When the Weapon Looks Like Us:How Black Faces Have Been Used to Silence Black Liberation

The Oldest Trick in the Book

Throughout modern history, colonial and imperial powers have learned that brute force alone isn’t enough to control people. They needed symbols, voices, and faces that the oppressed could identify with—agents who looked like them, talked like them, and seemed to understand their struggle. These individuals, knowingly or unknowingly, became tools in the silencing or destruction of liberation movements. When a system of oppression cloaks itself in the appearance of solidarity, it becomes even harder to detect, let alone dismantle.

This dangerous tactic—of using African Americans or Black Africans against their own—has surfaced repeatedly in both U.S. civil rights history and African political resistance. It isn’t just betrayal; it’s a strategy of psychological warfare, engineered to confuse the masses, divide the resistance, and make injustice appear justifiable.

Recent statements by U.S. AFRICOM's General Michael Langley, an African American, targeting Burkina Faso’s President Ibrahim Traoré, is just the latest version of this. The optics of a Black general threatening a young Pan-African leader—who has rejected Western hegemony and reclaimed African dignity—serve a sinister purpose. It gives imperialism a pass, because the weapon now "looks like us."

The Double-Edged Sword of Representation in America

Let’s go back.

1969 – The Assassination of Fred Hampton:

The Black Panther Party was gaining traction across the U.S., drawing connections to anti-colonial struggles in Africa and revolution in Cuba and Vietnam. It was an African American FBI informant, William O’Neal, who fed intelligence to the FBI, ultimately leading to Hampton’s assassination. This wasn’t just infiltration—it was internal sabotage masked as camaraderie.

Barack Obama and the Fall of Gaddafi:

In 2011, then-President Obama authorized U.S. involvement in NATO’s bombing of Libya. The result? The brutal assassination of Muammar Gaddafi, the last great symbol of African financial independence. Obama, a Black man, justified this in the language of humanitarianism, but the aftermath was a failed state and open slave markets in Libya. His identity was used to mute Black global outrage.

Tuskegee Syphilis Study (1932–1972):

Black medical professionals were involved in monitoring and deceiving 600 African American men who were denied treatment for syphilis by the U.S. government. Here, Black faces were used to gain trust, and that trust was weaponized against the health of their own people.

This isn’t about blaming individuals; it’s about exposing how power co-opts identity. These moments aren’t accidents—they’re policy in action.

Africa’s Burden – Betrayals from Within

1961 – Patrice Lumumba’s Execution:

While Belgium and the U.S. orchestrated Lumumba’s fall, it was Congolese leaders and soldiers who physically carried out the execution. Western powers never kill their targets directly—they build local puppets, who often look like national heroes, to do the dirty work.

South Africa’s Apartheid Machine:

The apartheid regime relied heavily on a class of “Black informants” and local collaborators to surveil and sabotage anti-apartheid fighters. Again, familiar faces were used to confuse loyalty and weaken the movement from within.

Ethiopia and the TPLF:

In recent decades, Ethiopia—seen as a key U.S. ally—has often acted in ways that further Western military and economic interests, even if it means the destabilization of neighboring African states. The use of African leadership to carry out Western geopolitical goals is nothing new.

When we see coups or civil unrest being spun by African media outlets with foreign backers, we must ask: who’s really writing the script? The players may look African, but whose playbook are they reading from?

Ibrahim Traoré, the Casablanca Flame, and the Faces We Must See Clearly

What we’re seeing with President Ibrahim Traoré isn’t just another headline in the endless churn of global news. It’s a moment that echoes something ancient and sacred—a fire that once burned bright in the hearts of Africa’s most courageous sons.

When Traoré speaks, when he stands firm in the face of foreign control, when he says no more, it feels familiar. That’s because we’ve seen this spirit before. We saw it in Kwame Nkrumah, in Sekou Touré, in Modibo Keïta—the great leaders of the Casablanca Group, who didn’t just fight for independence, they demanded true African unity. They dreamed of a United States of Africa: one currency, one army, one future—without the puppeteers in Europe or America pulling strings behind the curtain.

But you know how the story went.

The Casablanca vision was crushed. Those leaders were isolated, some assassinated, others overthrown—all while a quieter, more "acceptable" group of African leaders—the Monrovia bloc—took center stage with polite diplomacy and empty promises. And behind them? The same old colonial hands, just dressed in suits instead of uniforms.

Now, here we are again.

Traoré refuses military partnerships with the West. He refuses to bend to France. And instead of listening to what he’s actually saying—about sovereignty, justice, and dignity—the U.S. sends a Black general, Michael Langley, to smear him as a threat.

Let’s be honest with ourselves: that wasn’t an accident.

That was a calculated move. Because when the person delivering the warning looks like us, it hits differently. It’s meant to confuse us, to divide us, to make us think maybe there’s something wrong with Traoré. That maybe empire isn’t so bad… if it’s a Black hand pulling the trigger.

But we can’t fall for it again. Not this time.

We have to remember: skinfolk ain’t always kinfolk.

The system is expert at finding someone who looks like you to silence someone who is fighting for you. It’s always been that way. From William O’Neal setting up Fred Hampton, to Obama signing off on Gaddafi’s assassination, to local forces being used to kill Lumumba… the pattern is chillingly consistent.

But here’s the difference now: we see it.

We’re not asleep anymore. More and more of us are waking up, connecting dots, refusing to accept empire in a new shade. And because of that, Traoré isn’t alone. Goïta isn’t alone. Doumbouya isn’t alone.

This isn’t just about geopolitics—it’s about spirit.

It’s about reclaiming what was stolen, and refusing to be used against our own.

We’re done being pawns.

The next chapter is ours to write.