Once upon a time, in the era of Tinubu,
When hunger wore agbada and danced in the streets,
There lived a man—let’s call him Ojo the Dreamer,
Whose belly was a drum that never ceased to beat.

Ojo, weary of garri and watery soup,
Decided one day to eat like the chiefs.
So, he strolled to “Chop Life Restaurant,”
Where food looked like art, and dreams were brief.

He stood at the counter, his chest puffed out,
“Bring me rice, salad, and the fattest fish!
Today, my tongue shall speak in royal accents,
No eba, no amala—just the elite dish!”

The waiter smiled like a village trickster,
And soon the plate arrived, glowing with pride.
The rice was so white it blinded his eyes,
The fish, so golden, it shimmered and shied.

The salad was a rainbow of promises,
With cabbage that curled like a maiden’s hair.
Ojo clapped his hands in pure delight,
As the aroma waltzed through the restaurant air.

He attacked the meal with a warrior’s zeal,
Fork stabbing, knife slashing, no mercy shown.
“Ah, see enjoyment!” he cried between bites,
“Tinubu may rule, but my belly is my throne!”

But alas! By the time the plate was clear,
Ojo’s joy began to disappear.
The rice had vanished, the fish had fled,
Yet his belly still echoed, “I’m not fed!”

He leaned back, clutching his stomach tight,
“Ayeee! Is this how the rich survive the night?
This fish, so fat, was it full of air?
This rice, so fine, did it just disappear?”

Ojo’s face turned dark, his voice grew loud,
“Where is the weight? Where is the pound?
This food is a scam, a colonial trick!
I should’ve known better than to eat this chic!”

He slapped his head and cursed his fate,
“Why did I leave the food of my plate?
Why did I betray eba, my faithful friend,
Whose weight in my belly knows no end?”

“Ah, eba! King of all meals!
Your stretch is long, your grip is steel.
You sit in the stomach like a tenant with rights,
And refuse to be evicted even through Justicia’s might!”

By now, the restaurant was in uproar,
As Ojo paced and cried like a village bard.
“This Tinubu has turned me to a clown,
Eating fish that swims away and rice that drowns!”

“Bring me mortar! Bring me pestle!” he wailed,
“I will pound yam here, since hope has failed.
This salad is green lies, the fish is a thief,
And rice is a ghost—my stomach’s in grief!”

He stormed out, shaking his fists at the sky,
“Let Tinubu know, we eat to survive!
This is not the time for meals of finesse,
But for fufu, pounded yam, and thickness!”

And so, Ojo returned to his humble hut,
Where garri sat waiting like an old friend.
He drank it with cold water, added groundnut,
And slept like a king till the day’s end.

And now, in the village, his story is told:
Of the man who chased fish but found only bones.
“Beware of rice and its salad disguise,
For in the time of Tinubu, quantity is wise!”