Who are we with this black skin not our colour but the dirt of sweat From the toil of the street Which we sacrifice our blood to heat Our pocket with the little that do not have a seat in our purse to stand feet My painful smile radiate my brain to hate to see freedom and justice
Just imagine the scenarios of the street Giving birth to cureless poverties And this miraculous penuries Submit our bodies to hardships We carry life like fortuneless egos Maybe there will be a smile behind the scenes of the songs our hearts sings as dead hopes
Life lynch us with the scolded sun We may die and go tomorrow Then, the tears of a mother wake That of her daughters rise in a man’s cottage Then my brother becomes an artificial horse on this lands to plough for left overs for our sake
The only joy in the pan that carries people’s luggage is the little of no kind Writing our generation in the next day Oh We war life and when sickness hook our body death becomes our single spine but we still endure the fate Oh indeed, are we not citizens?
These our unprofessional work Is the wages that pays government workers They say we don’t deserve the best But when we sit homes and election becomes a biscuit on your tongue You convince us with cowry words
Then we forgive our time wasting to be in that long queue to incarnate the prosperity of those politician hackers If you can’t build them tents Cloth them with rags If you have forgotten them Remember that noon with rally tags
They deserve classrooms of not broken -chorkor-like- cinema hall Because the rebellion on the street Will germinate stains of war That children will wear on their skin Wisdom of redemption to sail on the seat of pirates. Let the street be your home too
Atachie Richard Agbalenhrola