Wahala In Paradise | Gilbert Sordebabari

Dem say
if money land,
wahala go pack go.
So we run
leg no touch ground
chase paper wey no get breath.

Now account don fat,
but sleep don slim.
Bed soft like cloud,
yet mind hard like stone.

Na so paradise start
dey leak.

Dem say
na love be the medicine
the final bus stop of loneliness.
So we open chest
like market stall,
display heart like tomatoes.

Person come,
carry everything,
even the basket join.

Now we dey hug shadow,
call am “forever.”

Love full ground,
but peace no gree stay.

Na so paradise start
dey itch.

Dem say
build house
make your name get address.
So we pile brick on brick,
stack pride reach heaven gate.

Gate tall pass humility,
fence strong pass friendship.

But inside
silence loud like siren.
Room plenty,
but laughter scarce.

Na so paradise start
dey echo.

Dem say
fame na light
e go make you visible.
So we burn our privacy
take shine for strangers.

Crowd clap,
camera smile,
name dey trend like harmattan fire.
But when night come,
darkness still sabi your name.

Everybody know you,
but nobody sabi you.

Na so paradise start
dey blind.

Dem say
power na control
say if you hold am,
life go obey you.

So we climb,
step on shoulders,
turn people to ladder.

At the top
air thin,
trust thinner.

You fit command crowd,
but you no fit command peace.

Na so paradise start
dey shake.

So tell me
which kain Eden be this
wey fruit dey sweet for mouth
but bitter for soul?

We pluck, we chew, we smile,
but something inside
dey always ask:

“Na this be all?”

Wahala no dey outside.
E dress like blessing,
enter like prayer,
sit down like answer.

Before you know
paradise don full
with quiet suffering.

Poet's note: This poem, Wahala In Paradise, is a sharp philosophical reflection on the illusion of fulfillment. It uses everyday desires money, love, fame, power, and material success as mirrors to expose a deeper human contradiction: the things we chase most passionately often fail to satisfy us when we finally attain them. Through paradox and irony, the poem dismantles the popular belief that external achievements bring internal peace. Wealth brings comfort but steals rest; love promises completeness but leaves emotional emptiness; fame gives recognition but erases true identity; power offers control but isolates the holder. Each “paradise” becomes quietly troubled—revealing that dissatisfaction is not in the absence of these things, but embedded within them when misunderstood. The recurring line “Na so paradise start…”—acts as a structural and philosophical anchor, showing that disillusionment is not sudden but gradual. What begins as hope slowly transforms into unease, suggesting that human expectation itself may be flawed. Ultimately, the poem argues that “wahala” (trouble) is not an external force but a disguised companion of desire. It challenges the reader to rethink the meaning of fulfillment, hinting that true peace may not lie in acquisition, but in understanding the limits of what these pursuits can offer. It’s not just a critique of society, it’s a quiet confrontation with the human condition.