Bridge

Jide Badmus

Poem

Wound up in air-conditioned car,
GPs locked in a loop of route, you
don’t see the sore in the earth by
the fruit sellers, the clogged gutter
beneath the amala place. You don’t
remember how this city smells—
like a wound, festering perpetually.
Like fermented sweat in a crowded
bus or a grave of premature dreams.
A day as a commuter & I witnessed
a different city—the stench of rust
& distrust, burning weed & despair.
The new pedestrian bridge at Durbar
junction is shelter to roamers, altar
for ailing beggars waiting for dawn
& a miracle of alms. The city below
feels so vulnerable. Dawn is uneasy
omen & the sun ominously weighs
down on sky’s neck. The air is heavy,
rife with frustration & benign hope
Danfo driver slaps a sachet of eru jeje,
tears off the tip & drowns his liver in
3cl of hot dry river—I shift onto my
left buttock, the other passengers
do not bat an eyelid. I say a prayer &
strangle a bus evangelist who started
a revival, stuff the voice of the drug
salesman in the cords of my earpiece.
Rain just stopped & petrichor smells
like a curse. But somehow, I survive
a Lagos morning without my car.