When the first light falls on Shogbamu Road,
My favourite place to stand is on the balcony,
Where I play the role of God
Gazing on the bad & good deeds
Of these tiny people—
Some are on their way to bury seeds
Some, to reap
Some to steal from others heap.
Yes, I can see:
The lanky preacher & his big megaphone.
The Mallam halting his water-truck of survival
As he turns to waka* the mad danfo driver
Who nearly crushed him.
Across,
A careless thief
On his journey to harvest whatever grows,
Borrows from an old lady’s tray of mangoes
And disappears.
A schoolboy picks the fruit of survival*
That fell off her tray
And tucks it back among the shaded cluster.
The seller dashes him a smile &,
The boy, nourished by this vivid vitamin,
Treads the zigzag mile
That leads to where he’ll keep tending
His naive vineyard.
As the sun soars, it melts
The preacher’s voice from afar off.
For now, I’ll have to turn my back
On my people, it may seem—
As gods do.
And after the shadow & fall of the morning
Dew,
I shall return (with my blessings).

 

 

*waka: An abuse. This is when you raise your hands (like in an high five) to someone as an impolite/insulting gesture.
*the fruit of survival: inspired by Michael Imossan’s poem, “Softness Lives Here.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Namnso Ukpanah on Unsplash