Andrew Rooney

During harmattan season
a solicitation to snooze,
an old bature who’s
full of disease.
Cipro is the guide
and map, down past
stalags in a spiral shaft.
Cattle faces, hooves, and meat,
men with wet axes
reach out for me.
Scorpions arrive to bind
hands and feet;
marching chins call out
for my teeth.
In the Jimeta labyrinth
I’m mocked like a christ
by soap and rice
and bitter greens
whose infectious friends
rattle bones and feathers at me.
They whisper, It’s ok, oga –
No problem today, oga –
We know where you live, oga –
Lightly lightly now I rise
and swirl through Hypnopompia
like a town come alive.
Ratatat from the stereo,
ratatat from sweet Louis
                        and the Nigerian disease.