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I
If you want to know wahala
You can find it always in two places
A tro-tro in Accra
Or a danfo bus in Lagos.
II
On a tro-tro in Accra
Wahala is the conductor raising
His armpit, his mouth spouting words
Responding to another passenger
While I defend my face
From his cascade of spittle
Until I find a voice to scream, Wetin do you?
Only to see the other passengers snigger,
“Ha, she’s Nigerian.”
III
On a danfo in Lagos
Wahala is the conductor shouting owa-owa
While the driver speeds
Many kilometres past
The intended stop.
Trying hard not to scream,
Knowing I have not learnt to pitch
Higher than the danfo’s din
I alight muttering, “Chale, your eye red.”
Only to see the other passengers snigger,
“Ha, she’s Ghanaian.”
IV
Danfo or tro-tro
The fire heats against my skin
And the conductor’s armpits
Always confesses to my nostrils
That home is where I can alight at a market
Where the sky opens over my head
And I can move from one stall to another
Haggling a price over our collective sanity.
