No, I don’t.
I do not write poetry because
I stare at the sun at dawn, and compete with daybreak on my way to the motor park
The sun scorches my feet at noon as I race after cars to sell my wares.
I do not write poetry because
Feeble fingers don’t type on keyboards
When my brother was laid off without severance, hunger became our tranche, a trance
I wore the breadwinner’s cap as my brother wallowed his sorrow in wine and K-drama
Binge-watching away his misery on Netflix while soaking his pillow with muffled tears
I do not write poetry because
When my mother’s surgery gulped our savings –
The one that was opened for our family land
We thought we’d be free from Lagos landlords
After two decades of paying agreements and commissions;
life must have laughed at us heartily.
I do not write poetry because
JAMB has jammed me thrice in a row, or will poetry give me admission?
I do not know what the cut-off is these days, since I am caught up in the chaos of survival
Please don’t ask me if I write poetry when I am still listening to the growls
Of heinous hunger, making my belly their abode.
