You asked us not to look, but expected us to see clearly.

We swung from the trees, and you laughed.

Yet laughter was not enough.

You made sure we would kneel when we prayed, using the words of a foreign tongue,
To a Lord whose name and legacy was more foreign,
And stranger still.

You told us, in no uncertain terms

That he slaughtered his son, in our stead –

Under the guise of a requited destiny we did not ask for, to cleanse a stain we did not verb, to ease a strain we did not harbour.

That he foresaw and foresees all omen and intervenes with warring consistency –

Under the veneer of myth and lore and fables tending to reassure that pain and suffering is but a reassurance of his love.

That he decreed all crime and punishment, and all manner of fate is set in his infinite authority –

Under the impression that we act with his limbs and speak with his voice, as if we possess none of our own.

That no man may act of his own will, but with Providence from this Lord –

Yet each man must pay the wages of his so-called sin, misdeeds that were forestalled and decreed by a power higher than him.

Tell me, is this the fair one?

Who oversaw the capture, torture and rapture of legions of my kin?

Who spun words of simple condiment, yet enforced with a terrible passion, noting that his victims were acting of his fault not theirs?

Why punish the broken with empty words and hollow songs?


July 28, 2018.

Anthony Benjamin Adeaba

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