There’s an emergency. Can somebody…anybody, alert Fashola? It’s 10:13pm and I’m still stuck in Traffic! I am famished. I feel drowsy. I need my bed. Pray when shall help come my way!
I left Victoria Island exactly 6:16pm to start the routine; home here I come! Nigh I’m still wiping sweat… my nipples erect, awakened by the drench, the trickles of nature, for she too is tired. But how dare she complain when her master is been pushed, shoved by three furious eyes. It’s their right; they also paid for it. I just heard the sound of a horn. Now I remember; I’m in a bus enroute Constain.
One hour, two hours, 42 minutes, 25 minutes. The clock ticks…my heart counts. The bus how decrepit, for the pierce in my buttocks, another reminder we just entered a pot hole.
I see heads, I see legs. Bodies. More bodies. Mass of bodies. Countless legs. Yet you bragged, only Isreal walked for 40 years. Somebody answer me; “Where are the okadas? “
I wish you can see my face. Mistake; nay you shouldn’t see my face. For the rainbow colours, the façade of beauty has been kissed, licked off by the trickles. I am now naked. My face is bare. I see spots, you see pimples. Another curse of nature. Nay, you can’t see this face.
See rather the road I ply. Feel then the pain I feel.
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