​(In memory of a son of Onyeche (Pa. Pius Onyeche)

​Life and death has its own budget

We are all born into the market,

To trade, wait for tenures and turns

In queues of sadness, joy and fun

When our trade is done, we return…. 

In mats, caskets, I bet we forget

Every bit of heart beat we got.

When our trade is done, we return

To account for the windowshops

And the number of sown sleeves

Not as Adam and Eve to the leaves

But as impact to that we believe

When the trade is done, we return

Leaving behind the dry and burnt leaves.

Upon the sands where the body sleeps,

Motionless beside the deepest of life hole.
When the trade is done, we return

To answer questions irrespective of race

Like… Pa., what did you purchase?

Did your heart pick only the black paints?
O gentle heart, that…you’ve traded,

Shall guarantee the fate of your soul.

When the trade is done, we return

To beyond, where spirits scare the kids 

Restocked into the market as improvise

For every souls that departs…

…… Day and night….

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