My name is Olulu, and I’m not a King from Zulu
I’m from Lagos, Nigeria and my poem is titled “HOME SWEET HOME.”
Home sweet home
These words have special meaning
As it relates to an event in my memory.
I remember the day I close early from work and left with the staff bus.
My phone battery was low, so the phone went off.
The bus a.c. was on and in full circulation.
I felt as ease and adjusted to a sleeping position.
Some 15 minutes later,
I felt rumbling and movement in my belly,
The kind of movement that means things will get messy.
It was the sensation of having dysentery,
And need to get to the toilet immediately.
Despite the a.c. in the bus, sweat poured from my face.
I knew I had to get home without delay.
The office was now far behind,
Home was not yet in sight.
We were on a bridge and in traffic,
There was no option of getting down and taking a taxi.
“You are sweating, are you alright?” My colleague asked me.
My mouth opened and closed, but no words came from me.
From my behind came silent, smelly gas,
And even I had to hold my nose along with my colleague in the bus.
Suddenly the traffic reduced and the bus went faster,
I got more uncomfortable as home got closer.
As we got to my street, I started to run home,
The faster I ran,
The more I felt I was going to lay an egg in the middle of the road.
I unlocked and slammed the door as I got home.
With the trousers now at my ankle,
I ran towards the bathroom.
“Olulu, is that you?” My wife called out.
But no words came from my mouth.
I slammed the bathroom door and sat on the toilet seat.
I felt relieved as I dropped some heavy smelly stuff in the w.c.
“Damn, Olulu, what did you eat in the office?” screamed my wife,
as the “aroma” hit her on the opposite side of the door.
I smiled and I said, “home sweet home,”