Professional HUSTLER!

Up early as the birds,

fetched some water

to take a shower,

queued in line for turn,

‘ooh, I’m getting late for work”, murmured quietly to no one.

Well, who cared?

All in a pair of the ‘size 30!’

Jumped into the tailored brown trouser,

a clean white shirt,

checked brown tie and,

brown suit to match

bathe in perfume and a clean shave too!

“mmshew..its 9am” hissed and grabbed the ‘chanel’ leather bag.

On the high way of Lagos,

‘motor’, cars, trucks, okada and ‘leggidis’ benz,

moving bumper to bumper,

there stood the man,

at the tail of  the road slab

“Excuse me, please”, he said

as a range rover sport car got to his point

with a good diction i must say,

“I was robbed on my way to work… I am actually stranded” he concluded.

With a sorry look on the face of the driver,

the good diction guy lightened up his face with a smile,

as he thrust his hand into his pocket and waved at the car!

Part 2 (My side of the show)

Blast of horn here and there,

worried and tired people everywhere,

hitching for a ride and of course waiting for me!

“Good evening, I was robbed on my way back… I am actually stranded” -

Those lines sounded familiar, i thought

and turned,

Lo! the good diction guy next to me,

A sorry look on the faces of the driver and passengers,

a bright smile on his face,

and a thrust in his pocket.

One, Two, Three…

Night fell on the earth,

and wrapped us with her,

thick, dark and cold blanket.

“Oga, how far now, Anything for the street boys?” I asked

“Anything for the street boys?” he repeated,

gave a disgust look

“Then be professional at what you do, I am an Hustler” he said

turned and whistled off.

Hands hidden in the bulky pockets,

suit swung over the shoulder,

tie hung around neck,

shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow,

head swinging left and right,

in tune with the rhythm of the whistling wind,

and in perfect union with the marching foot,

into the open arms of dark shadows

and cold smile of the full moon…

“Turn around Hustler, with your hands behind your head,

or you drink from your own blood !” a voice ordered

In the middle of the T- road,

flashes of the moon,

lightens the hustler’s spot.

His neck curved like the head of an hanger

hands wrapped behind as ordered,

cold steel right by his  left ear,

strange hands swimming into his pocket,

a wide smile on the face of the ‘street boy’.

“I guess it’s my turn to smile now”

his left hand busy with his bag,

and  thick strings of sweat dropping down the hustler’s face.

“You are a hustler”

but,

“I am the Professional Hustler!”

- Titilayo Adenuga