Bye Bye Fatman

Bye Bye Fatman I'm a 50something year-old celebrating family, inter cultural life and trying to live a healthier lifestyle.
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I"m a 50something bloke on a mission to lose weight and transform my health and wellness.

07/11/2025

I don’t want to speak for people. I want to stand with them. Real change starts with humility and respect.

07/11/2025

Reigniting the Fire

I need to recapture the spirit I had when my weight loss journey was on fire — that hunger, that focus, that drive. Time to get it back. 💪🔥

The Weight of History: White Privilege in and from AfricaWhite privilege is a reality that stretches across the world, b...
07/11/2025

The Weight of History: White Privilege in and from Africa

White privilege is a reality that stretches across the world, but in Africa it carries a particular weight. It is not an abstract concept or a slogan from modern discourse. It is something etched into the soil, carved into the landscape, and woven through the history of the continent. It is visible in the ownership of land, the control of resources, and the continued economic imbalance between the descendants of colonisers and the descendants of the colonised.

Across Africa, vast tracts of fertile land remain in the hands of those whose ancestors came from Europe. In Zambia, Zimbabwe, South Africa, Namibia, and beyond, there are families of European descent who have lived on African soil for generations, yet their wealth and prosperity are often built on foundations laid through colonial expropriation. The land they farm, the businesses they own, and the networks of influence they control did not emerge in a vacuum. They were born from a history of systematic theft, of people, of land, and of resources.

The European powers who colonised Africa did not come as guests. They came as conquerors. They drew their borders with straight lines on a map in Berlin in 1885, dividing ancient kingdoms, separating families, and tearing apart communities that had lived together for centuries. Entire peoples found themselves split between nations, forced to adapt to borders that had nothing to do with their own history or identity. The arrogance of this act remains one of the greatest crimes of modern history. And yet, many of the descendants of those early colonisers continue to profit from the arbitrary lines their ancestors drew.

It is important to be clear that this is not an attack on individuals of European descent living in Africa today. Many are good people, compassionate people, deeply invested in the future of the nations they call home. They contribute to development, education, healthcare, and agriculture. They work hard and live honestly. But hard work alone does not explain privilege. To claim that success is purely a result of determination and effort is to ignore the structural advantages that have existed for centuries.

When white settlers claim their prosperity is self-made, it is not simply inaccurate, it is insulting. It erases the struggles of those who were systematically excluded from opportunity. It overlooks the countless Africans who possess the same intelligence, work ethic, and creativity, yet who have been denied the same starting point. The difference is not one of capability but of circumstance. The legacy of privilege means that even those who were born long after the colonial era still benefit from its fruits.

White privilege in Africa cannot be separated from the broader history of exploitation. Long before the colonial period, the transatlantic slave trade stripped Africa of her people, her strongest, her brightest, her future. Millions were torn from their homes, sold, and shipped across oceans to build the wealth of Europe and the Americas. Later came the “Scramble for Africa,” when European empires extracted minerals, crops, and human labour to fuel their own industrial revolutions. The wealth of London, Paris, Lisbon, and Brussels was built in no small part on African suffering.

Even after independence, many African nations remained economically tied to their former colonisers. Trade agreements, global markets, and international debt have continued to favour the powerful over the powerless. Neo-colonialism, whether in the form of multinational corporations or exploitative aid systems, has kept much of the continent dependent. And yet, those who benefited most still rarely acknowledge the debt they owe.

I speak these words not as an outsider pointing fingers but as someone who lives with white privilege every day. I am acutely aware that from the moment of my birth, that privilege has followed me wherever I go. It has opened doors, shaped perceptions, and softened consequences. It is not something I chose, nor something I can shed. But I can acknowledge it, and that acknowledgment matters.

To recognise privilege is not to carry guilt, it is to accept responsibility. It means understanding that history’s weight still bears down on the present, and that we all have a role in lightening that burden. For white people who live in Africa, the choice is simple. You can either pretend that your position is purely self-earned and remain complicit in an unjust system, or you can use your voice, your influence, and your access to challenge inequality and advocate for fairness.

There are countless white Africans who have made this choice with humility and courage. Teachers, doctors, farmers, conservationists, and activists who work in genuine partnership with local communities. They are part of the solution. But there are others, those who exploit cheap labour, hoard land, or live in gated enclaves of luxury, who continue to behave as though colonialism never ended. They may not wear the uniforms of empire, but they carry its attitudes.

Africa is a continent of immense beauty, potential, and dignity. Its people have endured centuries of exploitation and yet remain among the most resilient and generous on earth. To live here as a white person is to walk on sacred ground, ground that has seen too much suffering and too much resistance to ever be taken for granted.

Acknowledging privilege is not an act of weakness. It is an act of moral strength. It is the beginning of honesty, of humility, and of healing. If we are to build a just future together, then we must start by naming the truth, that the prosperity of some has too often been built on the dispossession of others.

I will never deny my privilege. It is part of who I am, part of where I come from. But I choose to use it for good, to amplify voices that have been silenced, to stand beside those who still fight for justice, and to ensure that the mistakes of history are not repeated.

White privilege in Africa is not just a legacy of the past. It is a reality of the present. But it does not have to define the future.

06/11/2025

I can never be considered African, and that’s the truth. Being African isn’t about geography or years lived on the continent, it’s a deep identity shaped by history, ancestry, and shared struggle. A white person, no matter how long they’ve lived here or how much they love Africa, can never truly carry that lived experience. What we can do is love, respect, and stand in solidarity with the continent and its people, without trying to claim what isn’t ours. ❤️🌍

06/11/2025

All praise and thanks to Lord ZESCO — the lights have returned, and there was light once more! ⚡️😂

06/11/2025

My goal isn’t to be the hero of someone else’s story, but to help make sure their story is told.

06/11/2025

Being an influencer in Zambia be like… the adulation is absolutely overwhelming! 😂🇿🇲 (All tongue in cheek, of course.)

05/11/2025

A Plea to Lord ZESCO

Paying the price for mocking the great Lord ZESCO — we’ve been without power for over 24 hours! I humbly beseech Him to forgive me and once again let us see the light of His mercy. 🙏⚡️😂

Why You Can’t Be African, And Why That’s OkayThis piece follows on from my earlier reflection on how a non-African can n...
05/11/2025

Why You Can’t Be African, And Why That’s Okay

This piece follows on from my earlier reflection on how a non-African can never truly become African. It is a subject that continues to provoke discussion, and rightly so, because it goes to the heart of belonging, identity, and what it really means to call a place home.

There is a truth that many well-meaning foreigners living in Africa find hard to swallow. No matter how long you live here, no matter how much you love the place, no matter who you marry or how well you speak the language, you will never be African.

I say that not with bitterness, but with clarity. Africa is not a passport or a label you can claim by proximity. It is a lineage, a shared experience, a deep connection to ancestry, land, and struggle that cannot be borrowed or inherited by association. You can love Africa deeply, as I do. You can live your life here, raise your children here, invest your time, your money, and your soul here. But you will still be a guest, a friend of Africa, not African.

This reality does not diminish the love of those of us who call this continent home by choice. It simply recognises that belonging in Africa is not transactional or symbolic. It is something sacred, earned over generations through shared suffering, shared triumph, and shared bloodlines that stretch back to the very roots of humanity itself.

Yet here is where the hypocrisy of the Western world becomes glaring. A black man or woman can be born in London, New York, or Sydney, speak the local language, pay taxes, and live their entire lives contributing to those societies, and still be told to “go back to where they came from.” Racists who chant such nonsense conveniently ignore that they are the descendants of migrants too.

There is no such thing as a “white” country. There never was. Britain, for instance, were peopled by Celts, Romans, Anglo-Saxons, Vikings, Normans, and countless others over millennia. Every wave of migration reshaped the nation. To claim that Britain is the exclusive domain of white people is not just ignorant, it is historically illiterate. The same applies to the United States, a land entirely built on immigration and stolen from its indigenous peoples. The modern American identity is a melting pot of races and cultures. If you exclude non-whites from that story, you erase the very foundation of the country.

So when racists, fascists, and bigots like Tom Birchy, Andrew Tate, and the late Charlie Kirk scream about preserving “white civilisation,” I laugh, because there is no such thing. Civilisation is not white, it is human. It was born in Africa, where the first humans walked upright. It flourished in Mesopotamia, Egypt, Timbuktu, and across the empires of Mali, Ghana, and Songhai long before Europe even emerged from its dark ages.

The arrogance of claiming ownership over an entire continent or identity based on pigmentation is absurd. Yet it persists, fuelled by fear and ignorance. These so-called “defenders of the West” are terrified not of losing culture, but of losing privilege. They mistake equality for oppression and inclusivity for erasure.

Here in Africa, we see through that nonsense. Africans have endured centuries of theft, of land, people, and dignity, yet they remain the most generous and welcoming people on earth. They know that being African is not something you buy or earn through flattery. It is something you are born into, something that pulses through your veins and connects you to generations before and after.

As a white man living in Zambia, married to a Zambian woman, raising mixed-race children, I know my place. I am not African, and I do not need to be. My role is to live here with respect, to give more than I take, to stand up against injustice, and to use my voice to challenge the arrogance of those who still believe whiteness equates to civilisation.

The truth is, Africa owes nothing to outsiders. The same cannot be said of the West, which has extracted, exploited, and enslaved for centuries. The least it can do is welcome the descendants of those it once oppressed. So no, I will never be African. But I will always stand with Africans. And if that makes me an enemy of the neo-Nazis and racists who cling to their false hierarchies of colour, then so be it.

Because Africa does not need me to be African. It just needs me to be decent, humble, and human.

05/11/2025

Looking back on childhood in the 1970s and 80s in England feels like stepping into another world. It was a time before social media, before constant supervision, when children roamed freely through neighbourhoods, played until the streetlights came on, and trusted almost every adult they met. Yet beneath that surface of innocence, there was a darker undercurrent that many of us only began to understand years later.

Our parents would warn us in quiet, uneasy tones to “stay away from strange men” or to “never get into anyone’s car,” but that was often the extent of it. No one explained why. No one said the words out loud. Communities knew that there were dangerous people who preyed on children, but society chose silence. It was as though speaking openly about it would make it too real, too uncomfortable.

That silence was the problem. It allowed predators to hide in plain sight, in schools, churches, clubs, and neighbourhoods, protected by people’s unwillingness to confront the truth. Adults often turned a blind eye, not necessarily out of malice, but because they were trapped in a culture of denial. People whispered, they suspected, but few ever took action. And so, the cycle continued.

Today, we are far more aware and better equipped to protect children. Schools have safeguarding policies, communities are more vigilant, and the conversation is open. But even now, that old silence lingers in some places. People still struggle to believe that harm can come from someone who seems respectable or kind.

As a father, I cannot imagine raising my children in that era of unspoken fear and avoidance. I talk to my children honestly, in ways appropriate to their age, because I believe knowledge is protection. The world will always have danger, but silence should never be part of the problem again.

When I look back, I realise that many of us who grew up in that time carry a quiet anger, not just at the individuals who caused harm, but at the culture of complicity that enabled it. Speaking about these issues does not erase the past, but it helps ensure that future generations will not live in ignorance or fear.

Childhood should be about wonder, not worry. And the only way to protect that innocence is to tell the truth, even when the truth makes us uncomfortable.

05/11/2025

Michael being presented to the late President Edgar Lungu at the Ambassador’s Residence in Paris, France, when he was only a few days old. It was an incredible honour for our family to introduce our firstborn son to His Excellency, a moment we will never forget.

05/11/2025

My future politician — expertly dodging the question and only answering when it helps his own agenda! 😂🎤

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