​​The not enough-ness ​​​ 

of dust bites through Lagos, surrounding us like a target. 

suffering repeats its skin on the nation, 

as journalist commits treason before the one-eyed lens. 

our foreman here commands a fleet of Jeep 

​​yet arrives the site, ​​​ 

sand​–​bathed in mud​     ​ 

& in recompense, faces his chair to a wind vane. 

we inhale the hotness of light. 

mold or be molded for, they say: 

this ground lay in constant need of cement. 

how much block rounds up to a tombstone? 

​​we make cement sacs into a body bag,​ 

​​play around the prospects in turns.​ 

​​​​​ 

I tell them, this body lacks packaging. 

fit me in this polythene joy, 

I too want to be a product of some industry. 

we share our woes in the open space, 

but do not share work hazards within the confines of brick, 

because, even the walls we mold have ears. 

​​our displeasure are better heard ​​​ 

in raised hand trowel & folded up sleeves, 

since it takes more than squeezing collars to have our pay in full. 

​​we raise toast to water & down paracetamol in one gulp.​ 

​​the hiccup pours us to a fresh deadline.​ 

once upon a protest, the foreman laid off 

more staffs than I could commit to memory. 

I shared a liking to a woman who, grateful for trash,  

picked up sac to slash and sew into a blanket. 

always found, needling in between hymns. 

she got a sack either way. & yet again, we played around the prospects of it. 

how a word could mean both sales & suffer, 

depending on what is lost in letters. 

the foreman makes a jocular threat of this too, 

think the names we wear as disposable: 

these raw knit of letters,  

these blessed alphabet that joins us to slave through the heat. 

​​we’re passed on, the way one does a game of chess, till he hits checkmate—​ 

​​offsprings of a done deal.​ 

peasants fashion out curtain from scraps; warding off the cooked air. 

the wind vane is vain, if it doesn’t cost an arm— 

by which I mean: a blow to the shoulder blade,  

as it once did the foreman. 

the machine peaks boiling point, 

& my breath go ten degree° hotter. 

I retire bone-dry, 

slurp liquid as though my life depends on it. 

I must heal to prove myself indisposable. 

I must reject the prospects of a body bag, 

& accept the prospects of a bag filled with coins. 

this body, lifting the deadweight of finance. 

we all die rich from a burden.