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THE LOST SOUL || Bolanle De Bowalé

And there he is,

The lost soul;

He is there again,

Wandering the streets,

Like a spooker on patrol.

He has left his family

Fell in love with the streets

His lighter, his comforter

He hasn't much to worry about

Except for the cigars he's been puffing.

Ọmọ Àdánù as he's usually called

His eyes are raging red

And smoke escaping from his mouth

And his nostrils

And one could describe him as Ṣàngó.

No worries about the future

His business is his 'Igbeaux'

He pays no bills; no rent

As everywhere is his haunt,

Like an Ọmọ onílẹ̀.

He leads a pathetic life.

He isn't at fault,

Nothing worked for him,

He's a first-class graduate,

Studied elect-elect in Unilag

But the Government had failed him.

He lost his job

Billing did not cease

Felt like he let his family down

Fell into depression

Sought refuge in drugs

He got addicted,

He got trapped

In the snare of life

He is the lost soul

He couldn't find himself any longer

The system has failed him.

The Government has failed.


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