Skip to main content

"OJA"





It’s a new dawn
Shouts and marching; drives towards the converging point
Keys into the padlocks; opening doors yet filled with dust
Opportunities are beaming; there is a lot of noise

Wears are landing on tables, merchandise hanging with pebbles
Eyes are running, surveying; those of Genuity alongside those filled with obscurity
The owner and what he owns; madam shines her eyes on her items of gold
Profit’s the name of the game; the players are giving themselves some close marking

Parents with their kids in the marketplace
The children are running within the market space
Nneka and Gbola; in close bond, with secrecy, dishing out the latest rounds under a market shade
Alfa and the prophet in a hot tussle of putting their truth in the people’s face

At noon
Crawling, walking, running, jumping; as the tempo may seem
Mama t and aunty b; selling the same wears; exchange some couple of twinkle eyes, as buyers draw near
It’s a tussle and jostle story for some folks
Danana and sowoe; in the spirit of brotherhood just made sales on each other’s behalf
It’s a win-win approach for some

The taxi man, in a hasty frenzy, splashes some mud on the spirited sojourner; draws some wailings
Barrows in; with some armoured men to lift your loads, even you; that’s if you don’t mind
Many shouts, so much noise, murmurings, gestures here and there
Bargains are falling; one on another; who wins; the seller or the buyer?

Now rolls the eyes of men as crabs, whose sleep is with one eye
Merchandise; back into the storehouse
Padlocks are closing in themselves, others with the support of the keys
Leathers are covering some perishable and imperishable; providing warmth and secrecy

Sojourners vacating the premises; the players are going off the field
It’s full time for today
But there is always another day; to re-converge at the marketplace
Before we all vacate this place.


Bolaji Olaniba (2018)

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

MY FATHER

Many framed men Hefty yet without course Many Huge men; many but yet not strong Many Daddies comes handy, yet not really Daddies But you my Father; you are out of this world Of the frame of a house set upon the hill which cannot be hidden A man brimming with daily tenacity Considerable yet wise A custodian of truth not lies Ever seen a structured entity with a structured approach; yeah that’s my Father Relentless as the Eagle strolls the skies for her eaglet in winter and summer Many men may refrain from the cold as a bane; yet in it, you toil, not issuing complain Spent time with you; never really seen your frowning face; still, u didn’t spare the cane Many men there is, yet a Good man is scarce But amongst the few; you aim for the stars @ ½ a century and 1 still bouncing like a boy I am certain you will reap many years in abundant Joy @Bolaji Olaniba (2019)

THE FATE IN OUR HANDS

In the mid 1960s Dinga area, the tension became as steam rising and oozing from boiling water in a kettle, the Just amalgamated newborn in; Dinga was like a baby learning how to walk, however, her case was as one with too many instructors; I could say more than 1 parent dictating the pattern of walk each deem as ideal for the young nation, eventually confusing the tender one. Ali Balrebe was 25 years old son of a Cleric in Northern Dinga, He had just returned from Academic sojourn in the United States of Alerica, after been schooled on Islamic rudiments from the age of 8 years old in Daure town of Northern Dinga, His father: though a staunch Islamic fundamentalist showed a little soft spot for western innovation and ideals secretly allowed his beloved son a trip to the west for academic enlightenment, a much-forbidden act by the Northern dinga society. On course, Ali was a student of Peace and conflict studies at the Howard University of Alerica. He gained insight i...

FOR EVERY SUFFERING; A BILLION MADE

For every blackout; a billion made For every darkness a bullion van Always wondering, why the contentment with our present state Men in a mask – politicos, importers of the noise engine causing us a headache For every dilapidated school; a billion made Invisible hands causing the deepest quakes For every salary not paid; a billion made Authoritarian hands multiplying the masses pain For every collapsed building; a billion made Men who threw the integrity test sheet away Now the walls cracked; not only was the foundation faulty: But some Men failed For every pond on the expressway; a billion made For every pit on our highway; some men got paid So many have somersaulted, but some has gained Oh the hydra-headed monster with tail soiling our fabric with stain How many billion more is worth the pain? How many men are still queued for the gain? Know that such gain throws millions into pain Is our life really for the billions or f...