The Republic of the Compound
By Majekodunmi Ebhohon
I have begun to suspect
that the male Agama lizard
doing push-ups
on the cracked cement
of the courtyard wall
is not actually a reptile,
but a decorated Field Marshal
who has successfully
staged a coup
against the sun.
He nods his orange head
in violent agreement
with his own speeches,
occupying the warmest territory
of the unpainted stucco
while the smaller, grey females
scurry into the cracks
like an oppressed opposition party
fleeing into exile.
Then there is the matter
of the Generator,
a loud, smoking General
chained inside a metal cage
behind the kitchen.
It rules the night
with a deafening,
mechanical rhetoric,
choking the air
with fumes of heavy authority,
demanding a daily tribute
of expensive petrol
just to keep the lights
from blinking out
in a sudden, national blackout.
Inside,
the ceiling fan
wobbles on its rusted stem,
spinning with a slow,
dangerous uncertainty.
It is a hanging threat
to the peace process,
clicking rhythmically
like a bureaucrat
counting stolen votes,
distributing the cool air
only to the father’s
favorite armchair
while the rest of the parlor
sweats in the humidity
of the lower castes.
In the pantry,
the stack of ice cream containers
is a lesson
in state propaganda.
Not one of them
contains ice cream.
They are a cabinet of lies,
filled instead
with frozen Egusi soup
and bitter leaf,
a deception so deep
that even the children
have learnt
never to trust
the label on the lid.
On the veranda,
the raffia mat
lies rolled in the corner
like a disregarded constitution,
unfurled only
when the visitors arrive
from the village,
a temporary show of tradition
that is quickly swept away
the moment the guests
drive back to the city.
And finally,
there is the cooler of water,
sitting in the hallway
with its tap dripping
onto the linoleum.
It is a failing
infrastructure project,
promising hydration
but delivering only
a warm, plastic taste,
guarded by a communal
metal cup
that everyone must share,
passing the same germs
back and forth
in a circle of forced unity,
waiting for the day
the tanker arrives
to refill the drought,
provided, of course,
we have paid the driver
his settlement fee.
Majekodunmi O. Ebhohon is a Nigerian poet and playwright. He is the author of ‘The Great Delusion’, winner of the ANA Prize for Drama, 2025. He writes from Benin City, Edo State, Nigeria.🇳🇬
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