The Hostel Pt 2 Poem by Jude Uchella

I. The Occupants.
My days here have become
weeks
stuck in this tidy sewer that
stinks
My pupils have gazed,
slouched and mourned
at the folly les etudiants
have adorned
The ambience is fraught
with untold jabbering
amidst periodic shouts and
inane chanting
Aloof they stand in heated
argument
with no remorse for time
spent.
To exalt decrepit skull they
inhale
smoke, behind locked doors
to impede trail
casualties clasp nostrils
and gasp for air
and miscreants bask in the
aura that brings death
near.
En masse they grace the
ground and crouch
when a flirty die escpes
from a pouch
In turns they throw money
away
like stones thrown into a
bay
At eventide they stand by
window
in search of prey to
hauteur
drumming hurtful words to
passing nymphs
cladded with glowing beams.
II. 'Wash' Women.
Wrangling women with
wrapper
squander precious space
and water
epitomes of endless tittle-
tattle
offend ears as they garner
and babble.
At dawn when we wake with
dreamy eyes
the scary shout of 'any
wash' arise
It prickles the heart of my
soul
when they gather as a
noisy whole.
Gently they usurp myriad of
lines
claiming ownership with
invisible papers and rights
Blessed by the silent voices
of opposition
they append signature of
ownership with conviction.
Blessed are they that
patronize them not
for dirtiness characterize
this lot
More blessed are they that
hang garments on lines
their names will be in
tandem with great minds.
III. The Salesman.
Here we patronize a slothful
pastor
like a snail disseminates his
sermon
His modus operandi
nauseates my flirtatious
being
and it scouts for a place
with pace and grin.
When I moved in, oblivious
of this flagrant display
I would stand a decade and
fast and pray
waiting on 'His Highness'
respond to order
the first becomes last and
lasts longer.
From time to time the
offering increases
manipulating the amount as
he pleases
Boys still queue to receive
blessings
amidst usual struggle and
wrestling.
IV. Their Incompetence.
They sit with crossed legs
on table
arms akimbo, indifferent,
disable.
All day, eyes on television
the potters to me are
fiction.
The oval office sits widely
unkempt
fraught with high-class
gadgets of contempt
Home of bribery and
corruption
abuse to their calling and
mission.
Wounded taps beckon for
attention
sparsely furnished rooms
cry for affection
but ears are glued with
wanton wax
and eyes blurred with
plenteous pranks.
In due season they garner
for pay packets
honourable thieves in white
adorned with rackets
If the 'olori okos' in this
tenement of dirt
act this way, what do we
expect?
V. Security Officers
They can't curb a ball of
fire
harmless but armed to the
teeth
after lambasting with verbal
assault
they treat me like a
prominent adult.
Right under nostrils 'goose'
troup in and out
staring law in the face and
flout
so long as silver in thirty
pieces
carress palms of atrocities..