No gardens in the garden city
instead there are roads that shine black
in the night drizzle
& mannequins seducing the night.
Being naked is a privilege, the cab driver issues in
Nigerian Graduate English impeccable but for his lisp,
as he trudges his dirt-old Passat towards Casablanca,
evidently not the movie or morocco. Casablanca is not B-rated either
they say it has the transformative power of a miracle;we believe.
Amen. & Amen. & Amen.
Wooden stalls watched by oil-lamps flaring monoxide at God,
the dizzying dim light salsas on crisp cellophanes
of prophylactic cadillacs, slim cigarettes & Alabukun snow.
Hulk at the gate, dressed in black wears a Goliath frown.
The ataxic poet in plaid jacket is refused entry into CasaPradise.
Amid Wizkid’s howlings, we shout into his cauliflower ears;
bemused, Hulk replies, “What is a poet?”