The streets lie harshly deserted
As the cock’s crow is sifted within.
The air rotates and speaks to itself
With none visible presence on the lonely ground.
The roads lose constant patronage
As the to and fro rush rides cease the fleet.
The breeze blows on roughly cold
As the dry wind seizes serenity.
And then from parallel sides of every angle
Emerge folks with clenched fists,
Storming the peace for a march
As the climate weeps to a boiling point.
The fumes of haze rises up to the clouds
As the burning tyres join in, in lighting up the day.
A busy town welcomes dawn in fury,
As a marching song is raised along.
The streets of Lagos
Rage on with a protest lot
As a nation holds still at pause,
Losing calm in a long held breath.
Tears on a new year
Fiercely fall upon our palms,
As vehicles on the highway
Ever stay at a packed end,
On empty tanks
Till yet another rainy day.
And as the national tide
Changes to a falling stance,
We grip ourselves in wait
As deregulation shuffle
Brings on tides of adversity,
Rigour, on a charred chaotic flag.
But alas, we stay pale,
Ceasing our breaths
As we brace the tide.
Part and parcel of the austerity walk,
We join our fellow comrades in wailing on,
At a test drive, we hope be quickly quelled.
And as I observe involuntarily,
Flat down in a pensive gaze,
I may be lying straight in the gutter,
But I’m looking on inspirited, up at the consoling stars.
© Dowell Oba 09/01/2012