They say that Africans,
Will have to fight for a place on the bus,
So I am pulling out all the stops.
I am burning incense and,
Turning out closets,
I am fumigating my life,
Throwing out old clothes and,
Trying to curry favour,
-surely children were not meant for the streets,
Nor nations meant for war-
I have found sack cloth and ash and,
I intend to,
Gouge flesh with home-made irons
Flagellate until I bleed sin,
All over the carpet.
There will be gnashing of teeth,
And great wailing,
-effort must be made-
I shall identify,
Church pews with nails and,
But the spotlight keeps missing me,
And I manage to elicit only,
Splendid chuckles from my nephew.