MY SEPTEMBER BLUES

My sweet mother, every morning, bright and early,

At an altar her children and wards led in prayer,

After which, behind every ear scrubbed clean.

Dressed and fed, each, a happy song singing,

On the way to school wended, as happy as a lark.

As busy as a bee till sun-down, Mom by a smart few

Trusted was only intricate trinket cast in gold to stock

At her lucrative Tom Jones shopping centre end,

Where she, fabric also, to a select clientele, sold.

Of her memorable days, enough cannot be said

But Saturday Derby stood out as an exception

In more ways than one, when she, on horses

Bets placed, raking in a fortune on a good day.

Mother’s story incomplete ever would be, if untold

Remains that street-wise lady’s unparalleled knack

For staking good money on a thank-God-its-Friday

Night pools betting featuring EPL teams as pawns.

But all too soon, one year to be exact, after she,

A rare gem, her eldest child off to university sent,

Recall if I may, ill, alas, fell and to hospital taken was.

With no light at the end of the tunnel in Sixty-Three,

Until her September Eleven death my blues became,

Ebeke’s cheerful countenance not once wore a frown;

Although, then, sad days had grown into sad weeks.

Lagos

Jan. 15, 2013