By Meche Oswald
There are stories written with ink.
There are stories written with blood.
But the saddest stories are those written with self-inflicted tears.
Joe Igbokwe’s story is one of them.
For years, he stood as one of the loudest megaphones against his own people; mocking, taunting, and tearing down the very ethnic root that gave him identity, heritage, and name. He wore betrayal like a badge of honour, believing that attacking his own tribe was the fastest route to political elevation in Lagos and in the Tinubu empire.
He was the poster child of self-denial,
the cheerleader of anti-Igbo rhetoric,
the attack dog of policies that suffocated the same region that birthed him.
Every time he typed on Facebook, the Internet trembled, not because of wisdom, but because of the shock of how far a man could go to spit on his own lineage simply to please a master who never truly regarded him.
He mocked the pains of his people.
He danced when they cried.
He laughed when they were politically strangled.
He defended policies that reduced his homeland to ashes and tears.
And he believed loyalty to the haters of his own blood would one day buy him a seat at the golden table. To please his masters and attract more cheers, Joe Igbokwe, would go the extra mile to invent his own dark stories to twist a narrative.
But life…
Oh life has a strange way of teaching harsh lessons.
A few days ago, the Tinubu he worships like a small god began handing out ambassadorial rewards to his most loyal propagandists.
The palace politicians lined up like students waiting for school reports.
One after the other, the Tinubu called names:
– Reno Omokri
– Femi Fani-Kayode
– others younger, louder, and more unpredictable.
But when it came to Joe Igbokwe.
the hall fell silent.
No call.
No recognition.
No appointment.
Not even a mention.
The man who insulted his people the most,
the man who sacrificed his dignity for political acceptance,
the man who defended every controversial policy with reckless zeal…
…was left behind.
Not forgotten, just concupisciously discarded.
Used.
Exhausted.
And quietly dumped.
WHY JOE?
The question echoes across Nigeria:
Why did Tinubu ignore his oldest and most consistent loyalist?
The answers are bitter but true:
Even tyrants know a man who betrays his own tribe cannot be trusted.
If he mocked his people to please you today,
he will mock you tomorrow to survive.
A betrayer is never a reliable partner in foreign diplomacy.
Joe is no longer useful.
Political machinery has no room for old tools.
When new and shinier puppets like Reno and FFK arrive,
the older ones are thrown out of the bag.
Betrayal never secures a permanent seat.
It only buys temporary applause from people who will discard you once the music stops.
And for Joe, the music stopped abruptly.
The most painful part?
Those who cheered as he insulted his people…
those who clapped when he tore down his heritage.
those who laughed as he mocked the Igbo nation.
None of them can speak for him today.
Not one.
Not even a whisper.
The same crowd that pushed him to betray his roots has abandoned him to face the consequences alone.
Betrayal always ends in loneliness.
Joe Igbokwe’s political humiliation is not just a headline, it is a warning from history.
Anyone who betrays their people, their truth, their conscience, or their heritage for political relevance will one day discover that relevance does not last, but regret does.
If you turn your back on your own,
you will eventually stand alone in the cold.
If you mock the tears of your people,
you will someday cry with no one to wipe yours.
If you burn the bridge that carried you,
do not be shocked when you have nowhere left to cross.
Joe Igbokwe gambled his identity for political acceptance.
The jackpot never came.
Today, he stands as a national parable,
a living reminder that:
Those who betray others to climb up will be the first to fall when the ladder is kicked away.
And when they fall,
the world will watch in silence.
