Thank you for the land in which I was born,
I praise you for the culture I live for,
The boli I buy from an old mama on the street side,
The recharge card that I know will be everywhere I go,
The groundnut that I only buy from trusted vendors,
The gala can always be rely upon when hunger sets in,
The largeness of the land but the closeness of the people.
If only the outsiders knew your value—the insiders too.
Though the frequent power cuts do frustrate,
It’s only love for you that I can demonstrate.
Although the okadas swerve into tight positions
And cause intolerable, unnecessary traffic,
It only lasts for a moment. I cannot stay mad at you.
What many people forget
Is how you brought them up in their childhood,
How you carried many beautiful memories,
How you protected them when danger loomed
For they are here now to tell the tale
Of how a car almost hit them,
The experiences of driving to the movie theater
On a weekend with a group of friends,
Or the marveling of the city’s scenery
At a sunset where the clouds and sun
Form a watercolor painting
And the tall trees add a firm contrast
To complete the masterpiece.
You’re on a rise; you’re flying,
But we just don’t see; our eyes are clogged
And our negative outlook as blocked
Your progress from our notice
And we fail to give you your deserved acknowledgements.
We’ll realize once again what a beauty you are
When driving down the road with the window
Rolled down, head stuck out, marveling once again
At the glorious masterpiece.