Predicament Poem by Haruna Garba

At the last quarter of the month
When salary aroma could be smelled
This aging worker took stock

It would take a week
For two diggers to sink a seven meter hole
And by the time they'd be through
He too would have been paid
And on this assumption he engaged them

Away that morning he went to work
Down too, the two had come to work
And by the time he returned home
Seven meter hole lied sunk
The diggers waiting for the pay

Damn it, said the old
Now we have this quandary in our laps:
Would you wait a week for my pay thing
Or choose to fill up the sweet hole?