ar from grotesque exaggeration,
Heaven is easy to climb with ladder
than traveling down the road from my village to the next.
Two villages near but far to reach. What a hazardous journey!
Scary, gaping potholes and bumps
Have made the length and width of the road their permanent abode.
These impediments dictate the velocity of our vehicle
while clouds of dirty dust pose as an uninvited guests
that lodge inside our car,
stubborn guests we are unable to keep at bay.
The noise of other motors driving past
with rasping blas of blowing horns
add irritation to our growing pain,
but we absorb the ordeal with stoic equanimity
Yet our vehicle is forced to swerve, sway and jolt,
tossing us forward, backward, left and right
like an old boat in a turbulent sea
as we wind our way to the village square
to partake in oil bean salad banquet.
Lucky Luke, our car refuse to capsize.
It pains to note that two rural farmers with distended scrotum
attired in traditional garbs, shouldering their hoes,
walk past our car and smile at us.
I notice some frightening
in the vacancy of my friendís mind
in his attempt to divine
how a supposed journey of 10 minutes
could swallow an unbelievable one hour!
And before we could arrive at the venue,
all the invited guests had eaten to their fill and gone,
Consider the void searching minds
and unresponsive staring
with which we sit on the village bench.
A mood devoid of reflective reverie.
We travel back to our village
through the same route.
Because no alternative road to make a detour
We mourn not for the feast we missed
but for those who travel that road we dread.
A road that has a pothole plague..
Our sympathy go to pregnant ladies,
who ply that awful road;
and to the elderly whose bones are frail;
more to ambulances on emergency call
and to poultry farmers
who travel the road to sell their eggs.
© Augustine C. Ohanwe
October 03, 2012