BUS STOP
The hawkers are a blur in motion
Needle weaving through metal fabric
Yellow buses that come and go
their anaemic limbs joined to each other by rust
69 seated, 99 standing
Prehensile bus conductors monkey on and off running boards
calling bus stops, places
BROAD STREET
On Broad street there are no people
Only streams of intentions
Sellers, buyers, opportunity addicts
Sidling you, flashing wristwatches, jewellery and drugs
The money-changers wait by the kerb
Catching your eye, beckoning in Pounds and Dollars
Floating from Tinubu Square to Marina
You soon discover
Here all are predators
And you the only prey
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