He was a quiet boy. A shy boy. A beautifully structured fly boy. But then again, he wasn’t any of those things. Neither quiet nor shy, nor beautifully structured. But a gem of a human man nevertheless, filled to the brim with qualities that defy description, taste and logic.

And yet here we all are, mourning his loss like the loss of someone dear to us, without whose existence we would cease to exist. He was our existential compass: politically, morally and scatologically.

Many a night have I laid awake dreaming of his charisma and pondering the infinite qualities that qualitatively qualified him to become who he was, to this generation, that generation and the ones in between. Many have often asked: who was he? And why? They are desperate to fathom how anyone even vaguely in possession of a disposition such as his could become so popular among the denizens of the world’s most corporate country.

How? How? How? they ask three times like a lady, with arms akimbo and mouth agape. The truth lay in the hidden corner of his heart. Or was it his colon? We shall never know.

A glorious eulogy to Cliftonia’s premier fascist, whose toxic gospel — even when scrawled on toilet walls — shaped a generation

His truth was as old as Olduvai Gorge. But unlike Olduvai Gorge, it came from a place of great whiteness. He truly, madly, deeply believed in the burdenless white man and his equally pale deity. Four thousand years ago, when the world was created, the white Brahmin man-child was born and was ordained as the master of all he surveyed.

And amongst the surveyed were many things, including land, automatic rifles, Latin America, women, the LGBTQ community, the browns, the blacks, the differently abled, and the even more differently religioned. Also, the entire continent of Africa. Who but the whitest of the white and the blondest of the blonde could make so much capital (of the marginalised) so early in his existence?

And through generational DNA, the victim-blaming continued and became de rigueur MO [modus operandi] for all Cliftonian messiahs. It was enhanced by aeons of inbreeding, which eventually led to us being blessed with the precious cargo that we have so tragically lost and who we mourn so mournfully today.

Hate isn’t a word we should use for his detractors but that is the very word he used for them, with much abandon and glee. He would berate the existence of the ones he disagreed with and would very often urge his followers to eliminate the ones they didn’t love, for white divinity hath blessed them with all the reasons they would ever need to commit murder and mayhem.

“When a child is born, he (for every child born begins life as a he, unless he is deformed into a she) is intrinsically aware of his roles and privileges, and begins to search for validation in the culture around him,” he had once written on the walls of a public toilet.

“Same goes for the women child babies, except in the opposite direction. And like this very text that you are currently perusing, he too makes no sense whatsoever. His fears and insecurities manifest themselves draped in an orange tan. The glorious racist and the manly misogynist within him comes to the fore and blesses those that make obeisance at the altar of his bigoted ego.”

Surprisingly (and yet, not so surprisingly), brown Cliftonians find great resonance in his utterances even when he and his brilliantly assembled team — selected completely on merit, of course — go out of their way to abuse, insult, denigrate and malign them, their culture, their religion and their ethnicity. Many of these browns have attended some of the most prestigious universities comprising the Poison Ivy League of Endowment Fund Holdings LLC. Therefore, they are well-versed in the language of their oppressors-cum-heroes. And how they revel in said language! The language that tells them who to mourn, who to defend, and who never to criticise, even when that entity is cussing you out to your face.

Who better than our much-lamented brother knew how to use that very language to become the premier fascist this side of the Aitchisonia River. He taught us that fascism was not just a means to an end but an end to a (whatever that) means… that it not only teaches us to love our jobs but also to job our loves.

These days, when white right-wing extremists go around declaring war on anyone with a skin tone that’s a slightly darker shade of pale, it is heartening to hear the silence of politically conservative babydolls around us and see them take refuge in the sanctuary of excruciatingly embarrassing fascism.

Take heart, dear compadres… we may have lost the worst one amongst us to the Grim Reaper but all of us, in our own individual capacities, can out-moron him and his legacy, thanks to our glorious Cliftonian heritage. Amen.

Farid Alvie was born. He currently lives.
He’s on Instagram @faridalvie

Published in Dawn, EOS, October 5th, 2025