The Lines We Laid in Owerri
by Gerrard Wilson
I worked in Owerri, back in the day,
Where red dust danced in the heat of the clay,
And the palms would sway in a lazy trance,
While we gave the wires their chance to dance.
With spanners and schematics in greasy hands,
We dreamt of dial tones crossing lands.
Through humming cabinets, cables tight,
We built a world from voice and light.
The market buzzed with morning cheer,
Plantains sizzled, and goats drew near.
Children waved as we passed each street,
And shouted “Oyibo!” with stomping feet.
The exchange room echoed like a cave,
A hum, a beep, a tone so brave.
We tuned and tested, firm yet kind,
Chasing ghosts down copper line.
At night we drank by lantern light,
Tales of home and signal might.
Mosquitoes hummed a backing beat,
As frogs declared the rain’s repeat.
We patched the world with loops and wire,
Laced every call with quiet fire.
No fame, no fanfare, yet still we knew,
That something grand was breaking through.
Owerri’s air, so warm, so wide—
Still hums inside me, deep with pride.
A voice, once silent, spoke so clear—
Because we passed the signal near.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 