The roads are keyboards missing important keys
the cars are walking furnaces with chimneys,
and with drivers like Lewis Hamilton
the pedestrians become adventurers
swinging on vines, vying through mines
for one more day of life.
This is Lagos, sometimes.
The houses are shoe boxes
ugly as hell, with room for only one shoe,
and with landlords like George Costanza
the tenants become ninjas
ghosting in and out like spirits from hades.
This is Lagos, sometimes.
The schools are worn-out tracks
filled with warriors for teachers
the churches are loud gongs played everywhere,
and with men who say ‘women’ like an abomination
the women become savages with no prisoners.
This is Lagos, sometimes.
The criminals look like the police,
the police remind passersby of criminals,
and with women who say men are prepaid cards
by all means, the men become bullion vans.
This is Lagos, sometimes.
The electricity is a sport
prayer is the angle; the judge is the devil
he has no pity, only brief moments of calculated teasing,
and with life so hard and two meals a day even worse,
the people become resentful
praying… for one lucky break.
This is Lagos, sometimes.
