When swelling traffic finally cools to complete standstill,
Kunle emerges out of hiding
with a knife-like-glint in his eyes,
manoeuvring sinewy frame around
door-to-door gridlock,
expertly slipping
between lanes like some kind
of night thief.
At barely 15, Kunle has:
one
two
three bodies tied to his name
and
one
two
three teardrops tattooed in the corner
of his left eye;
but don’t stare too long
Back home, they call Kunle “black hole”
because
his soul escaped his body a long time ago;
and with each passing year, Kunle grows
tired of
soul-searching,
mumbling prayers
and casting devils out of himself.
Now he presses his gun
against a flimsy window
and pumps
one
two
bullets
into a pleading man and his
sleeping wife.
Kunle takes:
one wallet
one, two souls
one, two phones
one, two gold rings,
and leaves behind:
a shattered window,
bloodied bible,
and crying child
