Childhood Poverty in Nigeria

In my childhood want

I had small sized unleavened 

bean cakes, sugar free millet

or corn pudding, and less

sweetened beverage for breakfast.

I never had Christmas chicken,

the traditional cedar lights,

Santa’s attractive delights,

and the ambience of advent.

Each seasonal necessity was

a luxury.

My indigent ‘hood’ was drenched

by the torrential rains.

And I played, ran across and often

sank into the soft miry land.

I once borrowed a footwear from 

my reluctant neighbour.

He very grudgingly gave me what

seemed to look like medieval

chopines, suitable for the entire 

neighbourhood’s quagmire.

I lost them both on a rainy day’s

deluge in the stormy month of may.

To pay back what I’d lost, my enraged

mum meticulously saved her hard

earned wages of a fortnight and

two days.

Urban Poverty in Nigeria 

I was birthed and raised

in one squalid abode;

In the shanties of Nigeria’s 

urban hell.

My consanguineal kinship

could only give less within 

incomes below a four score

threshold.

My physical growth was stunted

by near marasmic growth stimulants.

Bereft of all that mattered,

I bemoaned my undesirable state.

I scavenged from kitchen debris to 

get my fill.

I roamed the alleys scantily clad

with fabric pot holes.

I improvised my own play delights

from discarded wastes like empty

sugar packets, unwanted chiseled wood,

bottle tops and in some cases, empty cans 

At bedtime, I had limited space

on crowded sheets, air tight spaces

stemming from so much nasal pressure,

and in most cases, vermin that sucked

my body ketchup.

My God! The scar of childhood poverty could be much deeper than imagined!