News
100 years after the Tulsa Race Massacre, lessons from my grandfather
When Viola Fletcher, 107, appeared before Congress in May 2021, she called for the nation to officially acknowledge the Tulsa race riot of 1921.
I know that place and year well. As is the case with Fletcher – who is one of the last living survivors of the massacre, which took place when she was 7 – the terror of the Tulsa race riot is something that has been with me for almost as long as I can remember. My grandfather, Robert Fairchild, told the story nearly a quarter-century ago to several newspapers.
Here’s how The Washington Post recounted his story in 1996:
“At 92 years old, Robert Fairchild is losing his hearing, but he can still make out the distant shouts of angry white men firing guns late into the night 75 years ago. His eyes are not what they used to be, but he has no trouble seeing the dense, gray smoke swallowing his neighbors’ houses as he walked home from a graduation rehearsal, a frightened boy of 17.
His has since been a life of middle-class comfort, a good job working for the city, a warm family life. But he has never forgotten his mother’s anguish in 1921 as she fled toward the railroad tracks to escape the mobs and fires tearing through the vibrant Black neighborhood of Greenwood in north Tulsa.”
“There was just nothing left,” Fairchild told the newspaper.
The Washington Post article said the Tulsa race riots of 1921 were among the “worst race riots in the nation’s history.” It reported: “The death toll during the 12-hour rampage is still in dispute, but estimates have put it as high as 250. More than 1,000 businesses and homes were burned to the ground, scores of Black families were herded into cattle pens at the fairgrounds, and one of the largest and most prosperous Black communities in the United States was turned to ashes.”
Riots began after a white mob attempted to lynch a teenager falsely accused of assaulting a white woman. Black residents came to his defense, some armed. The groups traded shots, and mob violence followed. My family eventually returned to a decimated street. Miraculously their home on Latimer Avenue was spared.
Disturbing history
Hearing about these experiences at the family table was troubling enough. Reading a newspaper account of your ancestors’ fleeing for their lives is a surreal pain. There’s recognition of your family’s terror, and relief in knowing your family survived what “60 Minutes” once called “one of the worst race massacres in American history.”
In spite of my grandfather’s witness, this same event didn’t merit inclusion in any of my assigned history texts, either in high school or college. On the occasions I’ve mentioned this history to my colleagues, they’ve been astonished.
In 1996, at the 75th anniversary of the massacre, the city of Tulsa finally acknowledged what had happened. Community leaders from different backgrounds publicly recognized the devastation wrought by the riots. They gathered in a church that had been torched in the riot and since rebuilt. My grandfather told The New York Times then that he was “extremely pleased that Tulsa has taken this occasion seriously.”
“A mistake has been made,” he told the paper, “and this is a way to really look at it, then look toward the future and try to make sure it never happens again.”
That it took so long for the city to acknowledge what took place shows how selective society can be when it comes to which historical events it chooses to remember – and which ones to overlook. The history that society colludes to avoid publicly is necessarily remembered privately.
Economically vibrant
Even with massive destruction, the area of North Tulsa, known as Greenwood, became known for its economic vitality. On the blocks surrounding the corner of Archer Street and Greenwood Avenue in the 1930s, a thriving business district flourished with retail shops, entertainment venues and high-end services. One of these businesses was the Oklahoma Eagle, a Black-owned newspaper. As a teenager in the early 1940s, my father had his first job delivering the paper.
Without knowing the history, it would be a surprise to the casual observer that years earlier everything in this neighborhood had been razed to the ground. The Black Wall Street Memorial, a black marble monolith, sits outside the Greenwood Cultural Center. The memorial is dedicated to the entrepreneurs and pioneers who made Greenwood Avenue what it was both before and after it was destroyed in the 1921 riot.
Although I grew up on military bases across the world, I would visit Greenwood many times over the years. As I grew into my teenage years in the 1970s, I recognized that the former vibrant community was beginning to decline. Some of this was due to the destructive effects of urban renewal and displacement. As with many other Black communities across the country, parts of Greenwood were razed to make way for highways.
Some of the decline was due to the exit of financial institutions, including banks. This contributed to a decrease in opportunities to build wealth, including savings and investment products, loans for homes and businesses, and funding to help build health clinics and affordable housing.
And at least some was due to the diminished loyalty of residents to Black-owned businesses and institutions. During the civil rights movement, downtown Tulsa businesses began to allow Black people into their doors as customers. As a result, Black residents spent less money in their community.
Historical lessons
At the end of my father’s military career in the 1970s, he became a community development banker in Virginia. His work involved bringing together institutions – investors, financial institutions, philanthropists, local governments – to develop innovative development solutions for areas like Greenwood. For me, there are lessons in the experiences of three generations – my grandfather’s, father’s and mine – that influence my scholarly work today.
On the one hand, I study how years after the end of legal segregation Americans remain racially separate in our neighborhoods, schools and workplaces and at alarmingly high levels. My research has shown how segregation depresses economic and social outcomes. In short, segregation creates closed markets that stunt economic activity, especially in the Black community.
On the other hand, I focus on solutions. One avenue of work involves examining the business models of Community Development Financial Institutions, or CDFIs, and Minority Depository Institutions, or MDIs. These are financial institutions that are committed to economic development – banks, credit unions, loan funds, equity funds – that operate in low- and moderate-income neighborhoods. They offer what was sorely needed in North Tulsa, and many other neighborhoods across the nation – locally attuned financial institutions that understand the unique challenges families and businesses face in minority communities.
Righting historical wrongs
There are interventions we can take, locally and nationally, that recognize centuries of financial and social constraint. Initiatives like the 2020 decision by the Small Business Administration and U.S. Treasury to allocate US$10 billion to lenders that focus funds on disadvantaged areas are a start. These types of programs are needed even when there aren’t full-scale economic and social crises are taking place, like the COVID-19 epidemic or protesters in the street. Years of institutional barriers and racial wealth gaps cannot be redressed unless there’s a recognition that capital matters.
The 1921 Tulsa race riot began on May 31, only weeks before the annual celebration of Juneteenth, which is observed on June 19. As communities across the country begin recognizing Juneteenth and leading corporations move to celebrate it, it’s important to remember the story behind Juneteenth – slaves weren’t informed that they were emancipated.
After the celebrations, there’s hard work ahead. From my grandfather’s memory of the riot’s devastation to my own work addressing low-income communities’ economic challenges, I have come to see that change requires harnessing economic, governmental and nonprofit solutions that recognize and speak openly about the significant residential, educational and workplace racial segregation that still exists in the United States today.
Culled from The Conversation’s (This is an updated version of an article originally published on May 21, 2020.)
Author: (Associate Professor of Business Administration, University of Virginia)
On July 25, 2026, families from across Houston will gather at the West Oaks Mall on 1000 West Oaks, Houston, to celebrate a milestone that extends far beyond food, music, and entertainment. The 10th Anniversary of the Wazobia Family Funfair represents a decade-long journey of community building, cultural preservation, entrepreneurship, and family-centered engagement.
What began as a customer appreciation initiative has evolved into one of the most recognizable African community events in Texas. For ten years, the Funfair has provided a space where families reconnect with culture, children experience heritage, entrepreneurs build relationships, and communities strengthen the bonds that define them.
The story of the anniversary begins with the story of Wazobia itself. Founded in 2013 by entrepreneur Tunde Fashina, Wazobia was created with a vision that stretched beyond commerce. According to Fashina, the goal was never simply to sell products.
FASHINA, OHAZURIKE: For Fashina, leadership carries responsibility. “The feeling is fantastic because you’ve achieved something,” he explained. “But it is also frightening because every decision affects many people.” He added: “The higher you are in an organization, the more people are affected by your decisions.” Those values influence the company’s culture and community engagement efforts.
“The emphasis was not more on getting the products,” he explained. “The emphasis was on creating a feeling of belonging to the customer, so that they feel at home any time they come to our place.”
That philosophy became the foundation of the business. Fashina spent nearly two years developing the business plan. The challenge was enormous. He had limited financial resources and relied heavily on relationships, determination, and faith.
“The business plan had to involve getting this business up with absolutely no money, because I didn’t have any,” he recalled.
The early years tested every aspect of his resolve. He performed multiple roles simultaneously.
“I was a cleaner. I was a restocker. I was a cashier. I did all the work,” he said. “I slept in the shop throughout for almost 18 months because I was working around the clock.”
Despite the challenges, growth came quickly.
“God showed up in ways that I could not describe,” Fashina said. “People started coming in little by little, and the growth rate exceeded everything in the business plan.”
Yet even as the company expanded, community remained central to the mission. “We created a sub-plan,” he explained. “How do we give back to those who built us? How do we let our customers know that we appreciate them?”
The answer became what is now known as the Wazobia Family Funfair.
Over the years, the event evolved from a modest appreciation day into a major annual celebration featuring cultural performances, African music, dance, games, food vendors, business showcases, and family activities.
For Paula Ohazurike, Project Manager at Wazobia, the event represents much more than an annual gathering. Her experience since she joined Wazobia reflects a recurring theme in conversations with employees and customers: Wazobia is viewed not merely as a business but as a community institution.
That philosophy is visible in the Family Funfair. The event creates a rare space where generations come together. Children born in America are introduced to African traditions through music, dance, language, fashion, and food. Parents and grandparents reconnect with memories of home while sharing those experiences with younger family members.
In a city as diverse as Houston, such gatherings carry significant cultural value. Houston is home to one of the largest African immigrant populations in the United States. Yet many families often struggle to maintain cultural connections while navigating modern American life. Events like the Wazobia Family Funfair help bridge that gap.
The significance of the Funfair extends beyond cultural preservation. It serves as a platform for economic empowerment. Small businesses, vendors, artists, and service providers use the event to connect with potential customers. Community organizations engage residents. Entrepreneurs build networks. Relationships formed during the event often extend throughout the year.
According to Ohazurike, the event has become one of the most effective community-engagement platforms within Houston’s African diaspora. The atmosphere itself reflects the spirit of family. Children enjoy games, bounce houses, and face painting. Families participate in contests and group activities. Music fills the air. Food vendors showcase culinary traditions from across Africa.
The result is an experience that feels both festive and deeply personal. Fashina believes that sense of belonging remains the event’s greatest achievement. “There is no reason for us not to provide an environment that people can be proud of,” he said. “A place where they can bring their friends and enjoy themselves.”
That vision continues to guide the organization. Today, Wazobia has expanded significantly, operating multiple locations and employing approximately 250 people. “It is something we are immensely proud of,” Fashina noted. “But this is only the beginning.” Growth, however, is measured by more than financial success.
For Fashina, leadership carries responsibility. “The feeling is fantastic because you’ve achieved something,” he explained. “But it is also frightening because every decision affects many people.” He added: “The higher you are in an organization, the more people are affected by your decisions.” Those values influence the company’s culture and community engagement efforts.
The Family Funfair embodies that philosophy by bringing people together in ways that strengthen relationships and encourage collective progress. Perhaps that is why the event has endured for ten years. Many community events emerge with enthusiasm but struggle to survive. Sustaining a large-scale annual celebration requires trust, consistency, and a genuine commitment to service. The Wazobia Family Funfair has achieved that longevity because it has remained focused on people.
Over the past decade, families have returned year after year. Children who attended the first Funfair now return as young adults. New immigrants have found friendships and support systems. Businesses have launched partnerships. Countless memories have been created.
The anniversary therefore represents more than a milestone date on a calendar; it represents ten years of shared experiences; ten years of preserving culture; ten years of supporting businesses; ten years of strengthening families; and ten years of building community.
As Houston prepares for the 2026 celebration, organizers are looking toward the future while honoring the past. For Ohazurike, the mission remains simple. “We want people to feel welcome,” she said. “We want families to come together and create memories.”
For Fashina, the broader vision remains rooted in possibility. “We can do it,” he said. “We just have to have a goal in mind and take it one step at a time.”
Those words capture the spirit of the Wazobia Family Funfair. At its heart, the event is not simply a festival. It is a living expression of community resilience, cultural pride, and family unity. It demonstrates how a business can become a community anchor. It illustrates how relationships can create opportunities. It reminds us that culture thrives when it is shared. Ten years after its inception, the Wazobia Family Funfair continues to embody the meaning of its name—an invitation for everyone to come together.
In a world increasingly defined by division and isolation, that invitation may be more important than ever. And as families gather once again this July, they will celebrate more than an anniversary. They will celebrate a decade of belonging.
Young Nigerians have shown a remarkable ability to create waves in the digital space. With a single click, they can expose a politician’s corruption, rally tens of thousands of supporters behind a single hashtag, and keep every political actor on edge from dawn until dusk. However, as the 2027 general elections draw closer, it is time to face an uncomfortable truth: loud online noise isn’t the same as real power in the political sphere. If Nigerian youth wish to get the best possible leadership from their nation’s leaders, they need to take their online activity offline (i.e., to places where actual democracy occurs) and start showing up to cast votes.
There is simply too much evidence to ignore that this needs to occur. Nigeria is a young country demographically. Together, Gen Z and Millennials comprise approximately half of the total population—50.1 percent—according to IntelPoint. Gen Z makes up 25.8 percent and Millennials account for 24.3 percent. When we consider Gen Alpha, the percentage rises to 85.7% of the population under 44. According to ActionAid Nigeria, more than 60% of Nigeria’s population is under 30. According to Afrobarometer, Nigeria has a median age of 18.1 years, and 58% of its population is aged 0-29. Therefore, Nigeria isn’t merely a young country; it is a country dominated by young people.
Based on this information, this dominant demographic should wield considerable political influence. Unfortunately, there often appears to be little correlation between these statistics and political influence. The contrast is striking. While a majority of Nigeria’s population is young, there remains a significant gap between how influential young people are politically and how influential they could be. This lack of influence is not due to a lack of ability among young people; rather, it stems from many young people stopping short of completing what is often called the “civic journey,” which involves moving from awareness to action. They consume politics, engage in political debate on social media, participate in meme politics, and express frustration with politics through social media rants; however, many young people still fail to register to vote (PVCs) or participate in elections in sufficient numbers to affect the outcome.
This disparity is important because youth dissatisfaction is far from abstract. More than 23% of Nigerian youth report being unemployed or seeking employment, according to Afrobarometer. Additionally, more than two-thirds of youth aged 18 to 35 report having some form of postsecondary or secondary-level education. Despite Nigeria ranking among the lowest in providing employment and opportunities for youth, and despite identifying high costs of living, unemployment, crime and security concerns, poverty, poor economic management practices, and insufficient access to electricity as the top five issues requiring immediate attention from government officials, youth dissatisfaction cannot be considered indifferent. Rather, youth dissatisfaction reflects citizens’ grievances and legitimate reasons to be deeply interested in who governs their country.
However, mere interest alone will not suffice. Democracy does not reward passion without participation. A young person can identify every weakness inherent in a political system; however, unless that person participates by casting a vote, they will remain a spectator to their own future. If you are mature enough to understand concepts such as inflation, insecurity, broken campaign promises, unemployment rates, and poorly managed governance systems, you are mature enough to accept responsibility for your role in creating solutions to those problems. That responsibility begins with voting.
In addition to continuing to use social media to raise awareness of voter registration, election knowledge, fact-checking mechanisms used during elections, and peaceful participation methods, social media can also serve as a vehicle for facilitating the transition from social media activism to actual civic engagement. Young Nigerians should leverage their social media presence to encourage voter registration, promote election literacy programs, provide fact-checking services to counter election misinformation, and advocate for nonviolent participation throughout the electoral cycle. They should convert their social media timelines into civic classrooms. Where can I find the information I need about voter registration processes? Where is my assigned polling station located? Where do I receive my Permanent Voter Card? How do I protect myself from spreading misinformation? How do I properly monitor election results? These are not dull topics; they represent essential tools required for surviving democracy.
Youth organizations, creators, and social media entities can also help facilitate offline civic engagement. Use your WhatsApp groups to alert others as registration deadlines approach. Use X Spaces and Instagram Live to focus on discussing relevant issues rather than hurling insults. Use TikTok to simplify the voting process. Use Facebook to motivate family members and first-time voters to participate in elections. Use whatever platforms are available to make civic obligation contagious. Nigeria’s youth have shown they can create viral content. Now they must begin to generate participation on a viral scale.
One of the most damaging myths in Nigerian politics is that “your vote doesn’t matter.” It is a self-fulfilling prophecy that only serves the interests of cynics, crooks, and machines whose success depends solely on low turnout. Yes, Nigeria’s electoral process has flaws. Yes, there have been numerous disappointments. However, the response to a flawed democracy is not abandonment; it is increased participation. By staying home on Election Day, youth essentially give their votes — and therefore control — directly to the very same groups they loathe.
Another mythological excuse for the youth’s failure to vote in Nigeria is the claim that “all politicians are alike.” No — they’re not all the same. While some politicians are inept, others are corrupt, and others exhibit both characteristics, democracy is not about seeking holy men or women; it is about making selections and enforcing accountability. An individual who refuses to make a selection for office because none of the options appear acceptable is ultimately selecting the candidate most likely to emerge victorious by default.
Nigeria’s youth already constitute the country’s largest demographic group. It is time for them to become its strongest democratic force as well. However, that will not be achieved by trending hashtags alone. Instead, it will be achieved when online energy is harnessed and directed toward political organization, civic education, voter registration, increasing voter turnout, and holding elected representatives accountable after elections.
The 2023 election saw remarkable youth participation but lacked follow-up. Therefore, the 2027 election should not produce another generation of disillusioned observers; instead, it should yield a new generation of participatory citizens. Let online flames ignite electoral power. Let debates become ballots. Let criticism evolve into participation. If Nigerian youth can dominate social media, they can also dominate democracy. The future will not be handed to them in a retweet. They must elect it into existence.
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♦ Chris Ulasi is on the Editorial Board of The West African Pilot News. He contributes stories about culture and tradition, elite politics, ethnicity and national integration, civil society, and social movement. He is a university professor, community builder, poet, film producer, recording the emergent Nollywood cultural history through film.
Education
TSU’s CommWeek Positions School of Communication at the Forefront of AI, Innovation, and Student Success
HOUSTON, TX — Texas Southern University’s School of Communication is set to host its 44th Annual Media and Communication Conference (CommWeek 2026) from April 6–10 at the Martin Luther King Jr. Building, bringing together a dynamic mix of scholars, students, industry professionals, and civic leaders to examine the future of media in an increasingly digital and AI-driven world.
Widely regarded as one of the School’s signature academic and professional events, CommWeek has evolved into a powerful platform for intellectual exchange, industry engagement, and student-centered learning. This year’s theme, “Beyond the Algorithm: Reimagining Media, Learning & Innovation with AI,” reflects the growing influence of artificial intelligence across journalism, entertainment, digital storytelling, and communication education.
Throughout the week, participants will engage in a series of panels, workshops, masterclasses, and networking sessions designed to explore how emerging technologies are reshaping media ecosystems. Discussions will address critical topics such as AI-driven content creation, ethical considerations in automated communication, evolving media business models, and the future of audience engagement.
According to Interim Dean Dr. Alan K. Caldwell, CommWeek represents a strategic opportunity to elevate the School’s academic and professional profile.
“Communication Week represents more than a conference; it is a powerful platform to strengthen the School of Communication’s brand, showcase the excellence of our students and faculty, and highlight the innovative work happening across our programs,” Caldwell said. “By bringing together industry leaders, scholars, and alumni, we create collaborative connections that position our school as a hub for forward-thinking communication education.”
Conference Chair Dr. Anthony Obi Ogbo (left) and Interim Dean Dr. Alan K. Caldwell: CommWeek has evolved into a powerful platform for intellectual exchange, industry engagement, and student-centered learning.
In addition to its academic significance, CommWeek plays a vital role in advancing student success. A key highlight of the conference is the Dean’s Banquet and Scholarship Awards, which raises funds to support academically talented and financially underserved students. These scholarships help reduce financial barriers, cover tuition and educational resources, and improve student retention and graduation outcomes.
For Conference Chair Dr. Anthony Obi Ogbo, CommWeek 2026 represents both a continuation of tradition and a bold step toward the future of communication education.
“CommWeek is where scholarship meets practice and where innovation becomes accessible,” Ogbo said. “This conference is not only about examining the future of media—it is about preparing our students to lead it. By integrating academic rigor with industry insight, we are building a platform that empowers our students, strengthens our institutional identity, and fosters meaningful collaborations that extend far beyond the classroom.”
The conference also emphasizes experiential learning, offering students direct access to industry professionals, hands-on workshops, and career development opportunities. These interactions provide invaluable exposure to real-world practices and help bridge the gap between academic training and professional application.
As a historically Black university with a long-standing commitment to cultural responsiveness and community impact, Texas Southern University continues to position its School of Communication as a leader in preparing students for both local and global media landscapes. CommWeek reinforces this mission by creating an inclusive space where diverse voices, perspectives, and ideas can thrive.
Open to students, alumni, and the broader community, CommWeek 2026 is free to attend and serves as a testament to TSU’s commitment to accessibility, innovation, and academic excellence.
For more information and the full conference schedule, visit www.soc-commweek.com.
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