LIFE IN THE FAST LANE
I always thought that life in the fast lane
Was intended to portray the better side of living
But something struck me deep the other day
Some people in the fast lane live in a different way.
Black African roads crowded with traffic
To use Nigerian slang a traffic jam is a ‘go slow’
Vehicles stretch for mile after humid mile
It’s not often you’ll see a driver smile.
Transport battles side by side no inch given
Horns blaring even when there is no chance of anyone moving
Decrepit buses carrying bodies crammed inside
Some place to go, but no place to hide.
Young boys and old men - roadside hawkers plying their trade
Running races between the clogged up lanes
Trying to sell you anything you might need
Propelled in their quest for the cash that will feed.
There is another type of predator out there too
The roadside thugs who will rob and kill
Don’t expect others to extend their assistance
Life is too precious; you’ll be killed for interference.
Other inhabitants frequent the highways too
The maimed and the poor beg at your windows
Legless men on wooden boards with wheels
Can move faster than the traffic shouting their appeals.
Woman and baby both dressed in stinking rags
Wander aimlessly between the cars, eyes stareing
Baby is sucking on an empty breast, no nourishment there
Nobody seems to give a damn and nobody seems to care.
Life in a Nigerian motorway fast lane is not a picnic
People seek to make a living, they want to survive
Driven on by despair and a life that is miles apart from our own
Geared into poverty where hope for a better life is unknown.