IBADAN
Rust, rusty I saw
What a marveled sight
My eyes alone so surprised
Rust on roofs of ancient boxes
Could those be houses or mere boxes?
As I can perceive from above
Ancient you are
Old, I see has become of your streets
Rusty tops scattered till the end of the earth
Ibadan, how old are you?
A question the colored man fails to respond with a clue
I yet believe you to be older than the mother that bore you
You remind me of colonialism
I can still see foot paths of the past
Now questions I ask myself
Could this be the foot prints of the colorless man?
Who I heard sold my foundation to slavery
I feel sick to think of you that way
Am happy and I start to boast of a concrete evidence
That I have a past I was told about
Rust all along, can I stop seeing you?
Or could this be forever?
Cos you seriously continue to show yourself
From your deliberate reflex ions to my naked eyes
Yes, I can’t help to notice your bronze medals
Even if I want to, can I paint you all to the end?
No, I know not what becomes of our past evidence
Even in your old age
Your bosom can still accommodate the future
Your strong teeth can still chew
Ibadan, with pride I can call you;
Rusty, shinny, bronze medal in the sun!
September, 2003