His root admirably bucolic;
His root admirably bucolic;
His birth humble and upbringing discreet round
The balanced complements of rich ancient and paltry modern;
The parent, poor as poor can be. Indeed,
Though not satisfied yet never the least beggared.
Yes, they grubbed out life;
A hard existence tilling the earth;
Still, they were good beautiful people,
By enviable bars of old. They stopped at nothing
The rod unspared to raise their children unspoilt;
To be worthy emissaries of worthy traditions;
The priceless bequest to generations next;
For yet He is a teenager largely propped for erect
On all sides.None the least imagined rebellious seed's
Torpid lurked beneath shallow bed of his watery world.
Somewhat still a babe suckled and backed.
Daytimes, almost practically bathed. And at bedtimes,
To sleep many lullabies the mother did sings.
But He dreamt a life, flossy. Far far away
From drudgery realities of the village.
One day, in the footsteps of a known brother hardly.
Who seemed long caught up in futile vortex
Of city's golden fleece. He escaped from his native lands
Far flung behind those known but forgotten
Virgin forests and hills and rivers. The deprived
Of material civilisation even by the token. Crutched on
No more than meagre education.
His situation precarious;
His future bleak;
His fate cruelly sealed;
Sooner, I saw him an urchin hungry and exposed,
Aimlessly wandering along the city's exotic coastline;
Not far from splendid garden homes and luxury cars;
He only but wished for many nights before.
And among those Kara's makeshift
Wooden stalls keeping company at safe distance
With gadflies-twined mooing cattle and in the open marketplace
Traversed abandon by profiting buyers and sellers retreated.
Many many years after,
The streets became his permanent home.
The wastelands the office He scour for the next morsel.
Hawks the fake proven articles the surplus
Of chinkolands as the city's traffics lost its sanity.
I saw him hung on tail boards of mini-buses plying shallow routes
Conducting, screaming his head off for a share
Of an ever scrambling Lagos commuters. Like his brother
Sought but could not find for now He bears
Grotesque pseudonyms coined off the streets. In sterner
Volte face, too, neither remembers his peaceful village
Nor the beloved old parents for as long as I know.
Doomed to a drugged high-performance life.
The sub-culture pawn of antisocial cesspool, death's
Slaves the sought after hotcakes souls expendable
Of our lootocrats. Here, the lingua franca
Is force and fist.Moblands where Omerta rules.
Where blood flows. And He must have
Stained his hands with innocents'
Blood on those gun-duelling nocturnal operations.
One fateful afternoon I saw him in fitted
Cap and sneaker and bodice and jeans Versace's all.
By one of the city's busy road terminals. It seems
That's where his bread's now buttered. Diligent
Dispatching at heavy-motorised beat with the speed
Of Bolt's. In a moment, gestiflexing his muscled-torso,
Shadow boxing a driver recalcitrant to dole
The sums fixed into the pouch linked to some remote godfathers.
The next moment He dashed forward for another.
Instead but to his death crushed by the raging wheels of an oncoming truck.