FIRST REMOVE THE POOPOO IN YOUR NYASH

You loved her
But you cherished another more and far
Not a she:
Maybe kudi
Or job,
Mba o! Not Mazi Job in the Bible
Job as in what you do
That buys comfort and food
Or maybe na your guys


There were times
Cold, silent, scary nights
All she wanted was your time:
to hear your voice
Re echoed in her spine,
To be your audience
As you expressonlessly tell jokes
Those dry yet fluffy,
Never-have-been-funny jokes
That seem fresh to her
Like Palmwine from Bura-Bari's village

But you seemed busy

Or the Juju in your village
Changed your work schedule

(Yes o, in Africa it's never our fault.
Some one is always jazzing us.
Or better still we'll say 'Na attack')

But now,
That fine-sent-from-heaven she
Is gone
She's gone like Bro Jona: that 'kaikai' man from near Rivers
And your wahala is trending like #PmbWasted365Days

So you are lost
Flip-rolling those bulky-Mac-Samuel-like eyes regionally
All night
Like Fashola's power supply
With the Sokugu spirit: always going and coming.

You can't chop
So people think it's #TomatoeEbola

You keep up with activity
Just to remain okay
In people's face
Running your mouth like #LaiMohammed
Meanwhile deep inside
Your heart don dabaru
Abi na yamutu sef
Because you wasted the time
You had to cause that #CHANGE

Now, you wanna launch again
Into that same deep
Without fixing the faulty foundation
That caused your previous disgrace:
The shit in your pants.

Before you date again, biko wipe the poopoo in your nyash

Except

Maybe Ashetani is using your passport as handfan.

Biko, I can not come
And go and die
For anybody o.

Make una see my armpits 🙋
(raises both hands 👐 to reveal hairy armpits)
I never shave. I no want wahala.