Who we are is not told by the cocking crow
or by the readiness of a morning war.
Who we are is a tale beyond farmlands whose path
grow as blisters on our hands.
We are an assemblage of water
hard and soft, colorful and colorless.
We are people from towns that are villages,
villages that bore queens
kings and monarchs
sage and slaves.
We are not an army of titans clamouring for seats
or a market full of nothing but noise from the cemetery.
Who we are is a curtain of ordinary with extras on our stages,
Words that make up the history pages.
Who we are is a fine passage between the mic and the hand,
the clay that makes us human.
Who we are wakes up everyday,
sees the sun at ease
lives with the wind in our hearts
and buries the dead with our lips.
We are people from Everyday.
A file of zombies,
Each with his bag of trash,
Pulling them as we go.
Some keep their baggage light,
Others overload theirs with greed,
While others want to rub their shit on others.
Some let sun rays find rest on their faces,
Others drown in the clouds,
While others are just lost.
The earth is pregnant with us,
Her labour is an unending one.
We just keep coming and going.
Thomas Tee2emm Bot
We are everyday people.
We wake, bake, make, take and repeat,
gossip but request not to be spoken of,
and judge others cause they sin differently.
We are married, single, divorced, widows or widowers,
same way we are gay, fornicators and adulterers.
We are kings, queens, princes and princesses,
ruling our own empire with freedom of speech,
sacrificing foods to the gods of our stomach,
respecting the sun by waking at dawn and
paying homage to the night by falling asleep.
We are everyday people,
free like we’re guranteed tomorrow,
live like death is not a compulsion,
dream like life is a fairy tale.
We are everyday people,
we know the truth about everything,
yet we do what we feel is alright.
We are everyday people,
we’re all history breakers, makers and readers,
we’re all leaders, followers and observers,
we are everyday people.
From the president to the porter,
To the spy and the reporter.
We are all just faces
Jamming each other at different phases
Everyone runs his lane in the rat race
All trying to mark or find his place.
We are the reason for the tear drops on the guitar
Or the first spark on the cigar.
We wake, bake, grind and sleep
Running after the things we want to keep
People rarely living for today
but by what they’ll be remembered for tomorrow.
We come as we go
Our days are as a footprint in the snow
It’s soon as though it was never there
Like fart in the air
Whether we want it all
or nothing as all
whether we want to slay
or take home all the pay
we are all scavengers that deny the roles we play.
A reminder and truth that the sun rises to display,
is the fact that we are the people of everyday.
Roaming the streets of every city
Buying, and selling at every corner store.
Some go around wearing pity,
Some with pocket full still wanting more.
Different bodies carrying different weight,
Putting on happy masks on sad faces.
Carrying a heart filled with envy and hate
Everyday world is breeding an unsafe race.
Everyday people, everyday struggle
Every man chasing shadow in form of paper.
Sleepless nights, and jobs shuffle,
Like vapor, it doesn’t last.
Morning, afternoon or night
Is a climb to the everest.
We are routines and rituals
Motionless in wait of an apocalypse.
Everyday we clamour for survival
Fighting, clawing to make a path.
We can’t outwit the universe.
There’s a plan for us all.
We are evil, we are good
We are people, trying to live everyday!
See these palms?
They were best made for work,
Firmly, we rooted our feet in loam.
Watching our shadows grow only to die every night
and back to life by day.
Our problems recycle themselves.
Making our thoughts obesse
As it feeds on them.
Living is life’s best cure,
Death makes us vulnerably strong.
Welcoming violence with open arms,
we made jest of our pains.
We’re too right to go wrong,
Yes there were and would be happy moments.
We’ll live beyond normal people.
On one corner of the street,
The akara women sells
And close to the cobbler’s stall,
Is a fleet of motorbikes.
Amidst loud horns and shouts,
Of bus conductors and taxi driver’s,
Seeking for passengers,
Amidst the chaos and doubtful minds.
Street boys on both sides of the road,
Looking for whose bags to carry.
Market women clinging tight to their purses,
And gazing keenly on their wares.
A banker all suited and tied up.
A lawyer in her gown and wig.
I See them,
I feel them,
I breathe them.
The massage of cinnamon
The Ashes of death.
The cedars of Lebanon
The salt of the earth
Servants and slaves
In open and in enclaves
Soldiers and war
Criminals and law
Mothers and babies
Daughters becoming ladies.
Sons and fathers
Crops and farmers
The heads and the tails
The checks in the mails
Love and depression
Gains and recession
Highways and streets
Sharks and forgotten corners
Envoys and fleets
Celebrants and deranged mourners.
The boy and the girl
The gel and the curl
Language and the tongue
The boulevard song
The Place to be wrong and belong
Is in misnomer of humans.