EKOSetting 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
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