Poem: A Toast to the President

By Majekodunmi Oseriemen Ebhohon

I raise a bottle of cold Coca-Cola
to the picture of the president on the wall,
the one where he wears a white cap
and smiles beside the green flag.

He has done so much for the kitchen.
Now the cylinder stays light and empty.
It sits in the corner like a drum,
saving us the trouble of lighting the burner.

We pluck an unripe pawpaw from
the tree.
The president says the green ones have
more vitamins.

My uncle received his alert on Friday.
He took the notes to the market
and returned with one tuber of yam
and two cubes of seasoning.
Now his wallet is thin and light.
It fits perfectly into his breast pocket
without ruining the shape of his senator.

On the street, the filling station has a lock
and an iron chain across the gate.
The yellow buses stand in a long line,
their tires relaxing on the hot asphalt,
while the drivers sit under the mango tree
playing draughts and drinking pure water.
This is good for the environment.

My sister came home from the university.
She packed her books into a cardboard box.
The school fees now match the price of a tokunbo.
This saves her from the stress of night reading.
Now she stays at home all day,
polishing her toenails on the rug
and helping our mother to sift stones from the beans.

My cousin called from UCH.
He said the doctor packed his stethoscope into a bag
and boarded an airplane to Heathrow.
Now the hospital beds are free of people.
The nurses do not have to wash the bedsheets.
The noisy corridors have become a church on Monday.

Yesterday, three gentle men walked into the village square.
They carried rusted akwa.
They relocated my neighbour’s fowl and his motorcycle.
They even helped with the melon
and cooking pots from his veranda.
Now my neighbour does not have to worry
about night visitors.
His yard is clean. There is nothing left to lock.

When the sun goes down, the bulb does not go up.
We save money on electricity tokens.
We sit on the balcony,
holding our Chinese torches,
listening to the crickets in the grass.

I look at the president’s picture again.
He has cleared the roads of cars.
He has cleared the cupboards of food.
He has cleared the hospitals of doctors.
He has cleared the lecture halls of students.

Tomorrow, I will buy a new battery for my flashlight,
and I will wave at his convoy
when it drives past the potholes on the expressway.