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Today we welcome yet another poet to our Poet’s Corner. This quiet poem hints at the possibility of world peace (in my twisted interpretation). Written by Edwin (@edgothboy) for your quiet entertainment.

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IYA BASIRA

The sweet scent of gbegiri soup

Wafts to me as I straddle the bench

Washing my hands over the basin

In Iya Basira’s dingy shack

Perched precariously by the road

It’s a curious looking monstrosity

With arms of rusted zinc

And a skeleton of crumbling wood

Here rank and status disappear

And rich corrupt officials struggle with peasantry

For a place in Iya Basira’s line

Squatting amidst billowing clouds of agbada

 washing dirty plates to the

Embarrassment of nouveaux riche wives

The amala is torrid but soft

And the gbegiri soup, bewitchingly sweet

Men, enraptured by discordant flavours swear

Its sweetness is bested only by that of intercourse

Housewives whisper tales of fetish practices

Stews laced with human blood

Amala wrought with powdered skulls

Iya Basira smiles coyly

Neither affirming nor negating

And men flock in droves

To test their heads against

The food seller’s juju

I dive into my soup

Scooped up with handfuls of obsidian amala

But her food is not my only pull

Like a farmer who admires his crops

In another’s market stall

I come to watch others revel,

In delights that are mine to share

Savouring the culinary expertise of Sadiya

My wife, the tastebud charmer.

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