The Baobab Doesn’t Punch a Clock
By five, the kettle is already singing.
Mama has tied her wrapper,
lifted yesterday’s basket,
and started walking before the sky
has decided what colour it wants to be.
The bus arrives full.
Someone still squeezes in.
The conductor shouts.
Nobody answers.
Everyone is saving their voice
for the job.
A man spends twelve hours
digging out stones that will cross oceans.
His wife spends twelve more
selling oranges beside a road
where everyone promises to stop tomorrow.
The radio keeps saying
the economy is growing.
Growing where?
Not in the landlord’s mood.
Not in the price of rice.
Not in the school shoes
that suddenly don’t fit the children anymore.
An old mechanic wipes grease
onto the same rag he’s owned for years.
“You work hard,” someone tells him.
He laughs.
“As if I have another hobby.”
The baobab at the village square
has watched all this for centuries.
Nobody has ever asked
whether it’s tired.
****
Overtime Season
The office lights come on
before the sun bothers.
Someone microwaves noodles
for breakfast.
Someone else slept
under the desk again.
Nobody mentions it.
The elevator is packed with people
holding coffee like it’s medicine.
Meeting.
Meeting after the meeting.
Another meeting
to explain why the first meeting
changed nothing.
Outside,
the old woman selling dumplings
already knows every regular customer.
She asks,
“Working late again?”
Nobody says no.
Cherry blossoms drift past the window
like they have nowhere important to be.
Lucky things.
The boss says,
“We’re a family here.”
Funny.
Real families
usually let you go home.
****
Night Shift, Antarctica Power Station
Nothing dramatic happens here.
That’s the whole point.
If the lights stay on,
nobody claps.
If the heaters keep working,
nobody writes headlines.
Pete checks the gauges.
Again.
Coffee.
Again.
Outside,
the wind has only one conversation,
and it’s been having it
for thousands of years.
A penguin wanders past.
Looks in.
Leaves.
Probably disappointed.
The radio crackles.
Someone’s kid back home
has lost another tooth.
He smiles,
then goes back to tightening bolts.
Ice doesn’t care
if you’ve had a bad day.
Machines don’t either.
Still,
there’s something decent
about keeping a place alive
where almost nothing else can.
Not every job
needs applause.
Some just need doing.
****
Poems (c) Solape Adetutu Adeyemi
Image: u_fg0tkeqgiy Pixabay remixed