Hustler’s Pain

 

 

Why we live through life,

We oft leave life out of life,

Yet running daily, tirelessly so,

To catch up with life,

Albeit it has always been with us.

 

We set clock, with a bang,

Up at dawn, we are down,

Because when night comes,

The candles burn,

and we lie awake.

 

Until the system succumbs,

And we drop the limbs,

Across the sofa, lame,

All these just for fame,

Yet with Sabbath, we play games,

Breaking the rules,

So that we my rule the world.

 

Just sit and ask yourself,

In the twenty and four hours,

That makes up your day,

How many of it,

You allot to yourself.

Call it a luxury,

It is just what we all have,

Commonly, and equally so,

While some jacks, in some place,

Spend half of it on nothing,

Than thinking about just,

To get you ripped off,

Not minding it was all your day efforts.

 

If when you are reluctant,

To cough up your hard earnings,

You are then a jackass,

Almost a good for nothing.

 

So what should you care,

Than to daily, fill your gut,

With cereal or fresh milk,

Eat your legume and roots,

Marry the woman of your youth.

 

Mow your lawn,

Observe community chores,

Raise your kids,

Good boys and girls to be,

Teach them the way of the Lord.

 

Rest your back when the sun is up,

Pick the grains before dusk,

Enjoy merry dinner with full moon up,

Laugh heartily as you tell stories,

Folk tales without a tail.

 

Put your wards to bed,

Cover them with blanket,

Shut the windows,

. . . keep them warm.

 

And with your wife in your arm,

Briefly close your eyes and reflect,

Not on what the next minutes may bring,

Rather, on how the last hours have been.

 

If your net output is a win,

Puff your cheek, wear a smile,

Yet if it is more loss than gain;

Turn to your wife, and give a nudge,

Be sure in her arm you feel safe.

 

Let her cuddle you, while you curl-in,

Enjoy the vanity in its sweetest form,

Very well so, while it lasts,

Because what comes next you never can tell,

You never will know, never sure.

 

By next dawn you may be down,

Six feet adeep, beneath the ground!

Learn from me, while I yet live,

To tell a story, about you and I;

 

For so long now I do not have morn or night,

Because I really cannot remember the last I had.

 

Strange, maybe or maybe not,

Today is a Thursday and at one a.m.,

My lovely wife back at home,

Me away from home alone.

 

If no much patient traffic, maybe,

Just maybe, by one-thirty a.m.,

I will attempt to close my eyes,

If am lucky till say five a.m.,

Or, fantastically at six, I will wake.

 

And right then my day begins;

Review patients, steal a bath in between,

At the stroke of 8 o’clock, I must hit the road,

Of course through the thick traffic,

Sometimes a stand still.

 

Changing gears and pedaling the throttle,

Resume my regular work as if from home I’ve come,

Taking care of the sick, sane and their shits,

Avoiding needle pricks, praying against spills,

Wow against the whoops and the thousand droplets!

Till four p.m. talking and writing,

And then set out for my house,

With a short-lived sigh of relief,

Because worse than the morning is the evening traffic.

 

Getting home all beaten, sometimes battered,

A shower to relief, some food to tender,

Online studies and self-reassessment,

Barely an hour left to catch some sleep,

Back on the road once again to where I am now.

 

That’s the cycle, sorry I omitted something,

Perhaps the most crucial of all;

To beat time, I oft skip the food,

I’ll rather sleep than munch the grains,

Thus with hunger I will stroll the Western Avenue.

Amble down to the National stadium,

To get some sausage and drink,

Wondering to myself when Friday will come,

Because from Friday evening my weekend begins,

That is of course if I am lucky not to be on calls.

 

The weekends I most definitely love to have for my wife and me,

Yet relations abound and you must plan for visits,

The hours pass so quickly sun set twice already,

The cycle is so round and I cannot tell where or when,

Another week is beginning until another Friday!

 

So, that’s my story,

And I am not sorry,

As I do not want my kids to worry,

When tomorrow calls for merry.

 

If like me, you don’t want to be sorry,

You may get for yourself a lorry,

Long enough for you to carry,

Some cookies into the future to ‘parry’.

 

. . . While you are at it,

Remember there is a lot out there,

In the future, like a bounty,

This is not only for the mighty!

 

VABI.

 



7 thoughts on “Hustler’s Pain” by Babalola Ibisola VABI (@Babalolaibisola)

  1. @Babalolaibisola,

    There’s a message here about the rat race, but the way it was told was too dominated by your desire for rhymes.

    1. Many thanks @TolaO, for commenting and for the observation.

  2. The hectic life of a physician. At least the pay is good. Lol. Very nice poem indeed.

    1. @mcsnol, lol.
      Thanks for your comment.

  3. Lagos traffic is terrible.You get more time in some states.

    1. Very true, @khadijahmuhammad. But then, where the head is there the body abides.
      Thank you for reading and leaving your comment.

  4. Interesting

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