Why Black Capitalism Won’t Save Us

America has been writing Black folks bad checks for generations.

Promises of progress that were never meant to be fulfilled. From the broken pledge of 40 acres and a mule to modern-day initiatives like corporate Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion programs dressed as reparative justice, this country has made a habit of offering hope in exchange for our votes, our labor, our culture, and our money, only to continue delivering a system that was never designed for our liberation.

When we began organizing for economic self-sufficiency in the late 1800s, led by visionary Black educators like Booker T. Washington, we didn’t just build businesses and schools. We built institutions, networks, and entire ecosystems designed to uplift and sustain Black communities against the tide of segregation and systemic exclusion. 

But just as this momentum evolved into a broader movement for Black autonomy, along came president Nixon in the 1960s, rebranding our struggle to serve his political ends.

America saw an opportunity, not to support us, but to absorb and rebrand our revolution. They gave it a new name, wrapped it in patriotism and profit, and sold it back to us as a savior. That name was Black Capitalism.

On the surface, Black Capitalism sounds like progress. 

It promises empowerment through entrepreneurship. It suggests that ownership is the path to freedom and that if we can just build more businesses, invest in each other, and climb the economic ladder, we can finally close the racial wealth gap and revitalize our communities.

It’s an appealing idea. But history tells us to proceed with caution.

The Cost of Black Capitalism in America

We’ve seen what happens when Black economic independence begins to take root.

Take the neighborhood of Greenwood in Tulsa, Oklahoma, better known as Black Wall Street. By the early 20th century, it was one of the most prosperous Black communities in the country. Black doctors, lawyers, entrepreneurs, and educators built a thriving district from the ground up. A living, breathing example of what economic autonomy could look like when we are left to build for ourselves.

But America wasn’t ready for that.

In 1921, a white mob, backed by police and aided by local officials, descended on Greenwood, burning over 35 square blocks to the ground, murdering hundreds, and leaving thousands of Black families homeless. What sparked the violence? A false accusation of a black man assaulting a white woman and white resentment over Black success. The deeper truth: it wasn’t just about one incident. It was about punishing Black progress.

It was an intentional destruction of generational wealth. And what followed was silence. No arrests. No convictions. No reparations.

For over a century, survivors and their descendants have demanded justice, only to be met with hollow apologies, bureaucratic delays, and, most recently in 2024, the dismissal of a reparations lawsuit by the Oklahoma Supreme Court. Even as the last living survivors shared their pain, the state refused to take responsibility.

Tulsa is not just a tragedy, it’s a warning. It shows us exactly what this country has done when Black people dared to thrive outside of its control. When our economic liberation became too visible, too real, it was met with fire, erasure, and indifference.

So when we hear promises wrapped in the language of justice, be it Black Capitalism or federal reform, we must ask: who benefits, and who gets left behind?

The Myth of the Market

How do you build wealth buried under a system designed to keep you out?

How do you create lasting prosperity in neighborhoods that have been over-policed, redlined, disinvested, and gentrified? In communities where schools are underfunded, access to healthcare is limited, and intergenerational trauma runs deep?

How do you “buy Black” in an economy rigged against Black ownership?

Despite the public push to support Black businesses, they remain disproportionately denied the resources needed to survive, let alone thrive. As of 2024, 40% of Black-owned businesses are fully denied financing, compared to just 18% of white-owned firms. Even when loans are approved, Black entrepreneurs are often charged higher interest rates, on average 3.09 percentage points more, resulting in heavier debt burdens that force many to delay growth or shutter entirely.

And the systemic barriers extend far beyond banks. 

Federal programs meant to support minority businesses are being dismantled, like the $37 billion Disadvantaged Business Enterprise fund that sets aside a portion of federal transportation contracts for businesses owned by people of color and women. 

Venture capital isn’t the answer either. Black founders receive less than 0.5% of VC funding. So while slogans like “buy Black” dominate headlines, the truth is this country continues to underfund, undercut, and overlook Black enterprise. Economic justice can’t be achieved through consumer choice alone. It demands structural change.

Truth is, Black Capitalism promises a seat at the table, but never asks who owns the table, who sets the menu, or why we’re still waiting to be served.

It shifts the burden of systemic change onto individual effort. 

If we just work harder, hustle smarter, and build bigger, maybe we’ll break through. But this line of thinking ignores the foundational truth: you can’t out-entrepreneur structural racism.

Ownership alone won’t shield us from predatory markets, policy violence, or institutional bias. Wealth, when pursued in isolation, doesn’t equal freedom. And focusing solely on business success can mask deeper questions about what real liberation looks like.

The Limitations of Black Capitalism

This isn’t to say that supporting Black-owned businesses doesn’t matter; it does. Entrepreneurship can change lives. Ownership can be powerful. But the dream of Black capitalism too often individualizes our struggle and privatizes our solutions. It places the burden of liberation on personal success, instead of collective transformation. And it distracts us from the fact that capitalism itself, not just the lack of inclusion in it, is part of the problem.

The pursuit of profit under capitalism has always relied on exploitation: of labor, of land, of bodies. And while we may be able to participate in that system, we will never transform it from within. We may win temporary victories, but we cannot buy our way out of a machine built on our backs.

Wealth within a few hands cannot save the many. And economic visibility without systemic change is a performance, not progress.

So Where Do We Go From Here?

We build in community, not in competition. 

We reject the myth of the lone Black entrepreneur as the answer to centuries of systemic harm, and instead return to the strength of collective action. We dare to imagine life, freedom, and true joy beyond the narrow confines of business ownership. We invest in what sustains us all: mutual aid, community land trusts, worker cooperatives, credit unions, participatory governance, and radical care. We move away from survival tactics within a broken system and toward transformative strategies rooted in shared power, dignity, and structural change.

Because Black liberation will never be sold.

It will not come in the form of profit margins or market share.
It will not arrive on the other side of a successful product launch.
It will come from us. Through organizing, through imagining, through building.

ABOUT DEFENDER EDITORIALS

This article is part of The Defender Editorial Series, our official opinion section.

At The Kansas City Defender, we distinguish between reporting and editorial writing:

• Our reporting is rooted in data, documentation, and on-the-ground sourcing. It exposes injustice, centers Black voices, and holds power accountable.
• Our editorials and opinion columns are explicitly framed pieces. They go beyond the what/where/when to offer cultural context, political analysis, and movement-grounded perspective. They’re written not from above or outside—but from within our communities, our struggles, and our visions for liberation.

We proudly acknowledge that our editorial and opinion writers are often the same people who report our stories. We believe there is no contradiction between rigorous journalism and unapologetic moral clarity.

We are not neutral. We are with the people.

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