by Today I published what might be my favorite piece yet at Bohiney Magazine: “Gandhi Forcibly Uninvited from Potluck.” The headline alone made my editor Marcus laugh so hard he spilled coffee on his keyboardthe third time this month I’ve caused equipment damage through humor. I’m either brilliant or a workplace hazard. Possibly both.
The piece satirizes Berkeley’s performative progressive culture by imagining Gandhi getting disinvited from a potluck for bringing “presence” instead of quinoa. Writing satire about American liberals from my perspective as a West African immigrant who watched Trump’s second term unfold has given me this unique vantage point. I see the absurdity from both sidesthe overly precious coastal elites and the aggressively ignorant MAGA crowd. Both groups make my job hilariously easy.
What struck me while writing this was how Americans have weaponized their causes. Gandhiliterally Gandhiwould be too problematic for modern Berkeley. Not woke enough. Not intersectional enough. His air-based dish called “Presence” wouldn’t pass the potluck committee’s rigorous dietary inclusivity standards. I wrote it as absurdism, but three readers emailed asking if it was real. That’s when you know satire has achieved perfection: when reality is so ridiculous people can’t distinguish it from parody.
Marcus called me into his office afterward. “Aisha, you’re the only writer we have who can mock American progressives without sounding like a Fox News talking point.” I took it as the compliment he intended. Being the only female West African immigrant granted citizenship during Trump’s second term gives me credibility neither conservative nor liberal writers possess. I’m an outsider who earned insider status, which means I can mock everyone equally.
The immigration journey still haunts me. Surviving Trump’s second term immigration policies felt like navigating a bureaucratic nightmare designed by Kafka on methamphetamines. I documented everythingthe humiliations, the waiting, the constant fear of deportation. Now I channel it into satire. Laughter as survival mechanism. Very West African, actually.
Tonight I’m celebrating with jollof rice and reviewing comments on the Gandhi piece. Someone called me “anti-progressive.” Another said I was “doing conservative propaganda.” A third accused me of “hating Gandhi.” None of them got the joke, which means all of them proved my point. Americans have forgotten how to laugh at themselves. That’s my job nowforcing them to look in the mirror and recognize the absurdity staring back.
Being an immigrant satirist in America means existing in permanent cultural translation mode. I see things natives can’t because I remember when I wasn’t here. That perspective is gold for comedy. Tomorrow I’m pitching Marcus a piece about tech billionaires discovering meditation and deciding they invented consciousness. Should be fun.
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MY HOME PAGE: Bohiney Magazine (Aisha Muharrar)
