Lagos, in Fragments

The city hums in a key only the returning know —

a note held too long, still ringing after the train has gone.

It vibrates in the soles of worn leather shoes,

in the damp heat rising off asphalt,

in the quiet neon that flickers red, then gray, then gone.

You step onto the platform, luggage heavy in hand,

carrying years that shrank into two zippers and a lock.

The billboards speak in a slang you used to own,

their bright faces faded by seasons you spent elsewhere,

learning the syntax of colder, quieter streets.

Here, the air is thick with old conversations —

the laughter of ghosts standing on the corner by the bakery,

the sharp whistle of a mother calling dusk back into her kitchen,

the rattle of iron shutters pulled down against the night.

Nothing has changed, yet everything is displaced.

The river still bends where the old bridge creaks,

but the water underneath is brand new, carrying away

the boy who left, leaving behind the stranger who stands here now.

You open your mouth to greet the city,

to match its low, resonant chord,

and find your voice fits softly back into the chorus —

not as a soloist,

but as a long-lost echo finally finding its home.

Reader’s Corner

• What sound or smell immediately signals "home" to you after time spent away?
• Share your reflections in the comments below or tag us on social media using #PennaclePoetry.