There are no roses here, 

But there are vegetables.

Here:

There are rich men with 

Egos bigger than their cars. 

There are poor men with 

Stubbornness hotter than 

their brutally patched 

Slippers. But one thing is 

Sure, no one escapes this 

Market without the odorous 

finger of pọ̀nmọ́-water 

slipping into their nostrils. 

At the back of a rickety 

cab, there’s a basket of 

fresh and rotten tomatoes. 

On a seat, there’s a basket 

of fermented cassava, ready 

to transition into fùfú. There’s 

a woman whose head-tie serves 

as a rope— one end tied to the 

neck of the driver’s seat and the 

other as a noose around a smelly 

Òbúkọ with a long beard. At 

the middle of the backseat, is 

an office clerk who holds his 

breath, silently praying to 

get to his destination before his 

anus receives the signal from 

his rumbling stomach. 

Here:

There are no educated or 

illiterate ones—

The market 

offers us the same love.

Káyọ̀dé Ayọ̀bámi is a Nigerian and an African literature enthusiast, interested in Academics and Yorùbá translation. His works have been published or forthcoming in echelon, icefloepress, Olongo, Àtẹ́lẹwọ́, PoetrySangoỌta, isele, Ake review, South Florida, and elsewhere. He was shortlisted for the Ake Climate Change poetry prize(2022).