I can feel your sharp-edged claws around my warm soul. I can feel you drenching the life out of it. I can feel you draining the essence that creates its aura. You loom behind me, like a shadow attached to the heals of my sole. As miserable as you are, as miserable as I am, as miserable as we are. Still, you cling onto to my past, dominate my present, and taint my future. Like a bride on her wedding day, you wear me like a veil, consume me like a cocktail dress, define me as these low heels. My dear poverty, how you love me so.
I saw mama pima today, the small lady at the corner of the street. I noticed your brother stays there too, crutching ever so close to her tiny frame. He seems to be doing a better job than you, coz I swear I could count her fragile ribs. The smell in the air burns, a signature scent you have created. You entice my stomach, which melodiously signifies your constant presence. I walk you off, shrug you down, pray you out, but like a menace, you glue even tighter. My dear poverty, how you love me so.
Today I saw the news, the story still remains the same. You have a greater acknowledgement, you own a whole continent, or isn’t that what they say. Woe to my mother land Africa, a continent of developed apes and stench filled poverty. Defined by black and white pictures of pot belly, fly’s magnet, dust covered children, and old frail men, light as duck’s features. Oh! how I tremble by your very thought. My dear poverty, how you hate me so.