Mararaba- A Traveler’s Compass
Overlooking figments that puzzle even creation
on rocktops and on cussed roses’ dewdrops
We live on the levee of the Niger with thirsty throats sipping eternally from
Molecules of dust from their scorning superhighways
Mararabans are an old woman visiting the gutters
Nudged not by the tickling push of burukutu, the turboprop liquor
She is the neighboured maid unknown by fences of newly arrived Arabian scrappers
As ill health asks space of her meek sinews
After Keffi’s shy hills, you will meet Maska, venue of the massacres
Welcome to Mararaba, twin arm of Karu, bearer of Nyaya’s tribal marks
We long not for terraced ‘Districts’ and ‘Areas’
Neither does the glitterati of the city bug us
Oblivious of when day-breaks when Aso athletes change batons
their sport brings hushed joy that fires burning angst
We ride not in swashing automobiles like the goblins deflating our barn’s ego
But hide catching prized glimpses of daylight
When lashes of unfilled pockets quieten us
In this holy city, where thugs run riot in temples,
We see ripened fields but hold no trowels
Yet get belly-filled when Apo pohpohs! toxic bills
Ours is Mararaba, city of marabouts divining endless visions
