17th, May 2025
- Black Lawyer
- May 17
- 2 min read
The Fall That Echoes (Part II)
Filed under: Unspoken Allegiances
Dearest Diary,
And so, we return.
This is Part II of my writing on the Diddy trial—a saga too layered, too haunting, too culturally combustible to be confined to a single entry.
Because this isn’t just about one man. It’s about what his fall reveals about us all.
The courtroom continues to throb with tension. Allegations drip like a leaky faucet in a house that was never soundproof to begin with.
But as the testimonies deepen and the silence of former allies grows louder, one question now haunts the margins:
Who, exactly, orchestrated this collapse?
Cassie, the melanated woman whose voice shattered the velvet illusion?
The press, hungry for clicks and poetic downfall?
Was it Diddy himself—imploding under the weight of his own unchecked appetites and the ghosts he believed had been paid off for good?
Or perhaps—and let’s not pretend we haven’t noticed—a quiet cabal of powerful white hands, who once benefited from his access, his influence, his image… but have since moved on to newer, more obedient mascots.
Because Diary, if history has taught us anything, it’s this: when a Black man is no longer useful to the machinery of power, he doesn’t get a retirement party.
He gets a reckoning.
And what a reckoning it is.
For us—the melanated spectators—the grief is uniquely intimate. It is not just the tragedy of what he did (and what he is accused of), but of what we now must carry in the wake of his unraveling.
Shame.
Embarrassment.
And that all-too-familiar ache of knowing that when he falls, they won’t just say his name—they’ll whisper ours.
We do not defend him.
But we cannot pretend his fall won’t be used as a blueprint for dismantling others who dared to build without permission.
Because the empire wasn’t his alone.
And now, as the walls come down, we’re meant to believe he laid every brick by himself?
Dearest Diary, let the court debate guilt.
Let the jury examine evidence.
But we must look deeper—into the contracts signed in silence, the alliances forged in shadows, and the cost of becoming indispensable to people who never saw you as human.
I remain still, Poised. Pierced. Permanently Unfooled.
This diary entry is fictionalized satire and cultural reflection. It does not allege guilt or innocence but instead dissects the theatre of race, power, and legacy through a literary lens.
Tag someone who knows puppets rarely pull their own strings.
Comentarios