Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

Life threw a party.
Not the loud kind, no.
Threadbare rugs and pepper soup.
Neighbors passing chairs over fences.
Someone singing highlife softly in the back.

You arrived on time.
Of course you did.
Pressed your dress.
Powdered your hope.
Wore those earrings shaped like half-moons.

But the guests that mattered?
They weren’t early.

Love sent a message: “On my way.”
Then another: “Hold on, I’m close.”

But the jollof was burning,
and your smile was sweating through its steam.

Healing strolled in after midnight, tipsy.
No apology. No shame.
Just hugged you like it never left.

Salary came when the music died,
when generators had run out of fuel.
It stuffed cash into your tired hands,
too little, too late.

Justice?
It forgot the address.

You kept checking the door.
Kept practicing your small talk,
your “Ah, you finally came.”

Apologies slipped in,
dragging shame.
You’d already forgiven,
because you had to.

Growth,
quiet and crooked,
arrives when you’re not watching,
when you think you’re stuck,
only to find petals in your footprints.

But when Joy entered,
unexpected, uninvited,
she brought fried plantain,
and danced with you barefoot
on the same rug you almost cried into.

And for once,
just once,
you were glad
you hadn’t left early.