IN Calabar, night falls solemnly:
the lulling feets of homegoers call to me,
the smell of exhaustion permeates the streets,
calling to me a remembrance of childhood
now lost in the murkiness of memory.
They retire with the chickens here in Calabar.
Sometimes, my mind strolls through these empty streets,
my feet becoming the feet of pedestrians,
my voice becoming the cackles of hawkers,
my soul filling with the desperation of taxi drivers,
and I laugh the strained laughter of that madman.
Sometimes, I breathe their loneliness which hangs in the air;
their sweat drips into my pores,
smelling of frustration and regret,
and I labour their daily labours.
IN Calabar, day rises slowly:
a revival of urgency awakens the masses,
they all go pecking for distant fortunes –
for happiness only exists in our dreams.
Sometimes, I stroll aimless through these crowded streets,
searching for a resemblance of remembrance,
in the faces of the crowd,
but something different lives with us with the birth of daylight:
and with blighted clarity
We die every time we wake up.
Post image by Brian Harries via Flickr.
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