By Psalmuel Benjamin

If Nigeria Was a Bible, It Would Be the Gospel Without Jesus

 

Match you (Matthew)

This gospel begins with a genealogy of vexation

And the story of its birth. Where darkness

Argues that his suit is brighter than Halogen

& the morning star.

 

Scars (Mark)

This book is written with the blood of the three

Wise men. Perhaps, they are spies. At least,

No Jesus is here. Kiddies crawl up rough mountains

And do the sermons on the mounts.

 

Look (Luke)

Of course, wonders end not so, bills can be

Playful here and swing with Roberts Frost

On “Birches of economy.” Do you not call it

A miracle that ‘bookhouse’ is no more the

Bearer of the “best legacy” band?

 

Juncks (John)

But boys who are kerosenes/ sleepless air-

Hustlers/ bag the badass grades. How?

“Know the way, escape disgrace.” No Jesus

Is sending no disciples here but impartation

Of bullets is delivering youths out of esprit

By gunme(a)n.

 

Drama (Acts)

In this book is only a parable: who cares?

Of all these Peters, I, too, am testifying that

Nigeria is the son of the living God. No Jesus

Is here yet, crucifixion is lord. I guess God

Is our refuge, then, His place will be more

Fun.


For Boys Whose Hearts Are Old, Rugged Books 

From the pages of your hearts…🎶🎵🎼🎤

You are just a stone with a polished shell.

On the same street where costly flowers

Prance like lost emigre.

A flower

Won’t be bad for a pane, so, you let a

Hand in to the vague room of chemistry–

Botching for a fire – straddling

On water

But the one you click plants burns on your

Fingers. So, one night, while men hibernate,

Your gripping flower sows

tares of

Furlough. And for you a stone, water is a

myth…you move. Again, on same horse

but this time, your talk holds

In the

Air as you speak with your fingers on a

Brilliant screen. She dishes you luscious

Epistles, too, like the apostle

Paul

But against this new chapel, you have

something– a strange beard before her

Black face under the Juniper

Tree

You chomp your finger home, play the ‘Nunc

Dimittis.’ drench your skin in a sink of gush,

Yet, you come out in ashes.

Mother

Calls but your bank is Atlantis – lost in the

Blis(s)/ters of princess’ tastes. You turn

A flint upon the dripping

intoxicant

From your vision machine and in the same

highness, bathroom yawns/ you see your

Demon/ closes/ back in the

Cave

Of your cabin. Your phone nags “dear customer,

you currently do not have sufficient credit…” and you

shoot

the red dot to slay the speaker. A knock

Inquires dosh from behind your portico but

It’s just you and rats inside.

Night plummets

But you break as a dawn of angst. You close

Your eyes and mutter, then, die. Tomorrow,

You resurrect and you are

Fine.

Again, on same Horse. Again & again.

 

Psalmuel Benjamin (spokespsalmuel) is a poet, spoken words minister and writer from Nigeria. He’s in his early twenties. His poems and articles can be found in CC, Afrocritik, Mixed Mag, Nanty Greens, Arts Lounge, Pop the Culture pill, Agape review, Fieryscribe review, and many others. He is the author of “It’s Just a Day” – a forthcoming book. Aside from writing he teaches, draws, paints, and edits videos. He’s the vice president of the Godly steps Family. He’s a finalist in the POF4 Essay competition. He is a lover of beans. Say hi to him on Facebook: Benjamin-Psalmuel Oluwasheun. Twitter: Psalmuelbenjam1.

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