“seven hills beckon

the sun to a dance. two steps

forward, another to the left. kongas powder

their rhythm on the rusty face of Beere & Òjé.

like a blooming peduncle, Bódìjà gives her arms

to the wind. bejeweled hips

of Agodi sway in joyful

abandonment. amidst the seamless blend

of Sángo, houses with smelly

gutters cluster like beehives. here,

street children stomp their feet

with hysterical laughter. slowly,

Mókólá opens up its mouth,

the melody drowns in a pool

of  honking vehicles.

the day is not ripe

but a muezzin harvests it with a sickle,

spreads it on a tray & calls the world

to feast. a preacher would not bulge,

he walks past, throws a punch-like sermon:

the world will end soon. the world might end

now. he walks on, jagged alleys morph into neatly

paved roads, where humans in Micras groan to the music

of communal misery. he walks on,

till he finds people speaking in the tongue of  his

neighbor. everywhere is home.

every road leads to our doorknob.”