Before the sun has made its case,
the city is already late:
the conductor's hoarse voice bargains with grace,
"Yaba, Yaba, enter, no wait!"
and I, with my handout and half a loaf,
squeeze in between a trader and an oath.
The bridge is a long grey sentence
punctuated by brake lights, red;
a hawker sells bread with patience,
another sells news, already read.
The lagoon below wears early gold,
the only thing here not bought or sold.
I read my notes against the window,
the bus bounces, the letters swim;
a woman beside me, slow, slow,
is mouthing the words of a morning hymn.
We do not speak. We share the space,
two people running the same race.
This city teaches without a class:
how to keep moving when the road is blocked,
how to laugh when the hours pass,
how to find a door when one is locked.
By 7:40 I reach the gate,
tired, crumpled, early, not late.
And in the lecture hall's first row
I open the handout, smooth the page.
Lagos has taught me all I know
about patience, and about rage,
and how to carry, through the din,
a quiet place to study in.