Dislocated Impostors

Written by: lucky okoedion

They are not being marginalized again;
impostors disguising with bleached faces,
noses made up to fit up to other races,
hair fried and stretched in beautiful shame,
and tongues twisted and roasted in cultural chains - 
Distinguished eye-sores of social disdain,
and heads bowed awkwardly in intellectual refrain.

Yes, we are the they;
the dislocated impostors,
the dying survivors,
the iron rusting at bay:

We are not being marginalized again,
else it would have now been the right time
to compose a cry
again, or a lamentation to be sung by a frightened race.

No, it’s not as you may think. No!
It’s not a harsh tone,
you should know.
For to change is like to crack a bone,
something like doing a deep probe.

And with apologies I could say again,
we are the dislocated impostors,
and it won’t be an insult or rail,
since I’m part of the they,
and I can’t insult myself, no gain.
And now is not the time of composing a cry or izobo
but the time of composing a koboko
to probe deep into our bones
and force the phobia of our culture-sense to die
to avail us of the dwarf-walking self and pride.

We need such, if you like, call it necessary insults
to repent and make necessary u-turns
and produce tides-turning results,
to escape the irreparable black-burns
of a trans-generational insult:
If you don’t produce results, you can’t refuse insults.

Yes, we are the dislocated impostors
disguising around with bleached faces,
hair fried and stretched in beautiful shame,
tongues twisted and roasted in cultural chains,
heads bowed awkwardly in intellectual refrain – 
elites with bastard successors.
 
Bastardy provoking as it comes, let’s close our eyes
to swallow this only medicine-hope of the painful taste
of what we’ve made of ourselves – 
Dislocated impostors;
a foul-odor name far from chaste,
well-earned reputation far from wise,
a history not worthy of bookshelves – 
Rock-bottom cultural impostors.

and now we’ve abandoned ourselves
at the middle of nowhere,
freaks of foreign stuffs,
dislocated yet puffed up,
but baseless,
gasping for air,
like a fish cast out of water.

And every day we go to worship
at church or
at mosque,
or at juju shrine,
but to seek answers that won’t stress us,
that would massage us,
pet us,
and lacerate us.

Not the answers that God would give,
that would exercise us.
But that which will make us feel comfortable
at the status-quot.

And as we strut back home
and see our family roofs leaking,
our family walls riddled,
our family fences cracked,
our family barns plundered
because we abandoned our cultural habitat,
and gasp helplessly in foreign habitat,
lost at the middle of nowhere,
then our neighbors point at the collapse,
but we shake our heads,
not because we know not what to do
but that we do not what we know
and know not what we are.

Hence we live in the baseless world called momentary,
enjoying away in the microcosm called survival,
far-removed from the promise called success,
like social bastards,
economic outcasts,
cultural miss-match,
intellectual down-casts
and political impostors.

And we were told
“look, your house is crumbling!”
We said,
“but we can still manage to eat, drink and feast.”
And lied,
“besides, God says it’s well with us.”


izobo : a Nigerian word for sacrifices at roadsides, river sides e.t.c to appease   the gods or to cast a spell.

koboko : a Nigerian word for a long whip made of leather/ the tail of an animal.

juju : a nigerian word for an idol.