This is the game for criminalities in high places.
The white men, black men who sit on white chairs in white houses.
And our Bishops, white men, black men in white robes, white collars.
But we are the decider: we decide the winner and loser of this competition.
We are the lacks that take their lacks.
We put the elites and the evangelists.
We're used as decibels to measure their worth and net-worths, even networks.
We're pack of cards; after being pushed by the government, run to the pastors and fall before their knees—kneeling on rocky mountains before their rocky shoes.
We lose our goals and dreams because of the failure of those in power.
And raise bowls of water and grains for prayers in the churches.
So, when I lose my creativity and ideas that could have been for innovations and inventions, because the government has placed no good on my goods;
I run to the pastors with my last Kobo as first fruit offering and my limited time to be spent for everyday programs.
I seek for nothing that exists.
I plead for visions from the eyes of the Bishop.
From the ostentation of these gawdy godly gods of men,
From the untenable names they've built for themselves,
I seek for wisdom and knowledge in exchange for their private jets and wallets.
From the aura of success that smells on the altar,
I wallow my tumble before pews;
Going from Canaan to other camps,
that my eyes be opened to augur of my fate.
So, when father fell sick
Because the ambassadors of poverty have chosen to close down hospitals,
Because nurses keep going on strikes as funds and salaries are being undefined;
I get beds in churches, and my cancerous father drinks anointing oil today and dove's blood yesterday.
He eats fasts as breakfasts and saltless rice as dinner.
He wears rags as jackets and exposes his saggy chest for protection.
He would later die on the floor of the church, and would be buried in silence that the one who gives life has taken his.
By then, I would have sacrificed my own project fee to buy anointing oils, and birds and soaps and garments, and cross, and salts, and candles, and perfumes and bells, and microphones, and the drums, and the clocks, and the chairs.
It is but a decider between elites.
The fat ones with the maze and fresh ones before pews.
We decide their fate with our faith.
Our progesterone aid our emaciation and produce fats to hear vague prognostication.
We wobble before their firm legs to lay hands on imploding careers and speak life into our unhealthy health because our health system has failed, and technology here is not technical.
We become blind to etches on their foreheads that scream Vainglory!
We keep rushing and screaming 'glory'
So, if today I rush to the programs solely to get my life sorted out by man in white
And choose not to be productive and creative.
It is no hypocrisy, neither by me nor gods of men.
But profanity that prevails.
It is disrespect for God although worship for the man-of-god or rather god-of-men.
© Richie
Poet's Bio
Name: Adeleke Rachel Toluwani
Facebook Username: Adeleke Rachel Toluwani
Whatsapp: 09096697679
Email: richiehorlayinka@gmail.com
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