You’ll think Nigerians are poor, until you see them in nightclubs—swallowing decibels.
They stack bottles on the derrieres of jezebels, chanting ad hominems.
In the crush of morning, they drift on complaints, curse the devil,
Crying till their teeth fall from their mouths.
They sit in churches, seething;
In fast food joints, grinning—
Plunder parties with Naira notes,
Float on newspapers like ghosts.
They hum.
They dance, crawl,
Blame,
Howl,
Sink peerless, into the infinite abyss of social media… to deride,
Till the wasteland perishes.
( The Sun is hidden )
