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About the Authors
Dr Boulé Whytelaw III
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My black-dar didn’t register a single blip. There was not a discernible fraction of a drop of black blood in the room. No Tom Jones-like suspicious curls, no marginally wider than expected nostrils, no dubiously brown eyes and no slightly olive skin. Absolutely no sign that white mummy may have bagged herself a reefer-smoking Barack Obama6 in a bar one lonely night and unleashed her love for the hot cocoa on him. And in the interest of balance, there was no sign that white daddy met a sister and got his Thomas Jefferson on, either. No quadroon cousin passing for a Sicilian sibling. Nothing. The company was as white as post-gentrification Brixton.
This should have been surprising, given the oft-touted ‘rich’ diversity of the city where the company was based, but it wasn’t: I had expected that to be the case. The only diversity that concerned such firms at the time was – and still is – likely to be in an investment portfolio or a pack of M&Ms. Anything other than that: ‘Pristine virgin Aryan white, please. Thank you.’
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