Hometown

by Opefoluwa Sarah Adegbite

God bless you.
I guess you are beautiful in your own
crazy electric way, carved through the back of Africa,
sandy roads kick up their dust in my eyes,
whisper dreams formed of drumbeat Yoruba and desert wind.
my footprints on this road seem
lost to the melodies of wide-eyed children and
You sound like the sea to me, oceans of metal beasts,
screeching horns clamouring for the
world’s attention and still you are only stuck with mine.
The whole city are cousins,
tongues rolling in unison to the shouts of mouths, click of feet –
flesh moulding into neighbours.
How often have I looked at you from the backseat window of a taxi,
            how often have I dreaded your
vibrant colours and patterns, swirling upon
the border of the moon, tattooed unto chipped white teeth,
yellow palmed strangers I am yet to meet.
            How often have I let your smell become sweat, putrid, undesirable.
Like a scar on a finger you stay, reminding me of a better
time – when children bowed knees to the
ground in sight of adults, and
tongues were set on fire with homemade pepe stew.