THE IBADAN BUS

I was born in the land
where all roofs are brown.
All I grew up seeing were wrecked buses
dancing on the roads

I’m back thinking a new leaf has turn.
But the roofs are with holes,
and the roads are pot holes.

There I was
sitting in the white, 2 green strip box
Dancing, choking and cloth tearing;
Wild journalists
and bush analyst are catalyst
to the steering wheel
from sango to omi

The road of Oke
The street of Idi
The avenue of Iyana
And the junction of Aba
It stops to loose and add some weight
Even the Agbero collects pay,
with receipt and writes of chalk
In Ibadan,
the land of hills

Bus, Box or Ark
That smokes and sings noise
Kranking, kranker and konkonk
The music it plays all the way
The Ibadan Bus,
what do I call you?
©DAMILOLA2015

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