Ordinarily, the masses root for the underdog. Scientists have said this is because, deep inside, we all take pleasure in the misfortune of others. They call this phenomenon Schadenfreude. This is why you prefer to see David destroy Goliath. But what happens when the masses root for the big guy instead? When you lick your lips and rub your palms at the prospect of freakishly huge Goliath obliterating that poor little shepherd boy David? That doesn’t sound or feel just, does it? Yet it’s what seems to be happening right now with the singer Blackface.
Food is ready. Come inside. Point to the enormous cowtail dripping with a load of extra seasoned thick red stew. Demand a replacement for the ponmo that’s not as weighty as the one the Mama just served to that other man. Fufu? Pounded yam? Amala? Great. Take your seat. Wash your hands in the enormous plastic bowl being held out for you by a sublime beauty
If you can’t speak your native language, you’re doomed. Sorry I don’t mean to be alarmist, but no matter how you cut it, it is still a tragedy. If you lose your identity, you neither belong here nor there. And neither do your spawn after you. You’re in an identity purgatory, which is like hell on earth. And you’re doomed. So. I started thinking this way because someone in my office challenged my command of the Yoruba language. She said to me: