I dreamt that we had church in a place so bright like it was in heaven
The large site had gay decorations and teemed with a cheery gathering
Mum led a choir dressed as white-winged angels
Which sang of a great joy born to the whole earth
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Let the square roar exultantly
Let taut drum-skins boom flatteringly
And skilled dancers throw themselves like dust in the air;
Let’s lift our voices in high spirits, in the manner
Worthy of receiving our warriors when they return victoriously.
Let mothers now take the floor
let them mount on our admiration with their accustomed grace
Let them ride with the poise of veteran warriors
Because they took on evil at the gates
And licked our enemies before they could learn our secrets
Let them pride! let them make ako!
I’m the rough voiced civil servant
Collecting my wages on the street
The public utility Landlord
Keeping the peace and collecting rent
I’m the government of roughnecks
Enforcing law and order underneath the grassroots
I’m an eccentric citizen, so what?
Make no mistake, I know my rights!
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Lagos is the land of bustle
Melting-crackpot of a metropolis
Our weather, business and temper mostly is hot
And our spirit always just manages to bubble
Between hitting humid roads and hitting sweaty sacks
Lagos life is one long traffic jam
From Monday to Friday, sunshine is our traffic light
But all roads will lead to where the party’s at
Come weekend, come the owambe nights.
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A legendary portrait of the primitive African woman.
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