He was starving to death

He realised late

Ignored to invisibility

His new best friend, Paranoia

In his ears

Loneliness ever cooing comfort

So, the first time he had a thousand likes

Two thousand hearts

Three hundred retweets

He fainted and passed on

And on his grave they wrote

“Here lies him who was killed by love”

Black

Giloba village

Good evening fellow sufferers

Or bad, should I say?

I see it all

Rumpled undies

Wet armpits

Forced to tears

By heat, exhaustion

And frustration

Auntie’s stretch-marks are stretched to a gory length

Giving out a scare-crow smile

Amused, no doubt they are

Why should one get a TV?

When Lagos streets are full of so much action?

I greet you too

My brothers and sisters

Towering above us in the BRTs

Looking down on the rest of us in all your ‘upright standing’

Thank you

For keeping Great Fela, prophetic since 1970

Su kere, fa kere, this is the song traffic sings

Yoruba seems to be the lingua

Everyone in this village speaks it

And then you hear ‘ko ni ye e!’

As a bumper kisses another

There’s too much to watch

One can hardly focus

Gala hawkers are making hay

Or to be more succinct, making money

There’s no place for hay in this village

A conductor’s still-born sputum finds home near a beggar’s niche

Hurriedly dying a slow death seconds into existence

Which should one pity?

The armless, harmless beggar

Or the sputum freed into death?

Cries of ‘wo le wa, wo le wa’ swims into my reverie

And several drivers re-enact ‘fast and furious’ in beautiful confusion

Alomo is somewhere in the system

And I suspect, doing most of the driving

None amongst us can complain of being hungry

Not with the heavy serving of stench and exhaust smoke

I see it in all eyes

We’re being fed

Till we’re fed up

All these stories I tell with my eyes to my fellow sufferers

But none seem to take hint

I do not blame any

Their eyes spin yarns of the same story

In this village, we all are beggars

Some are the “Jagaban’s” children

With blood-red eyes and a raggedy voice

Croaking “oun da?” at every stop

Other kinds will show you Heaven’s doors

If you’re kind enough to leave offering

You will meet also,

Those whose pills cure all ills

If you would but help yourself.

 

Appendix

BRTs are big commercial buses  which provide cheap transportation

Su kere, fa kere is the Yoruba way of describing heavy traffic.

ko ni ye e translates to “It won’t be well with you”

wo le wa, wo le wa means “enter here, enter here”

Alomo is a strong rum/gin like alcohol drink

A Jagaban is a very influential politician (LOL)

oun da is the “where is it?” touts ask when they request their daily devotion from commuters

Col' World

The World is a cold

Hard spinning globe

Indifferent to tears

If it would stop, just once

Then, I’d know it cares

Life must go on

Yes, but why it must

Dares no one say?

Or is Time to blame

For this Earth’s non-stop?

Time is harsh

The Watch constant reminds

Tick, tock, tock

When I’m happy, when I’m sad

Tick, tock, non-stop

Oh! If Night would once

But delay pomp

Of rising Sun

Then some comfort

I might have in gloom

Ilu Sioni

Stupid! Stupid!                         

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Dido mused.      

She hadn’t even been able to do this one good deed. Kill herself and save her parents shame. How she’d mixed up the pills and ended up taking more of Vitamin C puzzled her. Well, there really was no mystery to solve. Somewhere in her subconscious, she had been scared. She hadn’t had the courage to do it.

The excruciating cramps had woken her. Her whole system was in chaos. She had visited the loo 8 times and still wasn’t feeling any reprieve. It seemed anything she tried was somehow been used against her.

God! Please! I’ll confess first thing in the morning. Just let this pain stop. I’ll change my ways. I’ll read the bible more. I’ll stop having sex. She rambled on in her mind.

Three hours later after a fitful sleep, morning came. Despair washed over her as she opened her eyes. Today was her day of reckoning. Her sins would be paid for. She would own up and tell her mother. Then her mother would tell her father. He would disown her. She would be sent packing. The neighbours would hear. Her belly would protrude. Everyone would see and her shame would see light.

She got up reluctantly from her messed up bed and proceeded to remake it. Her bed was the first thing her mother would check out once she came by to say her usual morning greetings.

As she pulled and straightened the bed-cloth, her eyes caught a faint spot on it. Doubting her eyes; she touched it, caressing the material. Sudden energy flushed through her and she lifted her night-gown up. There, nestled in between her thighs was the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen. Ketch-up.

Perhaps, salt-water had worked after all. Maybe it had been postinor. Or was it Vitamin C? God? She would probably never know for sure and she didn’t care if she never did. From today henceforth, she decided she would never hate on ketch-up ever again.

"To a man of faith; coincidence is fate, and to a man of fate, it's his faith."

Thanks for reading.