Children Of The Bridge


Let’s say it this way or that way, 

My Country is famous for displaced


children who found home in the haven

of bridges. Each time, I see their shirtless 


bodies scurry around the bridge, puffing 

fumes of cigarettes. 


The atmosphere cradles the emotions 

I fail to conceal. Why don’t we admit that 


everything is wrong in this place. That a miracle 

is yet to sprout amid the cankerworms that eat the land. 


until now, no rehab for the children of the bridge.


I peer at my country through the binoculars

of a needle, peer again through the lens of a hawk, It’s all the same.


My Country is as good as blind to realize

that which kills her slowly. 


The children litter the street— unfed; straying; 

eyes scanning for food; bones

shimmering in the dialect of hunger.


A child is strung round the throat of a radio 

for every sad news it blares.


What news has blessed our ears if not the

 cadaver of a child lynched for pilfering. 


Or another child cleared by a vehicle

in a bid to outrun a raging mob.


Let’s say it this way or that way—this is my Country—

a museum of dead-forgotten children.


Should we exalt a country whose glory radiates in the 

light of everything grief?


The roads in my Country are sealed with the bones 

of children. This is how they become forgotten artefacts.


We assume it’s the fastest

way they meet & dine with God relieved


What are you looking for?