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If Lagos knew, it would change, if only for one moment
to breath in deep in awe of this nativity
Bethlehem slept but Lagos hustles on another sunny day.
And as another placenta gets buried
Eko’s beauty is crafted in the sound of another infant cry.

in this city of crowded histories, where hurrying feet run after
the skyline like a masquerade chasing a lunatic over a pilfered naira note.

where is the rainbow i often found
in the sky of returning lips
oh port harcourt whose pots are courts
where meat arbirates fingers

in another room,
we found femurs
the latitude of
suffering

We stepped out from my
borrowed flat in the Marais, under
the Renaissance arches of the Place
des Vosges and the formalities of
the Hotel de Sully, into the squalid
modernities of far-flung banlieu
where a cathedral lurks amongst
market debris.

where is the rainbow i often found
in the sky of returning lips
oh port harcourt whose pots are courts
where meat arbirates fingers

a weird mix of pain and nostalgia latch on to my
tongue. this city moulded me too, in ways too many to mention.

Here, boys are men, and girls
are no ladies— no—they’re no less the man
who shoulders a house for a living—frankly. And
it’s no child abuse, it’s the hustle.