A poem written after the passing of a research participant in July 2023
There should have been no traffic the day you died.
The raucous honking should have at least observed a moment of silence.
The hawkers should not have been engaged in intricate dance steps while trying to sell their goods.
The whole city should have stopped.
But no, Iya alagbado* fanned the flames, while serenading people with her boisterous yet soothing voice.
Between her voice and the smell of the roasted corn, customers were enticed.
And of course, the school children still rushed to climb into the danfo**.
Ever curious about which one of the passengers the conductor will yell at today.
And as the day turns into night, just like the sunset on your life,
Bells ring.
Speakers blare.
Sacrifices of praise are being made – each offering competing with another.
Tonight’s night vigil has started. They do not cease, even though your breath has.
News about your departure is overshadowed by announcements about the arrival of another.
As darkness engulfs the city, the sky opens.
And the heavy air, that lingered from the oppressive heat of the day, gives way.
Torrential rainfall forms steady rhythms alongside the thunderous clap of lightening.
This. Is. Your. Requiem.
–
*Female corn seller. In this case, roasted corn.
**Commercial minibus.