39. Kwara
Morning in Kwara always finds me before I am ready.
The sun peeks through my curtain like a nosy neighbour,
the kind that knows when you’re awake before you do.
The roosters in my compound have no respect for sleep;
they crow like prophets with urgent news,
and the smell of burning firewood drifts in
from Mama Titi’s kitchen next door.
She’s already pounding yam for breakfast,
her pestle rising and falling like an agitated chest.
This is my daily overture
a chorus of life and survival,
a rhythm that binds us all whether we want it to or not.
Sometimes I stand by the window and watch
as the morning smoke curls over zinc roofs,
rising like prayers too tired to reach the heavens.
There’s something beautiful in it
something that belongs only to people
who have known both hunger and laughter.
When I step out, the red dust greets me first,
clinging to my sandals,
marking me as part of this soil.
At Oja Oba, the market hums with life
women calling, children darting between stalls,
men haggling as if words alone could stretch their money.
The peppers glisten like rubies,
and the tomatoes, bruised yet proud,
remind me of us: flawed, but full of colour.
I stop at Mama Kudi’s stall for stew ingredients.
Her hands smell of pepper and soap,
her laughter is rough but real.
She tells me the cost of onions has risen again,
then shrugs with that quiet resignation
that has become the anthem of the poor.
Still, she jokes. Still, she sells.
Still, she calls me ‘fine girl’
and tells me to write her into my book one day.
So I do. Every day, in small ways.
But not every morning in Kwara tastes of joy.
Some days, the sky turns the colour of wet ash,
and the city feels heavier than usual.
I dread those days
when the generator refuses to start,
when the tap runs dry for the third day in a row,
and the radio hums with promises
from politicians who have never walked our streets.
I dread the faces at the junction
young men with eyes too old for their years,
their dreams shrinking like cloth left too long in the rain.
There is a silence in their laughter,
a kind that only poverty can teach.
Yet even in those moments, Kwara refuses to die.
It glows quietly
in the orange sunset over Asa Dam,
in the evening call to prayer from Oloje,
in the harmonies of church choirs
that rise like incense from Sango to Taiwo.
There’s beauty here,
but it hides inside the cracks of things
in the way children kick plastic balls down muddy streets,
in the scent of roasted corn
that softens even the hardest day,
in the music of Yoruba, Hausa, and Fulani tongues
dancing together in the market air.
I love those evenings the most.
When the sun dips behind the palm trees
and Ilorin begins to glow like a secret,
I sit outside with my notebook,
listening to the city’s pulse.
From afar, a talking drum answers the muezzin,
and laughter spills from a buka down the road.
Men gather by kerosene lamps
to debate the world in pidgin wisdom
they call it ‘gist’, but it’s philosophy,
and I write their words down
like treasures too precious to forget.
Sometimes I walk to Tanke,
where students fill the night with noise and dreaming.
Their voices are wild with hope,
their futures unwritten,
and I envy their innocence.
They believe the world is still listening;
like I once did.
Still, I find myself hoping with them
hoping for a Kwara where streetlights work,
where hospitals heal,
where getting ahead doesn’t depend on luck or connections.
But hope here is complicated.
It comes wrapped in hardship,
and sometimes it feels like holding smoke
beautiful, but impossible to keep.
Still, I wake each morning and choose it again,
because what else is there?
Even the poorest farmer in Malete
plants with faith that rain will come.
I dream of the days I haven’t yet lived
when the roads will be kind to our cars,
when Mama Kudi will no longer measure peppers with worry,
when children will drink from taps, not wells,
and when art will not be a luxury.
I dream of standing on the bridge at night,
watching lights dance on the water below,
and knowing that my home has finally arrived
at the future we’ve been promised.
Until then, I keep walking.
Through dust and prayer,
through noise and laughter,
through poverty that humbles and beauty that redeems.
Kwara is not perfect,
but it is honest.
It shows you its scars and still dares you to love it.
And I do. Every day.
I love the people who smile through struggle,
the streets that remember my footprints,
the sky that forgives my complaints,
and the grace that hides behind every hardship.
Kwara is the place that teaches me to wait
for rain, for change, for miracles.
And even when the waiting hurts,
it’s also where I learn
that survival itself can be a kind of poetry.
So I write,
not to escape,
but to remember:
that beneath the cracked walls and tired dreams,
this place still beats with life
fierce, fragile, and unforgettable.
And in every dawn,
in every dusty, golden dawn,
Kwara whispers again:
“Live. Hope. Write.”
Solape Adetutu Adeyemi is an award-winning writer with a bachelor's degree in microbiology and a master's in environmental management. Her works have been published in over fifty esteemed journals, anthologies, and magazines, including the New York Times, the London Grip, the Guardian, the Kalahari Review, and the Indiana Review.
With close to two decades of experience, Solape has excelled in various roles within the Fast-Moving Consumer Goods industry. Her commitment to environmental causes aligns with her belief that everyone can help save our planet. She is a member of the American Society of Microbiologists (ASM), the Lagos chapter of the Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA), Poets in Nigeria (PIN), and currently serves as the Vice Chairman of the Association of Nigerian Authors in Lagos, where she continues to contribute to the literary and cultural landscape of her community. Her dedication to both her professional career and advocacy for environmental sustainability demonstrates her multifaceted talents and commitment to making a positive impact in the world.
Beyond her professional life, Solape enjoys watching action movies and immersing herself in whale documentaries. She is a host, presenter, teacher, counsellor, voice-over artist, script writer, poet, and subtitle writer. Her diverse interests reflect her curiosity about the world and her commitment to learning.
You can reach her at solapeadeyemi1@gmail.com and 08033487417. Facebook, Linkedln, Blog.