The White Man In Negro Skin

He tramps about with a coruscating gladness of heart, garbed proudly in the habiliments of his erstwhile oppressors, amorous of their ways, and steeped in the sin-bedewed halls of their godless revel.

His very self-image is a fraud, cut out with plagiaristic fervour from the mould of his former colonial masters: nomenclature-wise, language-wise, etcetera...etcetera.

Nomenclature-wise because he'd rather you call him ‘Connor’ than address him by the ‘ugly‘ appellation of ‘Adewale’—the name bestowed upon him at the time of his birth. A rollicking of a lifetime is wont to ensue should one lapse in rolling the ‘r’ in ‘Connor’ á la mode American.

Language-wise due to his unhealthy partiality for the language of his colonizers. To him, Yoruba is no more than the language of lowdown Philistines, the argot of uncouth Barbarians, and a tune all too provincial for the civilized tongue of the refined and diamond-edged Homosapien.

And with unparalleled verve he spurns the ways of his progenitors. “Animalistic, pre-Magna Carta, antediluvian”. Adjectival fireworks as is eminent in the preceding sentence constitute the entertainment of the day whenever he alludes to the customs and traditions of his forbears. And to be found neglected on the dirt roads of vague yesteryears are the vestigial elements of his African heritage.

Typical also of men of his sort, he is greatly mortified at the prospect of eating with his bare hands. You'll find him, with the aid of two soulless contraptions of the Occident: the fork and knife, – deconscecrate with manic glee the culinary bliss afforded by the piquant combo of steaming pounded yam and efo riro. What buffoon eats ‘okele’ with a cutlery anyway?

Even in the season of romance, he deluges his paramour with gifts of flowers. He observes the White man do so, and so he must follow suit.

In his high-flown conversations, he is apt to quote Hegel and Marx, Machiavelli and Franscesco Sforza; but never does he quote anyone with high melanin.

He buries his fat nose in thick, elephantine Western tomes; he memorizes Shakespeare, and Yeats, and the cantos of Dante; but he never reads the panegyrics of Ifa, nor the oriki of Obatala.

His music playlist is home to all manner of foreign sounds. He watches Hollywood, and never Mainframe. His favourite meal is pepperoni pizza. He wears black suits and starched shirts, and almost chokes himself to death with some little knot he winds round his neck: a ‘tie’ I believe it is called. And, to crown the towering heap of his atrocities, he rejects with deep-seated certitude the gods of his ancestors, and instead, like his former colonial masters, he entrusts the bulk of his faith in some two-thousand-year old corpse nailed to a wooden cross.

He is without identity; he is insecure, unoriginal, and lost; a mental slave forever beholden to the standards of his former masters. And yet he takes delight in it all. And yet he is unrepentant. And yet he is adamant in his resolve to continue to fester in the vomit of a highly pretentious and plagiarized existence.


"There will always be, in emerging nations, an enduring attraction to the ways of the colonizer – I myself was not immune to it"— Nelson Mandela (Page 358, Long Walk To Freedom.)

Hard to comprehend

Marvel1206:
Hard to comprehend

"...for poets do not write to be understood" — Richard Feynman

What did you find most difficult to understand?

DarkRebel101:

"...for poets do not write to be understood" — Richard Feynman
What did you find most difficult to understand?

The grammars pass my level