Eko
My Lady, Lagos
Photo from Pinterest
Her days stem out noise,
Her mood ever chaotic,
Her atmosphere terrific, scorching even—
As she seeps out energy from any and every soul within her.
Dirt plastered on her sidewalks,
Class measured in transparency for all to see.
Her streets filled with open, stinky gutters,
Accommodating the distinction of ego and shamelessness,
of pride and the naked containment of worthlessness.
Catastrophe never ceasing in her mobile carriages,
Converging fatigue and distress forcefully into a tight bracket.
Frustration heavy in sight, ever heated by the never-ending pressure of comical entitlement.
Ignorance lurks just outside the window—its own display nicer.
Cleaner windows, leather-comfy chairs,
Its capability to zoom out of sight only restricted by the dirt-infested lanes of abandoned concrete infrastructure,
Forcing those frustrated, congested souls to stare at its own luxury-ridden exhaustion.
Pity might visit those egos sometimes, causing them to hand out offerings—
Offerings never enough, falling like liquid into a broken bowl of emptiness.
A city she is.
So packed with destinies dead and alive,
Mixed in her endless cycle of bustle.
A city she is—
Daring, demanding.
Her beauty rests only in the eyes of curious minds;
Her sins laid out perfectly for those affected and frustrated minds to condemn.
Her wish: to be loved truly in her monstrous glory,
Tainted heritage, and exploited history.
Her tears marked with bridges,
Stamped with foreign ships conveying more chaos into her shores.
A city she is, a city she seeks to be.