Tobi came back with dawn in his bag,  

A duffel and dreams, a coat with a sag.  

Richard Street met him not with cheer,  

But footsteps and voices drawing near.

By six, the street became a song,  

Children rushing, thin but strong.  

Uniforms flew like morning flags,  

Mothers tugged at sleeves and bags.

A woman passed with palms in prayer,  

Rosary clenched in thinning air.  

The priest waved from the chapel door,  

Dust and devotion swept the floor.

A child ran by with laces loose,  

His laughter soared, wild and profuse.  

Tobi grinned at the boiling scent  

Of akara where his youth was spent.

By noon, the street had lost its sound,  

Tobi walked slow, unbound.  

Houses slouched beneath the sun,  

Where silence lay and kids had run.

The barber’s sign still hung and swayed,  

A dog barked from its usual shade.  

A door creaked open, then closed again—  

Nothing changed, yet all felt strange.

He thought of races he once led,  

Of barefoot days and dreams he shed.  

The breeze now felt like turning pages,  

Old, unread, and marked by ages.

 As dusk came soon

Kids danced beneath a mango moon.  

He met Jide near the mango tree,  

Both older now, but laughing free.

“Na here you go stay?” Jide asked slow.  

Tobi just shrugged, “I don’t know.”  

But his eyes watched fireflies spark,  

And mothers tugging kids from dark.

By eight, the hush returned like grace,  

As if the street had closed its face.  

Tobi sat, a stick aglow,  

Letting Richard Street softly flow.