A Pastor says the devil landed here in ‘77.
His broken legs can be seen in the twin-rivers.
Three-eyed demons from the West Indies,
And dark-skinned centaurs from everywhere,
Welcomed the two-horned castaway.
That was the beginning of our end,
He said, and I trembled with fear.
I begged him to pray for me.
My hands are tied, he replied.
I asked the rains to fall
And erase my sins from the face of the earth.
It rained psalms and novenas,
But nothing happened—
I’m still the rotten tangerine
Hosting poetry festivals for pilgrim bees.
The next day I prayed thrice
And watched the only chapel in me burn to ashes.
On the road to Abuja,
Google Map says I am twenty kilometres to redemption.
Suddenly, traffic lights turned green for passing winds,
And I followed the winds to Garki.
In Durumi an Uber driver took away my sins
And left me empty-handed.
On the steering wheel the Pastor sang harvest songs
For the holes he left in my pockets.
About the Author:
Andrew Aondosoo Labe is a writer of poetry and editor of fiction. His writing is largely inspired by personal experiences and urban nightlife, from an avant-garde perspective. You can find him on Twitter and Instagram @soosoowriterly.