Setting out my feet on the huge whirling ball,
above my head the sky tilted black,
peeling off it eyes in piecemeal
for a bright dawn to set in.
We ride on still
on the floating vessel of the Island
stretched above the sweat of the earth.
An insignia that divides
the bourgeoisies from the proletariats.
Caught in the web of traffic hiccups
that pinned to ransom the hurrying legs
of yellow and twin black-stripes buses.
Not to forget the dripping sweat and heat
that may cause the flesh to
renounce allegiance to the collared-sleeve.
Fumes rage from trucks and buses
oozing through the entire nostrils.
Cacophonies of vehicular engines
drumming into our ears to deafen.
I gaped my mouth in rhythmic swings
and my eyelids gently fold like cheap suitcase
from carry-over of yesterday fatigue
and skimpy sleep.
If you want to learn of the stress of Eko*
ask the man who bashed his feet on a pole.
He will tell you how pain becomes small pox
that scribble sore poems all over its body.
But we hold this as true
that where there is a child,
there must be a cane.
And that for there to be gain,
there must be pain.
Like eager miners of coal
we remain cushioned with hope.
*Eko is another name for Lagos - one of the 37 States in Nigeria and the commercial hub of the Country