Reparations for Me, But Not for Thee by Lawson Akhigbe

For decades, the word “reparations” was treated in American political discourse like a contagious disease. Mention it in relation to slavery, colonialism, or the economic destruction of Africa and the Caribbean, and respectable commentators would recoil as if someone had proposed paying pensions to pirates.

African Americans who argued that centuries of unpaid labour, segregation, redlining, lynching, and institutional discrimination deserved compensation were mocked as unrealistic dreamers. Former colonies demanding reparations for imperial extraction were told to “move on.” Haiti was punished for even daring to exist as a free Black republic. African nations robbed of mineral wealth, labour, and human capital were lectured endlessly about “personal responsibility,” “corruption,” and “market reforms.”

The message was simple: history may have produced victims, but modern states were under no obligation to compensate them.

Then came Donald Trump.

Suddenly, reparations were no longer impossible. They were merely selective.

The same political establishment that rolled its eyes whenever descendants of enslaved people spoke about justice became remarkably creative when it came to compensating participants in the January 6 Capitol riot. Trump and his allies transformed people convicted in connection with the insurrection into political martyrs deserving sympathy, fundraising, legal support, and eventually proposals for financial redress.

It turns out reparations are not offensive in America. They are simply reserved for the politically useful.

One could not help but notice the breathtaking irony. The descendants of enslaved Africans were told that no living American was responsible for crimes committed centuries ago. But individuals arrested after storming the Capitol in 2021 suddenly became victims of an oppressive state apparatus requiring restitution almost immediately.

Apparently, historical accountability expires after 400 years but activates instantly after four.

This contradiction exposes something deeper about the American political system. America often markets itself as a nation governed by immutable principles: rule of law, equality before the courts, constitutional order. Yet recent events increasingly suggest that the law is neither blind nor supreme. It bends according to political convenience.

The United States likes to present itself as the global high priest of democracy. Washington lectures Africa, Asia, and Latin America about institutions and constitutionalism with missionary zeal. State Department officials routinely warn developing countries about “erosion of democratic norms.” IMF economists arrive with spreadsheets and sermons. American newspapers dissect every constitutional crisis abroad like disappointed schoolmasters.

But the spectacle surrounding Trump revealed a different reality: America itself operates less under the rule of law than under the rule of personalities.

In a genuine rule-of-law society, institutions are stronger than individual leaders. The law constrains power regardless of popularity. Allies and enemies face equal standards. Courts are not expected to serve political tribes.

Yet in modern America, institutions increasingly resemble football referees accused by both sides of secretly supporting Arsenal.

Trump’s battles with the Department of Justice only intensified this perception. When investigations targeted him, supporters described the DOJ as a weaponised political machine. When prosecutors pursued January 6 defendants, many conservatives suddenly discovered a deep concern for civil liberties. The same people who had demanded aggressive policing during Black Lives Matter protests became fierce critics of federal prosecutions.

Principles became costumes worn depending on the audience.

What makes this especially revealing is the economic logic behind it. America rejected reparations for slavery partly because the financial implications were considered politically catastrophic. Paying descendants of enslaved people would require confronting uncomfortable truths about how American wealth was accumulated. It would involve acknowledging that the prosperity of Wall Street, Southern plantations, Northern industry, and even federal institutions was inseparable from forced Black labour.

That conversation threatened the mythology of innocent capitalism.

But compensating political allies? That is different. That can be marketed as patriotism.

Trump understood something essential about modern American politics: victimhood has become a currency. If a group can be recast as persecuted defenders of the nation, then state resources, legal sympathy, and public donations can suddenly flow toward them.

The irony is devastating for former colonies that spent decades being dismissed when asking for historical justice. African nations that lost trillions in extracted resources were told to embrace “fiscal discipline.” Caribbean states demanding reparative conversations were patronised. Indigenous communities seeking restitution were given symbolic apologies instead of material justice.

Yet America can mobilise enormous financial and political energy when its own internal tribes require protection.

This is why many outside the West increasingly view American moral lectures with exhaustion rather than admiration. The issue is not that America is imperfect; every country is. The issue is the insistence that its imperfections are somehow morally superior to everyone else’s.

The January 6 saga shattered much of that illusion internationally. The imagery alone was extraordinary: people storming the Capitol under Confederate flags while some politicians later attempted to redefine them as patriots, tourists, or victims.

Imagine if such scenes had occurred in Nigeria, Kenya, or Pakistan. American commentators would have immediately diagnosed “democratic backsliding” and institutional collapse. Emergency panel discussions would bloom across CNN studios like mushrooms after rainfall.

But in America, the debate became partisan theatre.

This does not mean the United States has completely abandoned the rule of law. Institutions still function. Courts still operate independently in many respects. Elections still occur. But the mythology of America as uniquely immune from tribal politics has suffered profound damage.

The uncomfortable truth is that the law in every society reflects power relationships. America is simply discovering publicly what many postcolonial societies already knew privately.

Reparations were never rejected because they were morally absurd. They were rejected because the wrong people were asking for them.

And that may be the most honest lesson modern America has unintentionally taught the world.