompanies rupture and transformation. As colonialism disrupted political and economic life, it also dismantled systems of meaning, delegitimized indigenous knowledge, and imposed alien categories of identity and value. In the aftermath of such disruptions, the challenge for any generation is to construct a viable sense of collective purpose amid ambiguity and fragmentation. This process involves negotiation with inherited categories and institutions, as well as engagement with the pressures and opportunities of the global political economy.

The formulation of fulfillment and betrayal, however, raises important questions about the limits of agency in contexts marked by structural violence. Fanon’s dichotomy implies the existence of a clear horizon of choice, yet the conditions under which generations act are shaped by profound asymmetries of power and by the legacies of prior struggles. Achille Mbembe’s critique of teleological narratives of liberation provides a useful counterpoint in this regard. In his analysis of the postcolony, Mbembe emphasizes the entanglement of past and present, and the persistence of colonial logics even after formal independence. The forms of domination encountered in postcolonial Africa are not identical to those of high colonialism, but they often reproduce analogous hierarchies and exclusions under different guises. This perspective complicates the idea that a generation can decisively fulfill a mission understood as a singular, knowable objective. Instead, historical action is situated within overlapping and sometimes contradictory imperatives, which makes outcomes partial, contested, and often ambivalent.

Concrete examples from African history illustrate these tensions. The generation of leaders who spearheaded independence movements in the mid-twentieth century in countries like Ghana, Kenya, and Algeria saw their mission as securing sovereignty and dismantling colonial institutions. Figures such as Kwame Nkrumah and Ahmed Ben Bella articulated grand visions of social and economic transformation. Yet these projects often became entangled in Cold War geopolitics, economic dependency, and internal authoritarianism, with consequences that undermined the very aspirations they sought to achieve. In some cases, the mission of liberation degenerated into a politics of exclusion and repression, as in the one-party regimes of post-independence East Africa. Such outcomes raise the question of whether the mission was betrayed by individual leaders, distorted by external pressures, or rendered unachievable by structural realities.

At the same time, the idea of generational mission remains politically salient because it affirms the possibility of agency even under constraint. More recent movements, such as the 2015 Rhodes Must Fall and Fees Must Fall campaigns in South Africa, illustrate how younger generations can rearticulate the meaning of liberation in ways that address unfulfilled promises of earlier struggles. These student-led movements challenged the persistence of racial and economic inequalities and questioned the narratives of post-apartheid triumphalism. In so doing, they demonstrated that the “mission” of a generation is not fixed but can be redefined in response to the unfinished business of prior eras.

This dynamic can also be seen in broader global contexts. Movements for racial justice, gender equality, and climate action all reflect generational efforts to name and confront forms of violence and inequality that have been naturalized over time. In each case, activists confront the dual challenge of responding to immediate crises while imagining alternative futures. The obscurity of the present is not eliminated but navigated through collective experimentation and contestation.

The attribution of betrayal to generations that fall short of their stated goals also requires careful scrutiny. Economic dependency, geopolitical intervention, institutional weakness, and social division limit the scope of what can be achieved. Moralizing narratives of failure can obscure these realities and reinforce stereotypes of incapacity or corruption. At the same time, claims to fulfillment are not immune from critique, since projects of liberation can reproduce hierarchies of gender, class, ethnicity, or region, privileging certain interests while marginalizing others. For example, feminist critiques of African nationalist movements have highlighted how postcolonial states often sidelined the contributions and demands of women, even as women played central roles in anti-colonial struggles.

Fanon’s formulation retains its relevance because it foregrounds the tension between responsibility and constraint. Historical actors are not absolved of the need to act by the obscurity of their circumstances. Even under conditions of constraint, the capacity to interpret the demands of the moment and to expand the possibilities of collective life is not eliminated. At the same time, outcomes cannot be assumed to reflect either pure fulfillment or pure betrayal. They emerge through negotiation, contestation, and compromise, shaped by structural and contingent factors.

Understanding the mission of a generation as a process of invention rather than the realization of a predetermined objective allows for a more nuanced account of historical agency. Such an approach recognizes the creative and improvisational character of political life, especially in contexts where inherited categories and institutions are themselves in crisis. The obscurity of the present becomes a condition within which imagination operates, rather than simply an obstacle to be overcome.

The statement that each generation must discover its mission continues to resonate because it acknowledges both the uniqueness of historical moments and the enduring demand for ethical and political engagement. The mission of a generation does not unfold according to a universal script, nor can its success or failure be easily adjudicated. Instead, its significance emerges in the way actors articulate aspirations, confront limitations, and contribute to the ongoing task of imagining and constructing futures that remain fundamentally open. This perspective aligns with Mbembe’s call for African thought to embrace multiplicity, contingency, and the provisional character of political projects, rejecting closure in favor of an ethics of openness and creativity.

The invocation of mission in Fanon’s sense does not guarantee liberation, nor does it prescribe a singular path. What it does is sustain a sense of historical responsibility that links individual and collective action to broader questions of justice, solidarity, and possibility. This remains indispensable in a world where the conditions of action are both shaped by deep structural inequalities and open to transformation through human agency.

Rethinking Fulfillment and Betrayal: Ambiguities of Liberation and the Ethics of Invention

Fanon’s framing of generational responsibility as a binary between fulfillment and betrayal invites further scrutiny, particularly in light of the ambiguities that characterize projects of liberation and the provisional nature of historical outcomes. While the language of fulfillment suggests the successful realization of a generation’s mission, and betrayal connotes its abandonment or distortion, both terms obscure the contingent and contested processes through which historical projects unfold. A closer examination reveals that what appears as fulfillment to one constituency may be experienced as exclusion or marginalization by another, and what is denounced as betrayal may, in retrospect, reveal itself as a necessary reconfiguration in response to changing conditions.

Achille Mbembe’s insistence on the entanglement of liberation and violence in the postcolonial context highlights the limits of Fanon’s dichotomy. In On the Postcolony, Mbembe argues that independence movements often became captive to the logics of sovereignty they inherited from colonial powers. The state, envisioned as the primary site for realizing collective aspirations, frequently reproduced coercive structures and centralized authority at the expense of democratic accountability and pluralism. For instance, the postcolonial authoritarianisms of Mobutu Sese Seko in Zaire and Hastings Banda in Malawi were justified in part as necessary for maintaining national unity and protecting sovereignty, even as they curtailed civil liberties and entrenched inequality. Such outcomes raise questions about whether the fulfillment of sovereignty as a political goal was, at the same time, a betrayal of deeper emancipatory possibilities.

Feminist theorists have similarly complicated the narratives of liberation that informed early postcolonial projects. Scholars such as Ifi Amadiume and Amina Mama have shown how post-independence nationalist states often subordinated gender justice to the priorities of national reconstruction. Women who had been central to anti-colonial resistance were relegated to subordinate roles in political and economic life after independence. In this sense, the generational mission as defined by male-dominated nationalist elites was only partially realized, with its gains distributed unevenly across gender lines. This perspective underscores the importance of attending to internal differences within “generations,” as experiences of fulfillment and betrayal are often differentiated by class, gender, ethnicity, and location.

Historical examples outside the African context also illustrate the ambiguity of fulfillment and betrayal. In Latin America, the revolutionary generation that took power in Cuba in 1959 articulated its mission as delivering sovereignty and social justice in the face of U.S. imperialism. While many of its reforms in health, education, and land redistribution were celebrated as achievements, the subsequent political repression and economic stagnation have led some to view the revolutionary project as having betrayed its own emancipatory ideals. Such examples suggest that missions are rarely realized in unambiguous ways. They are shaped by internal contradictions, external pressures, and the unforeseen consequences of political choices.

Contemporary movements further demonstrate how the meaning of fulfillment and betrayal continues to evolve. The 2011 Arab uprisings were, for many, the attempt of a generation to reclaim political agency and dignity after decades of authoritarian stagnation. Yet the outcomes have been highly uneven. In Tunisia, a fragile democratic transition has unfolded, while in Egypt and Syria, the uprisings gave way to authoritarian resurgence and devastating conflict. These divergent trajectories reflect both the capacity of generational actors to articulate demands and the structural and geopolitical constraints that shaped their implementation. In each case, the assessment of whether the mission was fulfilled or betrayed remains contested and open to reinterpretation.

In the African context, contemporary youth movements have raised new questions about what constitutes the mission of the present generation. Movements such as Y’en a Marre in Senegal, Balai Citoyen in Burkina Faso, End SARS in Nigeria, and most recently the Gen Z-led protests in Kenya against President William Ruto’s government have mobilized against corruption, austerity measures, police violence, and entrenched elites, often articulating their demands in terms that reject the post-independence social contract. The Kenyan movement, which emerged in mid-2024 in response to proposed tax hikes and broader grievances over governance, was notable for its decentralized organization, its reliance on digital platforms, and its insistence on generational justice. Like its counterparts elsewhere, it underscores how younger cohorts reinterpret the meaning of liberation in the light of contemporary challenges. These movements suggest that generational missions are not static inheritances but are redefined as new actors confront the limitations and exclusions of earlier projects. Their demands for accountability and inclusion often expose how previous claims of fulfillment masked ongoing forms of repression and inequality.

The ethical challenge, then, is to conceptualize generational missions in a way that acknowledges their provisional and contested character. Rather than evaluating historical projects solely in terms of their correspondence to prior ideals, it may be more productive to assess how they expand the horizon of possibilities for collective life. Enrique Dussel’s notion of liberation as an ongoing, unfinished ethical project is relevant here. Dussel argues that liberation must be understood as a process that continuously interrogates its own exclusions and failures, rather than as the achievement of a final state of justice. In this sense, even incomplete or flawed historical efforts can contribute to broader trajectories of emancipation, provided they create conditions for further critique and transformation.

The language of betrayal also benefits from this reframing. Not every deviation from an inherited script should be read as abandonment. In some instances, the rejection of earlier paradigms is itself necessary to articulate more inclusive or viable alternatives. The reinterpretation of national liberation in terms of ecological justice, gender equality, or regional solidarity reflects how generational missions can evolve in response to emergent challenges. To label such developments as betrayals would obscure their generative potential.

In sum, the binary of fulfillment and betrayal captures something important about the stakes of historical responsibility, yet it risks simplifying the complexity of collective action and its outcomes. Generational missions are not monolithic, nor are their trajectories linear. They unfold through negotiation, improvisation, and contestation, often producing contradictory effects. Recognizing this complexity allows for a more nuanced understanding of historical agency, one that resists moralistic closure and remains attentive to the ethical and political work of invention. Such an understanding also invites ongoing critical reflection on how contemporary actors define their own missions, and how they might avoid reproducing the exclusions and violences of earlier projects even as they build upon their achievements.

Obscurity and the Politics of Futurity

The idea of “relative obscurity” in Fanon’s formulation has often been read simply as the lack of clarity that confronts each generation as it seeks to define its role in history. Yet the notion of obscurity deserves more sustained attention as a constitutive feature of political life rather than merely an initial barrier to action. Conceived in this way, obscurity not only marks the uncertainty of the present but also opens the horizon of futurity, making possible new articulations of freedom and justice that exceed inherited scripts.

Fanon’s reference to obscurity reflects the historical situation of colonized peoples emerging from centuries of domination. The colonial condition was not only material but also epistemic, producing a “zone of non-being,” as he writes elsewhere, in which the colonized subject was rendered illegible within the dominant order of meaning. For this reason, the generational task is not simply to act within existing structures but also to interrogate and transform the categories through which political action is conceived. The recognition of obscurity as a condition of action foregrounds the need for imagination and invention as essential to any meaningful engagement with history.

Achille Mbembe has extended this insight in his exploration of African temporality and futurity. In Critique of Black Reason, he challenges the idea that the postcolony is defined only by its failure to achieve the promises of modernity. Instead, he calls for an understanding of African futures that resists closure, embracing what he describes as the “capacity to inhabit multiple temporalities” and to generate “unexpected configurations of the possible.” Here, obscurity is not simply the absence of knowledge or direction but an indication of the openness of history itself. It signals the undecidability of the future and the impossibility of fully mastering its trajectory.

This emphasis on futurity resonates with broader critiques of teleological models of political change. Dipesh Chakrabarty’s Provincializing Europe, for example, critiques the way developmentalist narratives have positioned the Global South as perpetually “catching up” to a European standard of modernity. Such narratives reduce obscurity to a deficit and imagine history as a unilinear progression toward a known endpoint. Against this, the politics of futurity insists that history remains open and that the task of a generation is not simply to fulfill a preordained destiny but to create the conditions for unforeseen futures.

Historical examples illustrate how obscurity has been generative of new political imaginaries. During the struggle against apartheid in South Africa, the African National Congress and allied movements articulated the Freedom Charter as a vision of a non-racial, democratic society, even though such a future was unimaginable within the framework of apartheid itself. The obscurity of the present was precisely what enabled activists to envision a radically different order. Yet, as later critiques of post-apartheid South Africa have demonstrated, the work of imagining the future does not end with the achievement of formal liberation. The persistence of economic inequality, racialized violence, and corruption suggests that the politics of futurity must remain ongoing, continually reopening the question of what justice requires.

Contemporary movements also demonstrate the centrality of obscurity to political practice. Climate justice activism, particularly in the Global South, grapples with unprecedented forms of planetary crisis that render existing paradigms of progress inadequate. Youth-led movements such as Fridays for Future and Extinction Rebellion have foregrounded the uncertainty of ecological futures, insisting that this uncertainty demands radical rethinking of political, economic, and ethical norms. Similarly, movements for racial and gender justice have challenged not only material inequalities but also the conceptual frameworks that sustain them, demanding recognition of previously marginalized knowledges and ways of being.

Obscurity, in these contexts, is not a problem to be eliminated through better planning or more complete knowledge. Rather, it is a condition of possibility that invites humility and responsiveness, recognizing that the future cannot be fully predicted or controlled. Paul Ricoeur’s work on narrative time is instructive here, as it reminds us that historical action always unfolds within the tension between the determinacy of the past and the indeterminacy of the future. To act politically is to navigate this tension, making commitments in the present that remain open to revision as new conditions emerge.

An ethics of futurity, therefore, calls for a mode of engagement that resists both fatalism and rigid determinism. This mode acknowledges the legacies of violence and exclusion that shape the present, while also refusing to let those legacies exhaust the field of possibility. It seeks to cultivate political imaginaries capable of naming and confronting contemporary forms of domination without foreclosing the emergence of alternative horizons. Such an approach affirms that the obscurity of the present is not simply a deficit to overcome but an invitation to participate in the ongoing creation of collective futures.

By situating obscurity within the politics of futurity, Fanon’s insight can be read as more than a call to clarify an already existing mission. It becomes an injunction to embrace the contingency of history and to assume responsibility for shaping its direction, even in the absence of certainty. This perspective aligns with Mbembe’s vision of African thought as a space of experimentation and multiplicity, where futures are not inherited but constructed through struggle, imagination, and negotiation.

The politics of futurity thus challenges each generation to approach its mission not as the fulfillment of a fixed task but as a process of inquiry, invention, and ethical engagement. Obscurity remains central to this process, not as an obstacle but as a reminder of the openness of history and the enduring possibility of transformation.

Conclusion

Frantz Fanon’s assertion that each generation must, out of relative obscurity, discover its mission, fulfill it, or betray it remains a compelling provocation for thinking about historical responsibility. This essay has interrogated the assumptions embedded in Fanon’s formulation and explored how subsequent theorists, historical trajectories, and contemporary movements complicate and enrich its meaning.

At the heart of Fanon’s statement lies a conception of history as a space of possibility shaped by the interplay of inherited constraints and collective agency. The generational mission, as he articulates it, emerges not in conditions of clarity but out of obscurity, reflecting both the disorientation left by colonial violence and the indeterminacy of the future. The stark dichotomy of fulfillment and betrayal underscores the stakes of historical action but risks oversimplifying the ambivalence and unevenness of political outcomes. Achille Mbembe’s critique of teleological narratives and his emphasis on the entanglement of liberation and domination foreground the complexities of postcolonial agency and the need for a more nuanced understanding of what it means to assume responsibility for the present.

Historical and contemporary examples demonstrate that generational missions are never singular or static. They are contested, differentiated, and continually redefined as actors confront the limits of earlier projects and articulate new demands. The uneven legacies of independence movements, the marginalization of women in nationalist narratives, and the emergence of youth-led movements across Africa and beyond all point to the necessity of conceptualizing generational responsibility as an ongoing and provisional process rather than a definitive accomplishment. This perspective resists moralistic closures that label entire generations as either successful or failed and instead emphasizes the creative and contested work of constructing meaning under conditions of constraint.

The notion of obscurity, when placed in dialogue with contemporary discussions of futurity, invites a broader ethical and political reflection. Rather than a deficit to be eliminated, obscurity can be understood as a constitutive feature of historical life, a reminder of the openness of history and the impossibility of fully mastering its direction. The politics of futurity that emerges from this recognition calls for humility, imagination, and an ongoing commitment to questioning inherited categories and expanding the horizon of what is possible.

Fanon’s insight, therefore, retains its critical force not as a prescription for a specific political program but as an invitation to confront the ambiguities of the present and to take up the ethical challenge of shaping the future. Generational responsibility is not reducible to fulfilling a predetermined mission, nor is it exhausted by the fear of betrayal. It involves the continual work of invention, critique, and solidarity, grounded in the recognition that each historical moment is both conditioned by the past and open to transformation.

In this sense, the task of each generation is not simply to answer the question Fanon posed but to keep it alive, ensuring that the obscurity of the present remains a space of critical engagement and that the future remains an object of collective imagination. Such a task affirms the dignity of political life itself, understood not as the achievement of closure but as the practice of sustaining the possibility of a more just and livable world.

Bibliography

African National Congress. The Struggle is My Life: Speeches and Writings of Nelson Mandela. London: International Defence and Aid Fund, 1986.

Amadiume, Ifi. Male Daughters, Female Husbands: Gender and Sex in an African Society. London: Zed Books, 1987.

Chakrabarty, Dipesh. Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000.

Dussel, Enrique. Ethics of Liberation in the Age of Globalization and Exclusion. Translated by Eduardo Mendieta, Camilo Pérez Bustillo, Yolanda Angulo, and

Nelson Maldonado-Torres. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2013.

Fanon, Frantz. Black Skin, White Masks. Translated by Richard Philcox. New York: Grove Press, 2008.

———. The Wretched of the Earth. Translated by Richard Philcox. New York: Grove

Press, 2004.

Mama, Amina. Beyond the Masks: Race, Gender and Subjectivity. London: Routledge, 1995.

Mbembe, Achille. Critique of Black Reason. Translated by Laurent Dubois. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2017.

———. On the Postcolony. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001.

Ricoeur, Paul. Time and Narrative, Volume 1. Translated by Kathleen McLaughlin and David Pellauer. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984.

Situating Alison Des Forges: Historiography, Memory, and the Colonial Archive

Before turning to the substantive chapters of Defeat Is the Only Bad News, it is important to foreground the preliminary sections of the text — the Editor’s Preface, the Author’s Preface, the Editor’s Note, and the Editor’s Introduction. These paratextual interventions situate Alison Des Forges’ study within the contested historiography of Rwanda and trace the intellectual and political trajectory of an author whose work spanned scholarship and human rights advocacy. They also illuminate the conditions under which this work was published posthumously, revealing the editorial decisions and historical silences that accompany the transformation of a dissertation into a book. In doing so, these sections underscore how historical knowledge is produced within specific political and intellectual contexts, shaped by the constraints of the colonial archive and the demands of memory, and informed by the commitments of those who, like Des Forges, sought to center African agency in narrating colonial and postcolonial experience.

Editor’s Preface

— By David Newbury.

In the Editor’s Preface, David Newbury frames Defeat Is the Only Bad News within two intertwined contexts: the intellectual legacy of Alison Des Forges and the circumstances of its posthumous publication. He reminds the reader that the text, originally submitted as a Yale doctoral dissertation in the 1970s, was already recognized as a groundbreaking intervention into Rwandan political history under King Yuhi Musinga. Yet Des Forges chose not to publish it as a monograph in her lifetime, redirecting her energies toward human rights advocacy and her later investigations of the 1994 genocide — itself a historical rupture that demanded urgent intellectual and moral engagement.

For Newbury, the decision to publish the dissertation posthumously serves both as an act of recognition and as an intervention in its own right: recognition of the depth and originality of Des Forges’ scholarship, and an intervention to make that scholarship available to a wider public of scholars, students, and readers of African history. He underscores the enduring significance of the study, not only for its detailed reconstruction of Rwandan society under colonial rule but also for its sensitivity to how Rwandan actors negotiated power, legitimacy, and survival amid colonial disruption.

In clarifying his editorial approach, Newbury situates himself as a custodian rather than a co-author. His stated objective was to preserve the integrity of Des Forges’ voice and analytical vision, intervening only to correct typographical errors, update citations where appropriate, and adjust formatting to contemporary standards. The result, he insists, remains unmistakably Des Forges’ own work — in both substance and style — embodying her methodological rigor, her attentiveness to African agency, and her commitment to centering Rwandan perspectives within their own history.

Author’s Preface

—  Written by Des Forges herself in the 1970s.

In the Author’s Preface, written in the 1970s as part of her original dissertation, Alison Des Forges articulates both the intellectual and the personal impulses that informed her study of Rwanda under colonial rule. She opens by acknowledging the Rwandans whose memories and testimonies animated her fieldwork, recognizing that it is through their oral histories that the political and social complexities of Yuhi Musinga’s reign could be reconstructed. For Des Forges, these informants were not simply sources but collaborators, whose knowledge allowed her to challenge the silences and distortions of the colonial archive.

The Preface also outlines the central problematic of her study: how Rwandan actors — and King Musinga in particular — navigated the structures of colonial power, exercising agency rather than succumbing passively to European domination. Against narratives that cast the monarchy as a pliant instrument of indirect rule, she foregrounds the strategic adaptations, negotiations, and resistances that shaped Rwandan responses to German and Belgian colonial administrations as well as to the encroachment of Catholic missionaries.

For Des Forges, the period from 1896 to 1931 represents a pivotal moment of transition in Rwandan history, defined not solely by colonial imposition but by the interplay of external pressures and internal political dynamics. Her analysis thus displaces the notion of colonialism as a one-sided project of domination, instead presenting it as a contested encounter in which Rwandan elites and institutions played an active role in shaping the trajectory of their society under conditions of profound change.

Editor’s Note

The Editor’s Note functions as a succinct yet revealing commentary on the editorial philosophy that shaped the publication of Alison Des Forges’ dissertation. Here, David Newbury situates his role not as co-author but as mediator, committed to preserving the intellectual and analytical integrity of Des Forges’ original text while making it legible and accessible to a contemporary and broader readership. His interventions are presented as pragmatic and restrained, guided by a respect for the author’s voice and argument.

Newbury details the linguistic and orthographic decisions that informed the preparation of the text. He notes the standardization of Rwandan names and terms, as well as the careful application of diacritics to more faithfully reflect Kinyarwanda phonology. These decisions, while seemingly technical, underscore the tension between the demands of scholarly accuracy and the realities of publishing for an Anglophone audience. Similarly, his discussion of translation choices highlights the challenge of rendering Rwandan concepts into English in a way that retains their cultural specificity without sacrificing readability — an inevitable act of negotiation between languages and epistemologies.

Newbury further acknowledges updates to footnotes and citations, explaining that these were adjusted to align with current citation standards and supplemented with explanatory notes where necessary to orient readers unfamiliar with the historical or cultural context. Throughout, he insists that these interventions were kept deliberately minimal and transparent, aimed at clarifying rather than reshaping the text. The Editor’s Note, then, invites readers to recognize that even the act of preserving a historical work entails editorial choices — choices that reflect both a commitment to fidelity and an awareness of the demands imposed by a changing intellectual and institutional context.

Editor’s Introduction

In the Editor’s Introduction, David Newbury locates Alison Des Forges’ work within the broader historiography of Rwanda and the study of African colonialism. He frames her intervention as a critique of prevailing narratives that have too often portrayed the colonial encounter as a unidirectional imposition of European authority. Instead, he highlights how her analysis foregrounds the colonial encounter as a negotiated and contested process, one in which African agency was not extinguished but reconfigured. By centering the reign of King Yuhi Musinga as her focal point, Des Forges is able to illuminate both the continuities of indigenous political institutions and the ways these were transformed under the pressure of colonial rule.

For Newbury, the period of Musinga’s reign (1896–1931) is particularly instructive, marking a pivotal juncture when colonial power consolidated itself while remaining deeply entangled in internal Rwandan dynamics. This was a moment when Rwandan elites and institutions adapted to, resisted, and at times instrumentalized colonial and missionary interventions to pursue their own political agendas. The monarchy, he notes, emerges not as a passive victim of indirect rule but as a contested institution, resilient in some respects, fractured in others — its capacity to mediate between tradition and colonial modernity both tested and transformed.

Central to Newbury’s framing is the argument that colonial indirect rule in Rwanda was not imposed upon a static political order but operated through pre-existing hierarchies that were themselves dynamic and contested. These hierarchies were reshaped from within by Rwandan actors who seized upon the opportunities and navigated the constraints of colonial rule in ways that unsettled both European expectations and traditional power relations. This dialectic between European strategies and African responses constitutes one of the key insights of Des Forges’ analysis, revealing the colonial project as simultaneously coercive and dependent on the very agency it sought to contain.

Newbury also outlines the major thematic threads that run through the book: the transformation of kingship under colonial pressure; the ascendancy of the Catholic Church and its role in undermining royal authority; the hardening and politicization of ethnic categories under colonial administration; and the imposition of coercive reforms that restructured the social and political fabric of Rwandan society. By foregrounding these themes, Newbury frames Des Forges’ study not simply as the history of a monarch, but as a critical examination of the interplay between colonial power and African agency — an interplay that would shape Rwanda’s trajectory deep into the 20th century.