Some rank odour approaches me as I approach
the city, presents a clenched fist to my frightened nose
The breath of refuse that refuses
civilized welcome, it only yawns into my decency
Perhaps this is where we choose roads:
straight on, to pretend difference, in high halls;
towards the right, to face everyday battles, in piddle & pressure
Should I have asked:
the shoddy look an Oshodi used to wear,
or the marred modernity of a Maroko?
Always there is an extra mile beyond Mile 2
in this journey to a story
laden with smells.
Where a city begins is where its beauty ends
Now it wears its odours loosely
Like many years of failed hygiene
Each time welcoming some goodbyes –happy-to-miss-you
Ojota is more than random jottings
on someone’s governance notepad
a place where the Past Tense of government
shifts to a tensed up Present.