T-H-I-S C-I-T-Y!

Ilorin,
Steaming pot of color and tribal marks
Fork for the hungry fed
Tars dug deep by nature to sink tyres in a well-
A river that streams in its Niger
One Among 12 sticks strawed deep
A haven for the Ipinle’ sheep
Surrounded by neighbours bounded by tongues, marks and dirt. – Leon
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Lagos
Cast upon the pillars of water and land,
Unsteady and drift, and unsteady
Springing chaos as rhythm
The dance of survival, macabre and rewarding.-Desmond
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Jos
An open cave
Swell with the magic of people
Where the cold rule the embers,
The hills call out to each other

Where the weather is double minded
Heating the earth now,
And freezing its crust later
Running afar to any extreme

An ocean of tribes and cultures,
All in mystic war of superiority,
Only the morning cool can quench...-Omolola
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Billiri
The little quiet noisy town
The town closest to the sun
Sun that interrupts the night
Crowded with smiley faces
Friends with sickles waiting to see your back
Those with shields sworn to shield

For Toms
On arrival to this town
Everyone already knows your name
As may seem

Early sunrise
Fired afternoons
Oven hot nights
Beautiful Billiri. Tee2emm
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Abu’ja
Robust and rounded like a butt
Valleys like the mounds on Binta’s chest
Hills without billies
Seat of sin
Scamers camp
Catch one they multiply
Everyone appears rich
But their pockets is beyond reach
Buildings with heights
It is a riche estate
For men with taste
Empty houses, homeless stead
Money mining
Blinding lots
One wrong turn, another street
Scorching sun like devils breath
Hitting harder than recession
Centre of unity
All men abound.-Vera
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This city called
Lagos.
Rejections from the human who just smoked weed
Knotting tie with corporate trousers so you can heed
To tantrums of an organised beggar
Bigger, bagger, Bariga
Keke competing with Trailers
Raiders, Riders, Robbers, Rangers

Lagos a city where every entities are considered god
Goddesses in every corner
You can’t tell who is real
Real?
Just be popping your hustle
It’s every man’s home. – Rachel Charles
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Jos
a cold soup
sitting in the middle of many hands.
Mixed with dust of desert – like Tumfure,
she’s a shy rock headed artiste
who have not decided to own the meats
living in the vegetables and spices.

Let us eat she will claim
but first ask the berom what they made.
When the father hats the aroma
and puffs the smoke to choke our eyes,
we travel to the world in between sleep. – Rudolph
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Home of peace and tourism,
Nature’s beauty abound,
Fresh spring gush forth,
Tin and columbite mines,
Kuza, I hear they call,
Lover’s Creek named by some,
Harmattan, freezing a broken heart still.

Burukutu da nam’ass, celebrity meal,
Fresh food and veggies in abundance,
Maingo yam, stands out but short,
Goté, healing for the soul.-Hijab Gurl
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Kaduna an offshoot of crocodile
With Big belly and sunny looks
A friend to the brave.
With large toes.
A host of humans of different religion and races.
Kaduna the only son of Kada.-Bangwan.