Corper Itoro Ekwere
As the day collapses into the warm hands of night,
I lie in awe, aware of the presence
and the #77k effect.
The tendrils of my brain have overworked
themselves in budgeting,
fixing a kobo in each puzzle hole
created by demand and expectation.
This heatwave melts every hope tied
to a child whose fatherland has refused to serve or save him —
beaten into incognito.
The joy of giving three hearty cheers
is subdued by a grumbling stomach,
its warning signs echoing.
My thoughts bubble in reverse motion,
like the wave of a child beaten by fate and faith.
This heat kills every courage to look
beyond the horizon,
fixated on an hourglass as it drips
into tiny pieces of #77k.
Choked by expectations,
my troubles become an echo of others’ troubles.
