If I talk they say I am mad,
A mad man from a lineage of madder men
And that I have conjugated in matrimonial bliss with mad music,
But I still have my pants and cap in place.
They set up an alter,
Dance to no song
And sweep streets free from litters,
That too with brooms way over tiny.
Or stand in open podiums in a season of bittered rain and angered sun
With an umbrella of net clothing
And make my country and eyesore.
Yet you call me mad?
I am not only mad
I am sick too
From watching too many wanton shows of perversions.
You don’t wear your madness well!
©Obodokasi Adehtem Agbor
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.