The Irony of Indifference: Kemi Badenoch and Politics of Forgetting
By Eculaw Group
In the annals of political irony, few scenes are as striking as the leader of the British Conservative Party—a Black woman of Nigerian heritage—arguing that the United Kingdom should have actively opposed a United Nations resolution declaring the Atlantic slave trade a crime against humanity. Kemi Badenoch’s recent criticism of the UK’s abstention from the vote reveals not just a political miscalculation, but a profound existential contradiction. By demanding that Britain reject the resolution, Badenoch has placed herself in the unenviable position of defending the legacy of the very empire that enslaved her ancestors, all while cloaking herself in the rhetoric of anti-wokeness.
To understand the gravity of Badenoch’s stance, one must look at the resolution itself. Passed with overwhelming support from 123 nations—including Nigeria—the measure does not merely demand financial reparations; it formally recognizes the transatlantic slave trade as “the gravest crime against humanity.” It asks for a moral reckoning and suggests a reparations fund to address the generational trauma inflicted on millions. Yet, in a post on X, Badenoch dismissed this global consensus, questioning why the Labour government abstained rather than voted “no.” Her reasoning is as simplistic as it is historically dubious: “Britain led the fight to end slavery. We shouldn’t be paying for a crime we helped eradicate.”
This argument—that the executioner deserves a pass because he eventually stopped wielding the axe—is a logical fallacy that collapses under the slightest scrutiny. Britain did not “eradicate” slavery out of a sudden burst of altruism; it did so after centuries of profiting immensely from the brutal system, and only after economic shifts and slave uprisings made the institution less viable. More importantly, Britain continued to exploit the economic dividends of slavery long after the 1833 Abolition Act, extracting resources from colonized nations—including Badenoch’s ancestral homeland, Nigeria—for generations. To suggest that the nation that built its industrial revolution on the backs of enslaved people should be immune from condemnation is an act of historical erasure.
The irony is magnified by Badenoch’s personal biography. Born in the UK to Nigerian parents, she spent her formative years in Lagos, a city whose very infrastructure was shaped by British colonial extraction. Yet, she has consistently weaponized her background to distance herself from the continent. She has previously claimed she is “Yoruba, not Nigerian,” and described her time in the country with disdain, referencing corruption and dysfunction. In the context of the UN vote, her rejection of reparations appears less like a principled conservative position and more like a desperate attempt to sever any link between her identity and the moral obligations of the state she now seeks to lead.
By aligning herself with the “no” voters—Argentina, Israel, and notably the United States—Badenoch is signaling that accountability for historical wrongs is a political inconvenience. She frames the resolution as a demand for “trillions from UK taxpayers,” invoking the classic fearmongering tactic that equates reparative justice with fiscal ruin. However, the resolution does not specify a financial sum; it simply opens the door for dialogue. Her hyperbolic reaction suggests she is more concerned with protecting Britain’s self-image as a benevolent former empire than with acknowledging the truth of its violent past.
Furthermore, Badenoch’s position exposes a dangerous trend in contemporary conservatism: the belief that identity can be used as a shield to justify systemic oppression. She appears to believe that because she is Black and of African descent, her opposition to the resolution cannot be labeled as anti-Black or imperialist. But heritage is not a credential for historical revisionism. One does not need to be white to uphold white supremacy; one merely needs to defend the structures that maintain racial hierarchy. By arguing that Britain should not be held accountable for the slave trade, Badenoch is doing just that.
Her criticism of the Labour government’s abstention as “ignorance or cowardice” is equally telling. In reality, the abstention was likely a diplomatic compromise—a reluctant acknowledgment that while the UK is uncomfortable with reparations, it could not in good conscience vote alongside the three nations that explicitly denied the resolution’s premise. Badenoch’s demand for a “no” vote would have placed Britain in the company of the United States and Israel, sending a clear message to the Global South that the former colonial powers still refuse to acknowledge the full scope of their crimes.
Ultimately, Kemi Badenoch’s opposition to the UN resolution is not merely a policy disagreement; it is a political tragedy. It represents the ultimate assimilation of the colonized into the logic of the colonizer. By rejecting the call for the world to condemn the slave trade as a crime against humanity, she asks Black Britons and Africans alike to accept a sanitized version of history—one where the victims owe gratitude to their captors for eventually setting them free. History will not judge her stance kindly. It will remember it as a moment when a leader, given the chance to stand for accountability, chose instead to defend the empire.