Akinloye Gbajero Sunday Poet Free verse

Buried Street

Street don pai wetin home training born,
Dignity don go market wey no fit return. 
Ibalop? kin se fun if?, afi if?kuf?;
Kai! Obinrin s?ra w?n di òwò.
“I wan knack,” na “oga drop change”
Na phone be their business page.
Hook-up na new format for ashawo,
Packaging na for fake-life;
For these, truth strife. 

Many lose their roots to noise,
Trained, but street becomes their voice.
Fame calls louder than their father’s name,
Greed turns their hustle into a game.
They fear no curse, they fear no shame,
Just to oppress who wants tame.

Quick way shines, hustle dies,
Now struggle looks like foolish trade.
Since, eni to m?we, lo m?n way,
Why me go con dey serve my pay?
Na this push dem join the race.

Teachers, trim the weeds you grow,
Not every smile deserves a score.
Stop selling mercy by the flesh,
Don’t trade truth for crumbs of bread.
Mark with justice, not with fear,
Some still care, their eyes hold tears.
Don’t crown the lazy while the honest crawl.

Government sef no dey help wahala,
Àpò ló j?´ w?n—orí wa l’agbára.
Dem chop tomorrow, leave pot empty,
Youth go school, but street be entry.
No tools for hand, no hope for ground,
Alágbà l’?´gb?`, poor man dey drown.
Hunger no get patience—sin go reign.

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