Third World Country

He rustled through the documents perfunctorily 

Before he dragged out of the room with a gloommy face 

And then …. nothing

They left us to ourselves

Wait… wait…. wait

The clock ticked away

The silence in the room was thick

You could cut through it

The wait was frustrating 

And it brought back the old cruel memory of the past

There was about seven of us in the qausi conference room

We busied ourselves with our toys – laptops, phones, tablets, pen and paper

A tall good looking lady was fiddling her black long braids

Another young man looked so disinterested, he rested on his chin half-asleep

And there was a frustrated young mother doing all she could to keep her three-months old baby hush and calm. She danced to imaginary tunes, pacing to and fro the room

We pretended all was well, too civic to make a scene, disappointed but calm

No one said a word to another. No questions asked

Deep down the thoughts were the same, our fears were similar

When shall we be attended to ?

Will I make it out of here in time for my flight ?

What exactly is going on ?

Does anyone here really care about us ?

Why’s, when’s, what, …Mtcheeewwww

These questions are why I left motherland

Seven oceans and a million tribes away

I still face the same gloomy questions

No answers nor an answerer

Thirty two paged green coated armed cover piece of passport

Which holds my only tie to the Niger-area of West Africa

Was all it takes on a very cold morning in solitary Canberra 

To awake me up from my fantasy and remind me 

That afterall I’m still from a third world country

©Pensoul 2017


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