Skip to main content

Spintex Road Trotro Ride

I'm being slowly cooked in this sardine tin on wheels,
The sweltering heat outside matched by the humid heat inside,
An exoskeleton forms as grime settles on my clammy hide

The seats are so closely packed,
My knees almost touch my chest,
Surely, this must be the Purgatory,
It’s anguish without respite.

A slobbering drunk tries to fall asleep on my shoulders,
The stench from his mouth forming an unholy fusion
With the nauseating odor of boiled egg and pepper being eaten behind me,
Meanwhile,
A phone rings a little too loudly a little too long,
Startling a baby and who joins in its vexing song,
The sting of cheap cologne brings tears to my eyes,
My senses scream from the surplus stimuli,
Suddenly;
The drunk starts to snore; loudly.

In one sublime move, the driver violates 4 or 5 traffic regulations,
While lavishing flamboyant insults on other roads users,
I feel my joints popping with vehement protestations,
As the driver makes no attempt to dodge the many potholes,
Potholes artfully arranged not to look artfully arranged,
The constipated traffic extending my torments and woes.

Finally,
I reach my destination,
My wobbly knees somehow manage to keep me standing.

Torture by Spintex Road trotro ride,
And to think that I’ll have to do it again tomorrow.

*****March 9, 2012*****


Trotro:  the cheapest form of public transport in Ghana. Usually an old minibus

(I wrote this poem  while in a trotro)


Popular posts from this blog

They Don't Teach us how to Grieve

They don't teach young men How to grieve.

Be a man, Stand strong, Men don't cry, They say.
That's how we are made.
Somewhere, There's a conveyor belt Constantly chucking out Boys, with pent-up toxic emotions, Shoulders hunched under the weight of society's expectations.
There's a piece of wood in my mouth I bite hard on it praying I don't black out As I saw off another weakness I saw in the mirror.
Something about Better to enter the Kingdom With one arm...
I don't know...
A brother died today,

Bats at 37

When bats at 37 take to flight, At a quarter past four Or, whatever time Accra heralds the night,

When bats at 37 take to flight, For me, there's not a more beautiful sight Of creatures, imagined or real, That lay claim to these glorious skies.

When bats at 37 take to flight, With fevered screeches that punctuate the night When by sheer numbers they darken the skies And, below, people of a superstitious disposition Can not be bothered, I am reminded that, Given enough time all things cease to be strange.

When bats at 37 take to flight, Devoid of vibrant plumes unlike most things that fly, Rising like Legion and the hordes of hell, In defiance of extermination attempts, Above the Hospital in elusive figurativeness, Haphazardly, in sync, over constipated traffic There is not a doubt who owns the peppered night.

When bats at 37 take to flight;

Finding God

The inexplicable
Is proof there's a God.

This, for me,
Is where doubt began.
For if we know today
More than we did yesterday
Then, God is
a constantly contracting chamber of ignorance.

Now if it is so
And God is the Lord of gaps
Then men of religion
May be forgiven
For their unrelenting battle
Against knowledge;
The God Killer.

But if God is
the beginning of wisdom
And his people perish
For lack of knowledge
And if we know today
More than we did yesterday

Then it stands to reason
That the God to believe in
Is an ever-expanding explosion of knowledge.

I have no faith
In the God of gaps
For God must be Omniscient
And ignorance is not
This, for me, is where doubt ends.

*****April 22, 2017*****