You call them WAZOBIA!

His tribal marks remind you of how Iya Bisi tore your skin with strokes

The aroma sizzles through your nostrils
Brushing your hunger aside
You imagine it splatter through the wall of their intestines

A plate of green concoction and atarodo puree – blazing red
Slices of pepper

They call it ewedu & Amala
A brown dough with a lazy knead
It’s an eyesore
So, you prefer to chew your yawns

At home

Your gate is the replica of Musa
They call him Hausa
He has the code to your house

That’s his pedigree
But you hand him over the security of your life
How safe are you then

He runs a kiosk that kisses your gate
His business is booming
He becomes more popular than you

You call him mallam
He stacks a pile of adulterated accents
With his tongue,
He rubs mind with your enemy to sell you off

His suya and mishai
Is a good match for the weather
His prowess lies in knitting meat

A greeting is a silent beep to death
So, you tell yourself
Be careful, or like a time bomb
You would explode in a click

Tick the boxes

Chukwudi loves money more than his life
He can sacrifice his mother and sell water to a river
You are allergic to his progress

With a chunk of lie, you eat your brothers up
With your bloated windbag
You weave a twirl in their throats
You cook tales with your crude tongue

You plant robust seeds of discord
And pluck stories
From one finger to the eardrum
Twisting lies
Handed down from one compound to the other

You are an apprentice
Learning same old practice
You throw mud at the next person
But none of it sticks
Forgetting you are the one that needs a scrub

Warm regards,
The three musketeers

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