Behind the market stalls, garri races rice,
And gossips turn the air; to spice.
The danfo moves,
With no warning.
Hustlers rush to fill a space,
Just to end up earning peanuts.
Night unveils its quiet drama:
Beer unites men, as they debate mindless politics.
Gossips bind women;
Sharing worries of tomorrow.
Laughter spills from school children;
As Their little feet,
kissing the sandy ground.
Behind closed doors, students read,
Fingers dancing on their screens.
My pen, like muddy waters along the roadsides,
Catches the pace the nation walks;
Tracing the rhythm of struggle,
Bleeding the scramble for survival.
Generators hum across the streets,
A music Nigeria has cherished long before my birth.
My pen now knows the rhythm it sings;
The quiet motivation it gives.
Government inks spread across NEPA bills, taxes, and medical treatments;
Yet, ‘Electricity’ remains a miracle we pray for.
Taxes turn into excuses;
To claim what little is left of us
Medical attention becomes dicey to the lowly.
Heartbeats echo through the walls of the nation,
Yet escaping the ears of Government House.
My pen; my only contribution,
Records the beauty;
Beat by thousands of hearts.
So, one day, maybe, when the heart beats in a new rhythm,
My pen will show you how it once beat,
How survival was an identity.
