the cruelty of lagos
lagos is a happening city.
events all around.
circus and fanfare.
you're missing out.
the cool kids are
running a new thing every week.
the hottest parties in all of Nigeria.
lagos is the place to be.
and if you aren't, you're just not cool enough
the cement has turned a pale yellow.
structures caved in.
rods poking out from the belly of the Earth.
like bare ribs off a whale fall
20,000 leagues underneath the sea.
scum and muck collect in pools of sewage.
like blood that seeps out from the arteries of the
sewer system.
the old ones have left many decades ago.
all you see now are their remnants.
graves to empire.
statues to conquerors.
repurposed buildings, names still intact.
the ghost of days bygone still sweeps the land.
rotting food left behind on sidewalks.
someone presumably had a quick meal before clocking back into shift.
outside the latest restaurant that just opened,
vomit, a dead cat, old cigarette butts,
betel nut stains, like someone's soul was bleeding out
all over the road up ahead.
the cool kids have shut themselves in.
4 walls.
music blasts off the systems
rattling the glassware at a synchronized frequency.
handpokes, stickers, mixers, music, madness
the circus never ends.
outside, a body is slowly giving up, underneath
a dilapidated highway.
overlooking the carcass, are grey smoggy skies.
choking out all that is human.
Lagos is a happening city.
the chaos and destruction of capital.
Moloch swirls like an angel of death.
his icy black fingers sticking deep into
the city's heart.
Lagos is a cruel city.
it is cruel and cold.
Lagos is only an archtype.
the betrayal of sheep by their sheperds.
the privilege of the rich to block out the wails of the poor.
lagos is a city across the world.
many names and many forms.
jakarta, delhi, lahore, dhaka, nairobi.
the twisted demented apathy of the elites
to close their eyes and see nothing.
but the fingers sink deeper, and colder and crueler.
you can feel it sucking out whatever is left.
my tongue tastes less flavour, my eyes see less colour.
the sickness of capital has penetrated all things sacred
it has turned them profane. lifeless
like the gray skies that hang above.