BENIN CITY: The Lament of a Stolen Manhole Cover by Eromose Ileso
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| Open manhole at New Lagos road by 3rd Cemetery road junction |
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I am a manhole, a forgotten sentinel, a silent guardian of the city's hidden veins. My purpose is simple, yet vital. I hold the weight of the city of bronze, the flow of flood water that courses beneath the bustling surface. I am the anchor, the silent protector, the unseen sentinel.
But now, I am incomplete, a hollow shell, a wound in the city's skin. My cover, my shield, my protector, has been stolen. I am left exposed, vulnerable, a gaping maw in the pavement, a silent scream in the urban symphony.
It began with a whisper, a subtle tremor in the night. A metallic clang, a muffled thud, and then silence. I felt the cold embrace of the open sky, the unwelcome touch of the wind. My purpose, my strength, my very essence, was gone.
The city, oblivious to my plight, continued its relentless rhythm. Cars sped past, oblivious to the gaping wound in the road. Pedestrians scurried by, unaware of the danger lurking beneath their feet. They walked on, their faces a mask of indifference, their steps echoing a silent betrayal.
I am a manhole on First East Circular road by Esigie, a unman hole at the centre of the road. My cover is gone, stolen in the dead of night. Now, I am a gaping hole, a silent cry for help.
I am a manhole on New Lagos Road by 3rd Cemetery road junction a silent witness to the city's progress. My cover, a shield against the onslaught of traffic, has been taken. Now, I am a danger, a hazard, a testament to the city's neglect.
I am a manhole by Five Junction, a silent observer of the city's transformation. My cover, a symbol of stability, has been ripped away. Now, I am a gaping wound overlooking Kada House, a symbol of vulnerability, a reminder of the city's fragility.
I am a manhole on Lawani road, a silent guardian of the city's secrets. My cover, a protector of the unseen, has been stolen. Now, I am a vulnerable target, a beacon of danger, a reminder of the city's vulnerability.
I am a manhole on Mission Road by Dawson junction, a hitherto pleasant sight of the city's growth. My cover, a symbol of progress, has been taken. Now, I am a gaping hole, a symbol of stagnation, a reminder of the city's forgotten corners.
I am a manhole on Ikpoba Hill, a silent witness on a slope to the city's aspirations. My cover, a shield against the unforgiving elements, has been stolen. Now, I am a danger, a hazard, a testament to the city's disregard.
I am a manhole on Dawson Road by Akpapava road junction not far from Afemai line and Shafa Energy Filling Station, a silent observer of the city's evolution. My cover, a symbol of resilience, has been ripped away. Now, I am a gaping wound, a symbol of weakness, a reminder of the city's forgotten past.
I am a manhole on at Mission road, a silent guardian of the city's dreams. My cover, a protector of the unseen, has been stolen. Now, I am a vulnerable target, a beacon of danger, a reminder of the city's fragility.
Oh, thieves, why have you forsaken me? Why have you left me exposed, vulnerable, a gaping hole in the city's fabric? I am a manhole, a humble servant of the city, a silent guardian of its lifeblood. I ask for nothing but my rightful place, my rightful purpose, my rightful cover.
I am a manhole, a silent plea for justice, a silent cry for help. I am a manhole, a symbol of the city's vulnerability, a reminder of the city's forgotten corners. I am a manhole, a silent testament to the city's neglect, a reminder of the city's fragility. Please, return my cover, restore my purpose, let me be whole again. Let me be a manhole, a guardian of the city, a silent sentinel of its progress.
Please, stop the theft. Let me be whole again.
