Lagos Honeymoon
I look around, savouring nature’s
fashion sense and colour riots.
Beautiful cityscape, even in its indices
of chaos inherent in suburbs like Ìsàlẹ̀ Èkó.
Best viewed from the windows
of vintage colonial storeys at the Marina,
or the shoreline of Takwa Bay,
or the sidewalks of Third Mainland Bridge,
or the penthouse of Oriental Hotel.
All these Lagos monuments adorn
the metropolis, just like the people
straddling the streets and commuting
the markets, looking for home
in their pockets. Just like you,
the icing on the cake of civilisation,
standing beside me, while the wind
at the height of this tower’s balcony
caresses your sun-kissed skin.
The best part for people like
me finding love in the corners
of the Island. Glasses of red wine—
a toast to new beginnings.
Whether this experience should be
a luxury or not is not for us to worry about.
It’s rather for us to enjoy as it comes,
like a rendezvous across Victoria Island
and Lekki at night on our first date,
like a voyage of hedonistic sailors
across Bar Beach. Like the Atlantic
stepping its aquatic foot into the city
of Lagos, I can’t wait for you
to step into my scented room of petals.
Requiem for a Neighbour’s Unannounced Departure
Absence leaves a sizeable hole in the soul
Because why do I brood over a neighbour,
Whom I hardly have a minute convo with?
Just good morning— pleasantries that could last a week.
But I could tell that I missed the aura
Of someone I wouldn’t admit to being drawn to.
The gut never lies— I used to wake up to the songs
Serenading through the wall demarcating our rooms—
The nostalgic R&B and trendy Afrobeats
From her speaker, seeping through my window
Before she left for the day’s hustle.
Talk about life in a tenement house
For the middle-class wading through Lagos life.
I guess the music is where the match is—
Something about people with common vibes
Something to reminisce, till another episode overlaps.
And I liked her scent when she headed out.
Just good evenings— pleasantries
That could last for the rest of the day.
But she never bade me goodnight when she left
But why do I indulge this forlorn?
This departure hooks a neighbour by the memory
Of what music does to people.
Tukur Ridwan (He/Him) writes from Lagos, Nigeria. Shortlisted in the Bridgitte James Poetry Competition (2025) and the Eriata Oribhabor Poetry Prize (2020), his works also appear in Kelp Journal, ArtisansQuill, Pensive Journal, The African Writers Magazine, Kalahari Review, Cordite Poetry Review, and elsewhere. He won the Brigitte Poirson Monthly Poetry Contest (March 2018), authored A Boy’s Tears on Earth’s Tongue (Authorpedia, 2019), and The Forgiveness Series (Ghost City Press, 2022). He loves black tea, sometimes coffee. Twitter/IG @Oreal2kur
Cover image credit: Flickr