I see my father stooped
Bent to do the high maintenance on the roads of lagos poorly maintained.

I sEe my father really stooped
With a parker and a broom in hands
Cleaning the mess made by generations of dirty townsfolks
Uncaring about the consequences
Of littering the roads…
The country with litters of poop.

I see my father today
Making meaning of the mess, frustrations made yesteryears
Of grains given in morsels too thin on the tin plate…
Of the cowardice of the youths he dared to hope in
Of combatants that sold out without vision

Daddy stooped and my heart broke
Twice over it did
Trying really trying age stooped
To untagle the webbery mess made
Of poop, blood, sweat and jungled mess…

I lose hope now cause i see
Your years trying to untangle this mess
To free the broom from mess filled with hair, leftovers bordered on hunger pangs
Of ur aged back bent really trying to brush away the webs cornered from the tax street…where do we get a new broom
I say lets kill them all and make new streets but
When you bury the ugly ones
where are the beautiful ones to usher us into streets clean and paved
Just where are they Father?


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