Echoes of Hardship

It’s the sigh of a mother on sighting
The depleting bag of garri.
It’s the vain attempt to stretch the last tuber of yam
For fictitious months in a household of six,
when in truth, we know that it only has two days service left in it.
It’s the reason mother sends the prettiest of her girls to the shy meat man
For yet another credit purchase.
The reason she turns partially blind and deaf when the second oldest comes home with strange money
In hand, and ambiguous tales on her tongue.
It’s the sound that distracts the hardworking but, strangely still, penniless Trader
From the insults showered by his razor-tongued wife.

It's the echo of hard times,
the sound outside our doors.
shut the doors and windows!
stuff the cracks in the walls!
by all means, keep the sound at 'bay!
cos like the sirens song,
all who hear it must fall under its spell
and slowly, the oil will dry
gradually the jingling of coins against each other
fades
and the market square empties out of not just buyers
but even the traders and their wares.

It’s the echo of hard times,
The sound outside our doors.