Fascist Fashion: If You Are Not Dressed to Kill, You're Not Much of a Mass Murderer

The same people who assume my gender, assume that my genocidal tendencies take inspiration from the Nazis when in fact I am more of a Noah's Ark and the Deluge, asteroid meets dinosaurs, Extinction Event kind of guy. And as much as lebensraum is a blueprint to my expansion into the Kivu region of the Congo, and as much as the goal of achieving an African version of a fusion of the Nazi police state and the Hitlerian ethnostate - is always on my new year's resolutions list, what inspires me the most about Hitler and his merry band of ethnic cleansing mass-murderers is their sense of fashion.

Say what you will about the Nazis, but those guys knew how to dress. The only slight eyesore on the Nazi dress-code was the tacky khaki shirts of the Sturmabteilung who were appropriately colloquially referred to as the Brownshirts. But for all we know, when Hitler killed Ernst Röhm and other Brownshirts during the Night of the Long Knives, he was probably doing so to purge fashion degenerates from his ranks. Fashion is perception, and thence fashion propels history more than we give it credit for. The pretensions haute-couture edgelords and insufferable flamboyant fashionistas of the fashion subculture, their shallow, meaningless snob-crowded and socialite frequented fashion weeks and events are all merely a reflection of today's nihilistic absurdism and narcissistic degeneracy. Therefore it makes complete sense why Hitler would carry out a ruthless purge in the name of fashion. After all, Himmler commissioned an entire expedition into the Himalayas in search of the mythical kingdom of Shambhala, so what's a little bloodshed for the sake of looking fly?

Just as was the case with ethnic cleansing, the Nazis did go all the way when it came to fashion; from their epic Stahlhelm helmets, to their gray-green combat fatigues, to their rune inspired insignia and the death-skulls on their peaked caps, to their Waffenrock tunics and all the fine embroidery adorning them, to their black leather trenchcoats, their black jackboots, and the all-black-everything of the Schutzstaffel; Nazi fashion was lit! Hell, the Nazis even knew how to keep their soon to die prisoners looking fresh to death...the black and white striped pajamas of concentration camps complimented the otherwise emaciated frames of their prisoners. Concentration camp pajamas and SA khaki shirts are the only aspect of Nazi fashion I may not be down with; I prefer keeping the millions of Hutus I've incarcerated in pink as a form of emasculation.

So if Hitler and the Nazis are my fashion spirit animals, how does a genocidal maniac such as myself go about enforcing Nazi chic without setting off alarms from the oversensitive international community, especially since I've repeatedly courted sensitive Israel by making far-fetched comparisons between the Holocaust and the Rwandan genocide of 1994 (a genocide I started) so as to have some form of commonality with the seemingly omnipotent Israel lobby? How do I enforce this fashion policy in Rwanda when I have a Faustian deal with Israel where they covertly pay my government to take in all the African immigrants that Israel kicks out? Oh those poor Ethiopian, Eritrean and South Sudanese souls; they escape racist Jewish lynch mobs in Israel to end up straight in Israeli holding centers and concentration camps, straight into the freighter class of a plane to Rwanda where as soon as they land, my greedy officials pocket the few pennies that the state of Israel gives them as send off money!

So yeah, I am in a precarious position; how do I swag like a Nazi while not triggering the sensitivities of my powerful patrons and benefactors? Simple; outsourcing to my subordinates and letting them run wild with their imagination, or more precisely, run wild with fear for their lives if they don't properly kiss my behind. My foreign minister Louise Mushikiwabo for example has a habit of rocking genocide-red which for some reason always turns out classy and triumphant on her many trips to the US and Britain, but a bloody, disheveled shambolic mess on her few trips to China. There's an international relations metaphor in there somewhere...

And as far as cultivating the cult of personality aesthetic of a Rwandan version of Führerprinzip, my court-jester and renowned grovelling brown-noser Boniface Rucagu remains on top. His otherwise bland, bureaucratic white shirt and tie look that is characteristic of any political sycophant comes to life when he plasters my gaunty mug across his torso.

This pattern of fascistic fashion and Hitler-esque idolization is noticeable across the entire Rwandan state machinery with one obvious exception; the military. Reason being that my troops are slightly excluded because they have the Nazi aspect of ethnic cleansing and war crimes covered. So instead it is Rwanda's journalists who are supposed to be independent, at least for the sake of appearances, who you will see awkwardly marching in oversized military uniforms, chanting “Kagame oye!” and doing the Rwandan equivalent of a Nazi salute at brainwashing seminars.

Students fresh out of high school and underpaid teachers also get to upgrade their fashion by submitting to my fascist form of dress whenever it is their turn to attend brainwashing seminars. Not able to spend on expensive black leather jackboots, the students will have to settle for stuffy, smelly, green rubber boots, and Rwanda's starving teachers will have to make do with white tees, camouflage pants and tree branches for Nazi batons. I refuse to spend a penny of the billions in tax money I've stolen on the education of a Hutu majority Rwanda!

The exclusion of my military from the fashion conscious aspect of the Nazis even though my military surpasses the Nazis in terms of war crimes committed is something that is out of my hands. The United State of America arms and funds my military as we are an extension of AFRICOM. Suddenly going Nazi chic on them might raise eyebrows, especially because America is attached to the hip with sensitive Israel. But I wouldn't be the crafty, ruthless despot I am if I didn't indulge in the art of the subtle. If you take a good look during our military parades, don't be confused into thinking my army is doing some form of ballet trotting, or karate kicks. We are just bringing the goosestep back.

And as for me personally, I have not been much of a fashion success not because I haven't tried, but simply because I am still fashionably traumatized from a state visit to Kenya where I ended up taking several photos with Uhuru Kenyatta while wearing hideous moldy garbs and trying to smile through the whole ordeal. Nothing says culture shock like being in a dusty country, wearing a table cloth and posing for a photo-op next to a goggle eyed alcoholic.