Echoes of the street

The street has a language, rough, broken, yet true. It speaks in the cry of a hawker “Pure water! Gala!” It sings in the horns of danfo buses, in the conductor’s call: “Ojuelegba! Ikeja straight!” The street does not sleep, it only changes shifts. From the shoeless child chasing coins, to the tired mother balancing trays, to the young man rapping his hunger into rhymes by the roadside. Every corner has a story, every wall, a witness. Dreams scatter like sachets in the gutter, yet hope still hustles, breathing in the dust of tomorrow. The echoes of the street they are loud, they are restless, they are unkind, yet they are alive. They remind us: that survival is an anthem here, that resilience wears no crown but carries scars, that the street is both teacher and thief giving wisdom, taking innocence. And when night falls, the street still whispers: “Tomorrow, come again. We will still be here. We are the echoes that never die.”