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.
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.
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?
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
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
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.
Won’t be bad for a pane, so, you let a
Hand in to the vague room of chemistry–
Botching for a fire – straddling
But the one you click plants burns on your
Fingers. So, one night, while men hibernate,
Your gripping flower sows
Furlough. And for you a stone, water is a
myth…you move. Again, on same horse
but this time, your talk holds
Air as you speak with your fingers on a
Brilliant screen. She dishes you luscious
Epistles, too, like the apostle
But against this new chapel, you have
something– a strange beard before her
Black face under the Juniper
You chomp your finger home, play the ‘Nunc
Dimittis.’ drench your skin in a sink of gush,
Yet, you come out in ashes.
Calls but your bank is Atlantis – lost in the
Blis(s)/ters of princess’ tastes. You turn
A flint upon the dripping
From your vision machine and in the same
highness, bathroom yawns/ you see your
Demon/ closes/ back in the
Of your cabin. Your phone nags “dear customer,
you currently do not have sufficient credit…” and you
the red dot to slay the speaker. A knock
Inquires dosh from behind your portico but
It’s just you and rats inside.
But you break as a dawn of angst. You close
Your eyes and mutter, then, die. Tomorrow,
You resurrect and you are
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.