Ìbàdàn
After J.P. Clark
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.
Source: Poetry (June 2025)