Photo credits Google Death comes calling in my city, With an absurd dedication to duty, Hitching rides on tankers of sorrow, Or in containers of grief, And if the roads get completely blocked, By the many prayers and hadiths, From a billion mosques and churches, It doesn’t give up that easy, The reaper, determined as ever, Simply uses a bridge to enter, Otedola or Ojuelegba.
He is at his usual spot, sitting despondently, next to the burnt out PHCN transformer. Every day he sits there, hungry and ragged, alone in the company of his own thoughts. People walk by him in a hurry while he sits there, blatantly ignored, with no eye contact from any of those scurrying by, themselves also buried in their own troubles, no greetings, no acknowledgement of his existence, nothing at all. It’s like he’s invisible or just…