Bills Like Hills
This survival mood has grown teeth,
That survival itself is hunted,
A sacred prey dragged through alleys of
want.
Who will save survival?
Our dreams winged like dawn,
Packed, stiff and swollen,
Like dead donkeys by the roadside,
Flies humming lullabies over forgotten
purpose,
Because survival is King.
We rise not only to live,
But to outrun hunger.
To wrestle bills that breed in the dark,
Multiplying like shadows that refuse
light.
A system, feral and famished,
Has had its way with us,
Left us bruised, breathless,
Gang-banged into obedience,
Until rest became a rumour
And sweetness, a language we no longer
speak.
Who has time to be honey,
When survival tastes of rust?
From silver spoons to mud-stained hands
of exhaustion,
We have learned to sip life from cracked
vessels.
Survival marries survival,
"Confusion break e yoke,
ye-kpa"
No joy, just a ceremony of endurance,
Where hope wears gloves,
Punching till something happens.
And so the cycle spins,
A wheel greased with sweat and years,
Thirty-five harvests of labour
With barns still echoing empty.
Tell me!
What name do we give a life,
That labours like a god with nothing to
show,
But prayers of hope for tomorrow...
That stubborn lungs that breathes
survival.
Copyright: Godson Osarenren
Godson Osarenren is the founder and
convener of Naija Poetry Fest Community
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