Posted by Rave on
PROLOGUE:
There lies a dream which lures
the mind….
It was christened “Lagos”
By long-nosed men who happened
by.
It’s been ages since then,
And the dream has grown great
“logos”
For friend, facing the sea,
Skyscrapers stand in unison.
What soaring waves! What breeze!
They leap from the sea to Vic’s
Isle!
What soaring waves! Sea breeze!
I feel them on Ahmadu’s Way!
Now, standing on Bar
Beach…,
I feel deeply like pouring
lines…!
What rapturous feeling!
Kai! Lagos,
I must write you down!!
BODY:
Where will I begin? Where will
sprite come loose?
(Say, Johnson, how did you
corner “London”?)
I pray, oh great God, that, through
my sweet Muse,
You’ll sing to my soul the songs
that will don
The very core notes of old Lagos
hell;
From sad, sad mastery to sweet,
sweet miseries,
From Badagry’s sight to Lekki’s sea
smell,
From Agege’s sounds to Vic’s Isle’s
series.
Two black
stripes on sunset amber-toned rolls,
The
overalls of all transport buses,
The resonant keys to Lagos
symbols,
Dominate highways— no, nooks and
crannies!
See, skyscrapers on Lagos’
and Vic’s Isles,
Splendid, colossal and seeming
novel
With networks of chrome, steel and
glassy tiles,
Shine softly (softly!) below sea level!
Below some jumbo, booming
aeroplanes,
Snaky streets rush to pitch-wide
expressways.
They blend up with the long blue
nearside lanes
Like small tributaries of swift
waterways.
Awesomely convoluted flyovers,
Suspended on slabs in chosen
places,
Invoke all vehicles to fly comers
Over roads, railroads and rolling
ferries.
Under the hot sun and in rain
torrents,
People mill around— even on
marshlands!
At Balogun and Jankara markets,
You’ll almost buy space just to
move your hands!
You may collide with hefty truck
pushers
And fall headlong on loud cackling
women!
Psychopaths in the nude and gold
rushers
Converge at Mushin,
Mile 2— every den!
At Ladipo, Faji and other zones,
Touts’ bedraggled shirts squeeze
past clean people’s
Okada cyclists may run down
your bones
If your eyes are dull— unlike the
eagle’s.
These possessed bikes dart about
everywhere—
Daring angry cars to chase them to
hell.
Tramps, conmen, street kids and
nondescripts wear
Footprints in every road and every
cell.
The Murtala
Airport near Shogunle,
The Iganmu Theatre (national),
The ghetto street stalls of
Ajegunle,
The Surulere stadium (national),
The Niteshift coliseum (a neon club
dose),
The Eko (a Vic’s hotelier’s
delight)
And the Third mainland bridge sure
make Lagos
One unique point— a journalist’s
news height.
Long trailers thunder down the
expressway
With dangerous titanic containers,
And the same Jacks pack on the very
way
With the colossal crushing
containers;
All other wheels are passing soup
bubbles!
All other wheels are microscopic
ants!
Yet microscopic ants and soap
bubbles
Manage to fly and whistle past war
fronts!
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
The shanties, the rubbles, the
rust, the grime
And excreta and marsh and soot and
tears….
The sludge, the garbage, the
squalor, the crime
And nearness and hunger and plight
and fears
At Ajegunle, Ijesha, Badia
And other slums contrast with those
very
Avenues, that gloss, that pride and
trivia
At FESTAC, VGC— what mixed glory!
The kaleidoscopic sights of Ketu,
Suru-Alaba and Tejousiu sheds,
The market street setting of
Shomolu,
The New York
echoes in Broad Street Isle -shades,
The blue, the red, the purple, the
yellow
Of life which combine in bright
visual bombs
With the neon like dreams of
nightlife do blow
Lagos
into vast iridescent blobs.
Huge piles of empty bags of “pure
water”,
Too resistant to hot bacterial
odds,
Wrestle everyday for space and
power
Under the squelch of weather-beaten
crowds!
Many pyramids of jade black
garbage,
With their bases wallowing in
bubbles,
Refuse to yield to the cleaner’s
courage.
They sit hard, boiling, vomiting
troubles.
Still, “genuine” Lagosians never
break down:
In every grimy mouldering eating
spot,
Over gutters that stink from dusk
to dawn,
They take foofoo and gumbo
on the spot!
With the stench of the gutters in
the air,
You may pick out the suffocating
smells
Of fuel, exhaust fumes, stale
sweat, burning hair,
Burning tyres, ember and burning
hells!
The rich aroma of heavy fish rolls,
Of ewedu soup, of brown suya
meat,
Of hot bread, of tasty akara balls,
Of boli and of steaming
turkey meat
In roadside kiosks, markets and
factory cells
And the scents of plants (from
their remote cores)
Have made here the trap for
olfactory cells.
(Why! They break often for King
Odour’s scores!)
The mad rush for posh GSM handsets
Has firmly withheld some loud
Lagosians.
Here, men drown in ostentatious
mindsets
Which could make them pass for top
comedians.
On hungry stomachs, their sham
sings and raves,
“Call me, yes, with my GSM
number….”!
They prance about trying to track
the waves—
Often bumping into one another.
At Isolo and beyond Isolo,
There are scores and cores of noise
bomb districts.
Commercial horns struggle to go
solo
Up the loud roads and down the
tooting streets.
Stiff molue buses, huffing
and puffing,
Blast to a halt on harsh howls of
“Owa!”.
As people prattle, puffing and
panting,
Torrents of insults flood the
uvula.
The tintinnabulations of thin bells,
The shattering shrieks from pedlars’ whistles,
The dulcet ululations like “Boiled eggs!”,
“Agege bread!”, “Pure water!” and “Noodles!”
From costermongers and waifs and hawkers,
And the deafening boom from big aeroplanes
Are all but few notes as the noise thunders.
(How decibels leap in the raging flames!)
Come to Mile 2 and hear the melody
Of ringing notes like “Cele…Ijesha!”,
“Apapa
Wharf!”, “Okoko!”, “Oshodi!”,
“Alakija…Volts”, “Orile!”, “Sanya!”
And many others from fast
conductors.
Dare to leap into the wrong molue
booze
And see how you’ll jump, yearning
for doctors
And pastors who treat burns from
hot abuse!
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
Like the conductors of orchestral
works,
The conductors lead the noisy
buses.
They pound on Danfo roofs like
falling rocks.
They dart in and out of the fast
buses.
Gripping the sliding doors with
war-seen hands,
These machines lash out, “Wale!
Carry go!”
And, as if by the force of magic
wands,
Overloaded buses fly at one go!
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
In line with the bus driver’s grim
lectures,
The real conductor always “shine
im eye”,
He’ll lure you with very funny
gestures,
Making sure his bus does not bid
you bye.
But as soon as you board the
vehicle,
What you’ll hear from the tough
thunder is this:
“I no get change yio!”— What
an oracle—
You’ll think he hails from the core
of hades.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
Time and again, he reels off some
bus stops
As the bus rattles along the fast
lane.
If the bus roar past the point your
trip stops
And you shout “Owa!” at the next
wrong lane,
All the mouths on board may strip
you naked
With “Lagos
Ode” and other rude words.
You may stagger out, sated with
hatred
Like a “JJC” too stricken for
words.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
The alert stance of diehard Agberos
Surpasses the speed of the
conductors.
Still they are one in surviving
errors
Splashed on them by harsh Nigerian
factors.
As tough lords of the close-knit
motor parks,
Agberos lead very hazardous
lives.
Sometimes some appear as Alaye Jacks
Or slip into the underworld of
thieves!
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
The deep unwritten Lagos
undertow,
“If you wan kill me, kill me
make I see!”
Comes from these warriors— they
never kowtow
In their swift demand for a bogus
fee.
They injure danfo and molue
drivers,
Pull away their rickety sliding
doors,
Smash their windscreens, snatch
their working wipers
And make away with their loose wing
mirrors.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
With a resolve which waves away
cautions,
Diverse ranks of Agberos leave
their marks
On kpako bridges, seaports,
train stations,
Airports, dark gated streets and
motor parks.
They haul loads, track travelers,
collect tolls,
Shuttle between Death’s darkness
and Life’s lights,
Draw blood in skirmishes with
willing souls
And die unsung in fatal highway
fights.
But then again the diehard Agberos
Are only the bright fringes of the
wholes;
For flooding Kirikiri are pharaohs
Who dictate the tempo of Lagos
roles.
To them, the alayes pay deep
homage;
For theirs are the streets and the
common man.
They are masters of the underworld
rage—
Translators of any untoward plan.
AJEGUNLE!
The ghetto Sicily
Of Nigeria’s
mysteries and agonies.
Here the hearts of thousands bleed
ceaselessly.
Born wretched, souls strive to
change their stories.
Here the past, the present and the
future
Of the weakling are aggressively
sealed.
And here the diehards of Lagos
feature
In dark alleys where their
conscience is killed.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
In the black marsh of wicked
MOSQUITOES,
Black babies are born to the
outside world.
Here, with no food to eat, they
grow big toes
Which run from abuse to the wider
world.
They are used, soiled, defiled,
dropped— but they learn….
They learn to bounce back with
their hunger pangs.
Harried together by Life’s wars,
they learn….
They learn to form deep emotional
gangs….
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …
….
Yet emotions fade before ghetto
wars.
Parents who are chained to sweet
Indian hemp,
The snug that they had fled to from
Life’s woes,
Sink into their own web, looking
for help.
Legacies are hurled at starry-eyed
kids:
Alcohol, wee wee, sex, theft and
others.
Kids, with no parent to meet their
sole needs,
Become heavy parents in the
gutters…!
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …
….
Here some houses are but floating
shanties.
Here staying off the loud streets “na
yawa”.
Here kids outsmart even their own
grannies.
Here “soaking common gari na
real wa”.
Here getting clean water is a pipe
dream—
Well water is the chief
alternative.
And here, you learn that life is
not a dream;
Otherwise this shore you may have
to leave.
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …
….
When the rains crash down from
their lofty clouds,
Their tumbling rage smashes the
lowly slums.
Kids ferry adults across black
flash floods
On roads they have often stamped walking
norms.
People ride on touts’ backs through
the deep sludge
Where their feet have often
swaggered along.
As the mud floods an old man’s
humble lodge,
He stays awake all night drifting
along.
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …
….
Do you know that babes are adults
at six?
From day one, they see charred
remains of thieves.
“Jungle justice” strives to dissolve the “fix”
Of thefts and fighting which thick
Bedlam weaves.
Dare to steal the bait; you’ll
dissolve in flames
Of burning tyres and keen fuel (for
real!)
Dare to fight in here, you’ll not
stop in waves
Of cheers and booing from a crowded
drill.
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …
….
Kids wade through hunger, thefts,
rapes, huge cigars,
Street fights and hard drugs that
shatter Lagos
To either become the great
footballers,
The swift conductors or hard agberos.
Surprisingly too, they rise to
limelight
As great musicians and diehard
actors.
Now, tell me dear friend, will it
not be right
To wallow in filth for motivators?
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …
….
Ah, the slumy routes pulsate with
the lords:
On Kirikiri and Tell Freedom Street,
On Habour, Boundary and long Bale
roads,
Cardoso, Palace and straight Wilmer
Street,
Crowds perambulate amidst loud
speakers,
Boys dangle Wee wee on
storm-blasted lips
And girls walk about as naked
thrillers
While babies from the marsh master
their loose zips.
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …
….
I have never crossed any kpako bridges
Without dropping some token kpako
tolls.
As I rushed to leave Ajegunle’s
siege,
Some real colossi demanded their
tolls.
“Ol’ boy?” was enough to make me
obey.
A muscular girl snatched my cash
away
Near Porto Novo, another troop lay
For a Charon to ferry me away.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
Ajegunle and other ghettos team
Up to create the sea of hot Lagos
bile
Which smacks of Darwin’s
survivalism
And maintains the laity down the
big aisle.
Maddened by hunger and desperation,
Shaken by the chains of
expenditure,
Battered in the mud of destitution,
Lagosians live with the rat race
culture.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
What with the mighty NEPA wahala,
What with the clusters of traffic
holdups,
What with the hike in price of
common kola,
What with the gari and rice price
hiccups(?),
What with the rising cost of
transport fares,
What with the galloping hike in
fuel price,
What with the water scarcity (who
cares?),
“Face me I fight you” tempers
become fierce….
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa…
In the rush hour of the
drowsy dawn,
In the clash hour of the dicey
dusk,
To avoid the jams that make Jack a
pawn,
Every bearing “shine eyes” and
becomes brisk.
Danfo buses stop for rushing green
cash;
Molue buses shriek for poor
jingling fares.
The sham, with his genteel
carriage, will dash
First for Molue bus stops in hotter
mares.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
Pregnant women fly through Molue
windows.
To beat time, workers step on
sweaty heads.
Students smash bus seats and
sliding windows.
Friends “lap” each other below
crowds of heads—
Either for want of space or to save
costs.
And conductors tear at grim
passengers
Who has vowed to escape from
transport costs
And still make home from Night’s
stranded dangers.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
The pains of the hot Molue crowds
invoke
Pity. And the rough jostling and
struggling
Are reminiscent of Fela’s true
joke,
“Fourty nine sitting, ninety nine
standing”.
At every gallop, hands reach out
for rails.
At every slam on the brakes, heads
go down.
The irate driver in front: he— the
sails,
“He the light of hope” and he the
big clown.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
To distract attention from some
swift thefts,
Pickpockets pick fights with dull
conductors.
Minds fall for some theatrical
claims of thefts
And contribute to help some old
actors,
Who would then smile at their
latest swindle.
They make home with speed— their
bus fares intact!
Molue buses roar as people
prattle,
Leaving behind them fumes of a
black fact.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
Facing passengers with an adept’s
airs,
Kidpedlars stand up to display fake
drugs.
They sing for the crowd with a
jester’s airs
And gun for their brains, stuffing
them with drugs.
Grim preachers shout to heavy
crescendos,
Urging all to change or be damned
for life.
They take offertory as tongues
bruise egos
And tired souls sleep past their
homes and life.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
Weary workers come home at stormy
nights
To sleep in “Face me I fight
you” corners
Only to meet sniveling kids and
pick fights
With fishwives and faulty cigarette
lighters!
In the noise, their landlords come
for their rents.
The night soil men also come for
their cash.
Rats dash across rooms in search of
pellets
And light rations end for darkness
to flash.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
Friend, in the chilly wee hours of
dawn,
Before the long toilet and bathroom
queues,
Sleepy neighbours rush even as they
yawn
To have their sweet way without the
great fuss.
Still, many have their ears knocked
in big bangs
As they struggle in dank and tiny
cells
To wash off the sweat of yester night’s
pangs
With huge arms that get water from
deep wells.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
Toilets and bathrooms with doors
are rare sights.
Long lines of hanging towels serve
as doors.
But the prying eyes strive at
lustful heights
To stare through the “doors” at
naked grantors.
From lustful glances come intense
passions,
Skivvies are common goals of such a
surge.
While saddled with chores or lonely
sanctions,
They end up victims to a horde of
scourge.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
As day break honks at hordes of
tough trekkers
On Omilan road near Ojo barracks,
People sit on bonnets of Range
Rovers
Which heave their ways out of
chained motor parks.
Okadas compete with Rovers
for turf.
See, souls hold each other tight on
fuel tanks
For the bikes fly when the going
gets tough!
Still, Rovers’ bonnets chase Okadas’
tanks!
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
Lagos
is a place where vultures are fed.
For “egunje” crude cops fight
everyday.
If here he had known, Johnson would
have said,
“Their ambush here relentless
ruffians lay”.
Tracking touts snatch money in a
weird rage
From the pockets of corpses and
from dumps.
And their full fortunes here mad
men scavenge.
And here you must curse in front of
fuel pumps.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
Lagos
is the zone of cut –throat ventures.
Here student hirelings kill to stay
up.
Here preachers make sure your money
raptures.
Oh, here innocent people are framed
up.
Forced by penury, undertakers bite:
Men live in graveyards for want of
home space.
Corpses are exhumed for some sordid
rite
As more caskets bargain for vacant
space.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
Lagos
is the centre of “survivals”:
Maza maza churns graduate Agberos.
Female cyclists and hands have no
rivals.
First class graduates fight to wipe
out their woes.
Crowds trek in the rain and in the
hot sun!
Job interviews invoke old
applicants.
Who, for odd jobs, may break into a
run.
While on highways hawkers chase
mendicants.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
Maroko, Ilaje and Badagry
Have sites of watery huts on bamboo
stilts.
Boat crowds would buy, sell and
even marry
If not that most boats crisscross
at slight tilts!
In the North, Ketu is in a hurry:
Struggle continues in Demurin
Street.
Huge crowds buy and sell and almost
marry
Right on the road as cars honk in
defeat.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
That diehard Darwinian philosophy:
SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST (of them
all)
Is fired against time for a trophy
Which is hunted everyday by them
all.
At Alaba and Jankara markets,
Cash is the oil with which words
are eaten.
Lawanson’s fridge and rug, sundry
handsets
And Sanya’s dye are, with money,
taken!
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
The mad inflation with its rising
tide,
The whims, the sweat and the
mountains of threats
Make the weak slip off from the
moral side
To the world of fraud, the roving
bullets,
The abducting trade and “corporate
begging”
From where they would then rise
with rows and rows
Of their casualties, sinking or
stinking.
So pregnant women fly through
bus windows.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
Here, cool guns placed on hot
panicky heads
Would make other heads to hurry
away.
Here, in the smoke of hard drugs
that he welds,
The card game fraudster gambles
gold away.
The “money changers”? What born
alchemist! —
Here, he hypnotizes the greedy
goons.
And on their planned accidents here
cheats feast,
Feigning anger, they snatch cash
from the goons.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
A fast hand snatches another’s
money
And the real thief begins to shout
“Ole!”
He beats the “Ole” to get more
money
Then other fooled hands burn up the
“Ole”!!
Another fast hand snatches your
money,
But for intense fear, you ignore
the act—
Thanking God for His infinite mercy
On your very life (you run home
intact!)
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
At every bus stop and creaky
footbridge,
Time and time again, swift clash
after clash,
Multitudes of strays and vagrants
lay siege
With the art of begging for lowly
cash.
They come out as poor stranded
churchgoers
And make thousands of Naira,
adeptly.
If juxtaposed with disabled beggars
You’ll see them as the cud of
poverty!
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
At bus stops, hotels and railway
stations,
Sick and displaced waifs of Arab
descent
Sneak beside you to touch your
emotions:
You’ll drop a hot tear and more
than a cent!
To avoid beggars and beat time to
it,
You’ll “dodge” footbridges and
cross wide highways.
Still traffic islands would beat
you to it;
For on them, more beggars hang on
for days!
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
To mix themselves up with trendy
ladies,
Born armed robbers come as
uniformed men.
Every bus stop has their “one
chance” buses
With conductors’ call for one more
seat gain.
In the rush hour of the drowsy
dawn,
In the clash hour of the dicey
dusk,
These stalkers hunt heads for their
unseen don
Or go for cash kills— what totems
of risks!
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
Coy agents act as whores in skimpy
clothes.
They slash off robust solid private
parts.
Itinerant hawkers, real
prostitutes,
Poor strays and weak waifs end up
as spare parts
In horrible nooks of power hunters
Or gory corners for money rituals.
Yet whores struggle hard with dark
street crawlers
(Along Allen
Avenue) for victuals.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos nawawa….
A beautiful girl stands
seductively.
She flags down a flashy car with
long nails.
The dazed driver slams on the
brakes, swiftly.
Then the doors of lust he kicks and
unveils.
The big girl hops in with clinical
ease,
But after a while she begins to shout,
“Look, pay me the one wey you don
do, please!”
Only money will save the man— not
clout.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
Again another big girl stands
waiting.
She flags down a Hummer jeep with
long nails.
The dazed driver slams on the
brakes, panting,
Then the doors of lust he kicks and
unveils.
But friend, as soon as he stops his
cool jeep,
Huge masked men jump out of the
very bush.
At gunpoint, they snatch the sweet
Hummer jeep
And zoom off with their darling in
a rush.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
A pastor welcomes a charming lady
Into his cool and well-furnished
office.
She sits down lustfully— very ready
To capture his eyes and his high
office.
Welcoming her is his gross undoing;
For as fast as lightning, she is
naked,
“Rape! Help me!” she shouts,
tearing and screaming.
The pastor’s prize has become
polluted.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
In a crowded and crushing crusade
ground,
With some succulent and
well-rounded breasts,
A young girl brushes a man’s back
aloud.
But his pricked conscience, the
dazed man resists.
Soft hands slid into his bulging
pocket
And appear with wads of crispy
money.
But his mind has gone like a
launched rocket
Away from his soul in disharmony.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
Yet dark street crawlers struggle
hard with whores
(In Ojuelegba road) for mad sex
romps.
At Kuramo beach, sex falls for its
cores—
Amidst tidal waves, drinks and
music pumps.
Girls rush at you begging to have
sweet sex
In your car, in shacks or in open
space.
It only cost dimes to reach the
apex
Of Death’s melody and the
stripper’s praise.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
From where Corner bus stop gazes at
Bar Beach
And Ademola meets Ahmadu’s way,
Wine and other liquor flow within
reach
And nightclubs perambulate with
decay.
Amidst Afrobeat sounds, teenage
girls sell.
On stage, striptease is a call
girl’s glory.
Naira strips undies as their owners
yell.
And white derelicts blow jobs with
fury.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
Would you rather not know of
high-class whores?
See how undergraduates thrash
poverty!
With the advent of the Net and cell
phones,
Girls have begun to advertise
hotly.
No more standing and waiting for
crawlers—
Expensive sex is just a dial away.
As AIDS strike pretty girls in
large numbers,
Fake condoms uncork Champagne
everyday.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
Since derelicts land in Lagos
prisons,
AIDS penetrates the rock-solid
highwalls.
Since inmates spend years for minor
reasons,
Many end up in squalid hospitals.
Since men are executed at random,
Some join their inmates in mortuary
cells
Where they may remain till the last
atom
Stink in unison with doctors’
strike hells.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
But again, because gari is
costly,
Maddened girls scurry about stark
naked—
Ready to fly into cars, forcefully
(Damn AIDS and ritualists, they
are dated!
Welcome, herbalists! You have
the cure-all!).
With this mentality, these girls go
red
While their kid brothers deceive
the know-all
And the “big brother” that appears
well fed.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
A debonair stranger walks up to
you,
He has lost his bearings and needs
your help.
You show him the way but he still
needs you;
For he’s sure your life is on its
last lap!
You ignore the Nostradamus, smartly
But a confederate tries your firm
stance:
For life prayers, he pays the seer
madly.
Would you save your life or retain
your stance?
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
Sandwiched between two noisy
passengers
Who spin your reason with
get-rich-quick tales?
Fix your earmuffs! They are walking
dangers!
They come in groups and storm Lagos
like gales.
“419” is their motto and tower.
They swindle banks out of cyber
millions.
In exclusion zones, they frame
their power
And traffic in drugs and humans
(minions?)
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
Why! Some people come across as
cautious;
For the slightest suspicion is
fatal.
Mob lynching is a routine in Lagos,
Big tyres and fuel can become
lethal:
Death is only a stricken match
away—
Hot big tyres are dropped on
battered heads
And big bodies dissolve on the
highway.
Yet people strive for gari and
get AIDS.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
As people strive for gari everyday,
“Area boys” mark out places they
don’t own.
Dare to urinate on their supposed way
And you’ll end up a laboratory
pawn.
Thus people rush past like Halley’s
comet,
Pretending not to notice when boys
fight.
And men walk past corpses felled by
bullets
Or mad cars— dead men waiting for
their right.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
“Panic” breaks out at dense filling
stations,
As people fight to jump over
girders.
A beeline they make for the prized
rations
Of fuel and kerosene from fake
meters.
Cars jump queues, Okada cyclists
fight back—
What fuss over adulterated fuel
Which knocks engines and forces
cars to park!
(Though Honda whistles past
Landmark Diesel).
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
And “panic” breaks out at a crusade
ground
As people fight to have
“prosperity”!
Tales of sound miracles radiate
around
As fake pastors grow fat from
offertory.
Where their powers come from? Ask
their Call girls
Or herbalists or restaurant
waiters;
For miracles, elixirs and sweet
meals
Can spring from blood and mortuary
waters.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
Yes, some grim restaurateurs
overshoot
Their marks in the bid to make
customers.
And some modern herbalists know the
“root”
Of all diseases— they cure them en
masse!
Are you suffering from staphylococcus?
Or from Hell’s herpes? Or swift
syphilis?
Weep no more for the salvific
onus
Lies on big blood and mortuary
mysteries!
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
See, people are dashing for hard,
hard drugs!
They take them from here to
infinity.
Yet their bodies take beatings from
tough thugs
And fat frustrations from deep
poverty.
So people tear off clothes and run
amok,
Ending up as freaks under Eko
bridge
Or in the “No man’s Island”
with bleak luck.
Yet Lagos
get on with life in the sludge.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
Once, an ordnance depot bared its
wonder
And bomb explosions rocked Ikeja’s
mind.
What with the psyche here— this was
thunder!
Real Lagosians shew the survival
wind….
So weep, oh man, for the souls of
thousands,
The souls that knew Oke Afa canal.
They were great minds; for they
died fighting ends.
Adieu, oh dreams which transcend
the carnal.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
What next to do? What next to
really do?
Beer palours brim with born
alcoholics
Whose fake worship is their grim
waterloo.
These men do the pools, raid bottle
relics,
Sleep before blinking TV sets all
night,
Hide behind newspapers from nagging
wives
And—oh! —go to the beach with all
their might:
All these for much needed cathartic
raves.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawawa….
Ah, Lagos
beaches boom as I write now.
See pot-bellied men splashing in
the waves!
They splash with kids and wives as
the waves bow!
Oh, I can no longer see my muse
groves….
The noise bangs on my ears and into
my brain,
So Lagos
you dare to thrash my challenge!
Bikinis, beach bugles, white
sand, weak brain…
All fade…with the…sinking…red
sun’s homage.
This Lagos
– ah, this Lagos
nawaoh!
EPILOGUE:
In this coastal corner…,
There lies a dream which lures
me so
Was it christened “Lagos”?
By those white men who happened
by?
Then ages have gone by,
And the dream has grown great
“logos”
For friend, facing the sea,
Black man has conquered his own
land.
What soaring waves! What breeze!
That leap from the sea to Vic’s
Isle!
What soaring waves! Sea breeze!
That I feel on Third
Mainland Bridge.
Now, standing on Bar
Beach,
Those great feelings have left me numb.
How rapturous they are!!
Kai! Lagos,
you’ve thrashed my challenge!!
(2:25 a.m., August 17, 2005, Nsukka)