By Sunday Eyitayo Michael

His name was- I needn’t tell you
Cos you won’t know him even if I did
I don’t know it either
He was not like Gates, Jackson or Mandela
He was nameless, a nobody.
I watched his wretched wife weeping and cursing
Like that was all she lived to do
Actually, she ought to
As if widowing her wasn’t enough trouble
He left her a horrible debt-will.
He wanted a greener pasture, America
Sold all he had, dignity inclusive
And borrowed the rest for his trip
Death didn’t consider all of his life’s suffering
And took him by his first plane experience.
At least the papers would have acknowledged him too
But that was if they knew his name
The headline read:
‘Bugalolo, Amb. Thresca and fifty others…’
He was among ‘others’
He died nameless, a nobody

Sunday is a writer from Nigeria. Visit his profile.