Talk about the revealing breast
Behind the wet cloth of a lady
Under the rain,
Or the revealing pant line,
Drawn almost horizontally across
The ass of a pretty careless lady,
There’s nothing we haven’t seen.
In our small hut,
In our local palace.
In the place we cherish the most—our minimal survivals.
I remember the rhyme I managed to learn
In my roofless local school, fellas:
“Some have food but can not eat,
Some can eat but have no food.”
We fall into the category of the foodless omnivores.
Our house is an eyesore
And a saw to chop off our eyes.
It is more like a rat’s abode;
One that one has to bend before one can enter.
The clothes that shelter our body
Have maps of different countries
Made by hungry creeping nocturnal creatures.
Survival in our base;
Is based on the struggles of the fittest.
We work like Jack isn’t our friend;
Yet, we get crumbs that fall off the tables.
We ask for bread from our parents;
But they give us stones to make fire in anticipation.
Lizards are the landlords of our kitchen
And rats are the guests
On our dinning table.
We chase flies as we eat our sour grapes…
And we bask in full admiration
Seeing these as a way of living.
Herein lies the playmates of our lives;
Toilet flies, following our large sores and
Singing joyously to the saltiness of the wounds.
We know the robes poverty wear;
Tattered, smelly and bug ridden.
We know poverty’s shape;
Rectangular, stout and languidly long.
Poverty hails us when he sees us;
We are more like his disciples: his playmates.
Let us come out plain and sober;
The journey through the tunnel has taken us years;
When will the light shine to illuminate our path?
When will we stop gaping and groping?
The ghetto is thirsty for a change.
Flourish Joshua (F. J Speaks)
Oluwapelumi Jegede (AnikeBeloved)