The immigrant voice

Back home to here na long long way.
The picture of here from home is so different from the wilderness I de see night and day.
This na America with homeless for every corner
that I think I de a numberless world?
Where all the fine fine things in that picture:everybody dress kamkpe that I think
na angels, Hollywood Heaven they misspell?
Now I work standing so te for minimum wage, get dollars for one hand and give them out for the other.
I come back from work so dead I can't eat or sleep and before dawn I don get up to begin another slave day.
When I reply their letters from home saying here no be what they think they see for their minds, they no gree with me and call me lie-lie man: "You de already there and you no want us to come."
I know my people hate me for telling the truth.
Wetin they see geographers de call am mirage--America na big photo-trick to me.
If say big thief no boku for home and they no give man chance to live softly, America no be place to live for one whole day.
The streets de explode kpa-a kpa-a like Biafra,
dead body no de fear anybody; you no know whether the person saying "Hi!"want to shoot, rob, or rape you.
Neighbour no de, friend no de except them dog; you de for your own like craze-man de pursue dollar which no de stay for your hand--they say na capitalism, when dollar de circulate, circulate without rest.
When somebody don naked for you for daylight, nothing de the big boast of beauty for the cloth e take cover crawcraw and eczema.
No be as e be for the picture they don retouch--beggar, thief, poor poor, all dem de boku.
Sometimes I cry my eyes red for night in bed.
Wetin my eye don see for here pass pepper make me de prepare to go sweet home.
If God de, make e punish them wen drive me from Africa come hell.