Ibadan

Ibadan, where skylines blend,

like gnarled thread cross-stitching patterns through time.

Where towering memories linger,

dreams once dreamt of flourishing cocoa now whisper in the wind,

as history bows and crumbles in the backdrop.

 

The sound of the hills

seamlessly blending, conversing with the clouds.

Mapo Hall descends into view, firm and mighty,

a sentinel of yesterdays

as promenades repossess history.

Storefronts buzz, booming voices brim with life.

 

Paved in ochre, ardently red,

the roads echo with timeless stories,

from Dugbe’s dizzying hum

to sprawling Bodija,

where eyes catch whiffs of simmering amala,

and greetings merge in sweet harmony.

 

And the strangers;

sweet welcomes morph them into friends,

as every corner reveals encounters:

untold novels, unfashionable wisdom,

ink stains, bronze pens, and granite truths.

 

Cheerfully, fiercely, the city stands,

where the horizon dips,

struggling to reach for the next cloud,

trying not to wobble too much,

dazzling still, thumbs up, Ibadan,

renowned for its beauty.

 

As J.P. Clark once tenderly crooned,

“like broken China in the sun,”

the city sparkles in shards of memory.

Each gleaming fragment,

waking at dawn,

tells the story of a golden era,

Ibadan’s shimmering, storied past.

The Pen That Never Runs Dry

Sip & Support