POEM 280: ABA IS A STORY
Aba is a street in Ogbor Hill during rainy season,
which is to say that every two poles is a puddle,
and tadpoles dance in blocked drainage,
to the digestive delights of wandering chickens.
Aba is an aerial view of Owerri-Aba,
clustered houses sits on her plain expanse,
full of happy kids behind television screens,
staring at their faint reflections; no power.
Aba is Ohanku road, by all loved,
by none taken care of.
Sandy like the rugs of Aja road,
lonely like the length of Igwebuike road.
Aba is Ariaria,
a hood lined with merchants, coming and going,
acclimatized to the beautiful mess
of their neighbourhood,
inhaling the aroma of money exchanged for wares.
Aba is a story in motion pictures,
a story with no commercial break,
a story-blend of neo and retro,
a story that has no end.
Come to Aba, on the 20th,
and I shall tell you more