By: Michelle Nnanyelugo
where I come from
our mothers change prayer houses like fancy clothes
and fathers sometimes ain’t so spiritual
because it’s a woman’s duty to pray for them
They call them a praying mother or wife
and my people suffer from a common sense pandemic
they have grown fond of the messengers and ignored the message
partially deaf to hear from the maker of the universe but worship his servants
with their tongues, they would make holy excuses for these deities to exonerate their assorted shortcomings
and crucify anyone who dared tender allegations
because…
clerics are like polaroid portraits
affiliated to a loyal congregation
who censor their characters and flicker between programmes
seeking revival of seasons
and vague expectations
my people love God but can’t give him a head start in their long-distance relationship
so they fast-track answers from heaven through his clergy
because God must be sluggish
desperate to genuflect in benediction to any
but their source
right here,
intercession is a daily bread
where worshippers outsource prayer to delegates
because they are short-sighted to see God
in the wee hours,
households would dabble in forced devotions
and fabricate reasons to profess fire and brimstone on their enemies
a wholesome lip service to appease their creator
religion is a screenplay where I come from
a comic relief featuring fake prophecies and a stampede of the highest bidders
sit back for a thriller
today,
a cleric would scourge his followers with empty threats and psychological blackmail
at dusk,
a broken fellowship would take praying lessons
beseech heaven for miracles
and clap their petitions into deafening applause
my people have an obsession with miracles
tossed by every wind of doctrine
they belittle God
but expect multiple folds when they have not planted any seed
sacrifice their salaries on the altar of extortion
sponsor a pocket-friendly homily
and languish in poverty
next door,
a crowd would chatter supplications to shake the rooftop of their dome
dent their image
and cause neighbours to scoff
tonight,
a cleric would serve half-baked sermons to hungry worshippers with voracious appetites
who scramble for crumbs
spark pandemonium on the pulpit
sign an autograph on the lips of intercessors
and watch them fidget
wallow in guilt
and chirp in loud tones
my people cannot have a profound dialogue with divinity
but can lift jars of requests
and offer pockets of condensed sanctimony
in slaughterhouses of prayer
these brethren would instigate a catastrophic public acclaim
with other denominations
inflecting a noisy tragedy on the streets
to compete with fervour
for a slot at the grand finale in heaven
Michelle Nnanyelugo is keen to redefine writing through soft-spoken performance poetry and reflective storytelling. She loves wholesome conversations, handwritten notes, and Häagen-Dazs-salted caramel ice cream. She often sits in a room big enough to drown her worries, doodling, scribbling, and smiling. You can find her on her website dialoguedistrict.com, on X at mtch_elle, and on Instagram at mtch_elle.
