Benin

A mass of grey and rusted silver strewn By the sky god from sifted appurtenances. Preserve of ancients jousting with modernity, Behind edifice a disperse of brimming slums With piles, heaps of filth, debris, decay and stench; Congestion and the jostle for ends and gains. Benin endowed with neo wiles obviating tradition And irked for now-now pleasure and wealth Imitating and striving for wannabes Inculcating habit and aspiring for a world without the sun Yet far from assimilating it by the words of the old: Carrot does not sprout in the root of a yam stalk. Old city, once enliven by aestheticism And renowned by the arts and crafts of bronze now At the backdrop with every frontlines bedecked By remnants of exotic necessaries. Men, vehicles rush, Scramble and stream Ringroad and Ramat From dawn to dusk to the abyss of nowhere And returning home at last to the euphoric solace Of the mellow hit of Waifo highlife And the scores of green, brown bottles that thrive. Benin, where once the Portuguese trespassed, The Dutch men trampled and the British overturned Leaving behind their long evening shadows A new self-image chained in the heart.