Prose

Dropped at the bypass

Last night, the rain came down in anger This morning we clustered
To count the hails on our muddy palms.
Alas, one was gone, on its way to the land of the silent.
We beheld its tail telling a tale on the dark side of a distant cloud.
Bread winner tray
Taken in a gale of mal wind.
Sour screams our spines pierce
Inconsolable wife beat her breast
Neighbors look on, lost.
Out the door, they took him
A visit to one: denied
A visit to another: denied
A visit to a third: denied
Each one a place of life,
Now turned an abbatoir of death
By scared native doctors of English Medicine.
Covid is in him
Or so they thought.
Speculations laid science to rest
Death is on his forehead
By sight determined.
A few days before
A census call to his children
Was he wishing them goodbye
In hindsight, an eye sees the floor of the Ocean
He must have seen the hands of Lucifer
Coming to get him.
Finally, the lights were turned off
Darkness, the size of a boulder
At his home shone.
A sparkling wagon
From the hospital came
His fallen soul picked up
For a quiet place in the morgue.
A threat no longer to no one.
But coffers replenished.
Were they happy
To let go of Bolaji
At the Eastern bypass?
May be he would have lived on
To see another day
And another day
No one knows but God.
We waved him goodbye in a hurry
And returned to our homes in fear
Beseeching heavens that we not be sick
Of anything but the plague
In the days of a pandemic.
Was that a prayer?
Lord, our minds have fallen.

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