Little Miss Taylor

what happens to you and all the beads in your hands

when you are forced into a packed bus of similar bands -

sweat and strife, a cesspool of bliss,

face our bumpy road and shaken - ka ra ka ka

they are on the floor, of the bus, with a hole that mill the tarmac

as they alight before you, you are lost.

if you are lucky, you might find yourself safely lodged

in a cubicle to marshal out with legs on a lever, 
twenty four seven, three sixty six; gown dreams
the other is a contact, in Badagry to a madam in Denmark , 
so godly you are at a treadle machine to pedal

for there are million like you and a million more eager to join in -

net dreams, In one dark corner sweating for a wage

little miss Taylor burnout, of and inside a strife

In the land of only milk and honey where poverty is rife,

with thread and needles you jab away your future and see

no potential in everything you could have live for.

when you spread tired legs to ease them, 
who comes staring in between them 
mister repressed son looking for ease like you

and if he convinces you, a child or two, just to give your box tune

little miss Taylor be yourself. today life will always be
don't herd, look for other things, for they exist, since

no one will remember your name, all these talk about success will be 
over- for you are not created to step on a lever and be heavy 
great-grandmother whatever kind of life she lead, 
I am sure she didn't sit down in a shop pulling thread..

All my beads are gone, and I'm left with lines and needles

for there is a decay going on, and I should do better
for the pains i feel now, will be nothing compared to then
and as for dreams we can remember them differently with every waking day

so I will smile for a moment with my little bag of nothing 
for when life comes full circle and your playing hands are gun 
we all becomes the greedy beautiful marginalized, and play tirelessly son.
as we fear having no one to hold your insult or bless your sneeze

societal shame, a burqa and sex stigma - sun  poor little joy

cat called on the street and chase inside like a diseased dog, 
taught shame with no reason at all, my microcosm -

broken patches of paint of my left hand finger, with child like curiosity on a feeble mind 
trying to, but on the wrong side at all time, Daddy's little princess

suddenly fifty with nothing, not even those heavy little things not even a voice 
at fifty everything feels like a jab into the soul, eventually as I revolt 
I turn into an old bitch that get my orgasm from strangers greeting 
from a bitch to a witch, not even my choice, or  my wish.
for now, to prove a worth is to shake glutues in a tight skirt

is this the lives that you dream, is this kind of dreams that come from pedaling

what will happen to me when we all finally find acceptance 
and no one cares for your service
what will happen to my carefully unplanned dream?

by 
Victor Samuel

Dedicate to the recent over saturation of young girls (mostly young school leavers) who are all trying to marshal out a dream from Tailoring as the rate of unemployment skyrockets in Nigeria, Asking What will happen to them when diminishing returns?