Our neighbours on the other side
Must have industries for baking eggs
Every day at this hour
Our atmosphere is riddled with sweet air
Of what you do not see but feel its distant presence
That compels you to loose your wanting saliva
From the glands to your wanting throat
If it is not this aroma
Then the next comes in sweeter and thicker
They call that one cakes, firing of cakes
The next inviting, dry and spreads fast
And it is no less tempting
The children of our neighbours
Who stray to our side
Under the watchful eyes of their salaried dogs
And numerous servants call that ‘one popuu-corn’
My son tells me the unfired corn
Comes in through special delivery from Amerika
The next is the heavy sound
That battles with our slit gong
Hitting our roof(s)
With fire blinking on tree tops across the compounds
Monitoring the pulse and breathing of the sound
Illuminating our neighbour’s compound
And overshadowing Our hurricane lantern
Our neighbours make no room For us to scratch our anus
As we cannot hear each other talk
They say the daily celebrants
Imported that at no cost from Japan
Here we must bear the aroma
That daily feel’s our compounds
Overshadowing our known tastes
Emmanuel O.O. Amali
EDITOR’S NOTE
Originally published in Nigeria Magazine on 01 Apr 1987, p. 89. This diplomatic transcription preserves the wording and lineation visible in the archived page.