Ever walked ceaselessly into turns
Shacks and hutments cropping out suddenly
Where every mongrel resembles some old frail
Coughing man, both on four limbs.
Struggling to struggle, so to keep breathing.
Heavy bosomed woman, once pretty,
Now pounding clothes to the clatter of vessels
Casting appreciative looks on the beads
Strung together loosely to form a lace.
Roasted corn in one hand
Chasing flies with the other
Stepping over filth and decay
To rejoin conversation abandoned midway
By sudden reminder of hunger.
Now seated comfortably under the shade of trees,
Politics passion, violence, depravity, as time passes.
This Sunday I spent my afternoon with friends
In the heart of my city in its best garden
Across which sprawls a small shantytown.
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