There’s not a bottle of wine and women’s lingerie laying next to my bed…

There's not a bottle of win and women's lingerie laying next to my bed...

When I see the way my people dey live, under bridge and on top of water
When I see the nonsense things, nonsense things our leaders dey do
When I see the oga of police in prison for stealing
When I hear education minister in scandal for stealing

Many Things,
Seun Kuty & Fela’s Egypt 80

I have imagined million of times that there is a feverish tap, tap, tap, ding, clack, zzzip, tap, tap, tap, ding, clack, zzzip, tap, tap, tap, ding, clack, zzzip going on around my kitchen just right before the sunrise.

A smart/intellectualish alcoholic beverage poured in a simple glass decorated with confetti at the bottom.

An earthquake of low intensity with epicentre at my dine table, just enough, to let my neighbours rest and, to swing etceteras along each line-breaking.

If it wasn’t enough, I could hear sea waves crashing on rocks outside my window whilst a wild wind messes up with my hair…

The saddest true is that there are just bottles of melancholy laying one on the top of another feeding the endless emptiness river.

There is not fast tapping on paper, instead two virtual bodies crashing against the other. Not dings, rather, adventurer randomers pretending moaning with pleasure in a London cab.

The page doesn’t zzzip, my zip does…not one, at least a couple of times before sunrise.


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