The fate of faeces is a sewage debate

I

It is November that time of the year  we are stingy

With  desires, we make little time to get ourselves

New dreams, drenched in the rain of old ambitions.

We keep breaking oaths and chewing gums

Over unfulfilled moments that are reminiscences,

Also ghosts, that go to sleep to keep hearts aflame,

Not to turn problems into shame and bring us to a stop

For a small romance with loafers, singing dolefully;

               

Iwe kiko lai si oko ati ada

We too start to sing to ourselves and even make

Rice-grain foolery of our retention, for knowledge,

Soon dissolves in the embrace of a bigger hope.

It is November already; like the year of the end is now,

And we do not wish to be caught in the bankruptcy of the hour,

As posters pose as the only hope that leads our nose astray

But we don’t smell rats; we are now vermin,

And there is little need to start smelling ourselves.


(c) Jumoke Verissimo 2010