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.
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