In Lagos, where the sun beats down
And the streets are paved with dreams,
People hustle day and night,
Working hard, or so it seems.

From the mainland to the island,
The city's pulse beats strong,
With the sounds of honking horns,
And the vendors' sing-song.

The danfo buses weave their way,
Through the traffic's endless tide,
As the conductors shout out fares,
And passengers squeeze inside.

Hawkers sell their wares on streets,
From phone chargers to gala snacks,
While the beggars sit with outstretched hands,
Hoping for some kind soul's acts.

The marketplaces are alive,
With the smell of food and spices,
And the traders shout their prices,
Haggling for good bargains and slices.

In Lagos, the hustle never stops,
And the people keep on striving,
Through the challenges and setbacks,
Towards the dreams they're driving.

For the city that never sleeps,
Is a land of endless hope,
Where the Lagos hustle never fades,
And the determined always cope.

© Mobo's Diary