Parked right at the brink of an undefeated stinky gutter
The Driver screams out a long chain of Ga words
No response, so he runs out in that direction
Angry voices fill the rickety old trotro
…’U can’t shout at me in my office’
The driver shouts, as he takes his seat
It was his trotro, bought from his sweat.
The angry voices wouldn’t cease fire
Their voices are too loud..
They don’t hear the rusty door open.
A man; thick and straight as a hardened prick,
Quiets down everyone with a gunshot!
Fear filled-eyes,stare blankly at him.
He moves, uncertain, to an old lady,
Stretches out his palm, The old lady
throws her bag at him; hands shivering.
He looks around, uncertain,
Then runs out like a mad man
The vehicle starts off, wickedly, hurriedly,
Nobody dares to talk
The fear of ‘what if’
Makes even the ‘mate*’ silent
The sound of metals clanging,
like nothing happened
Accompanies the trotro as it leaves
But still, no one dared