Sunday morning runway

If you don’t know much about theology
& don’t know much about fashion
a Lagos Sunday morning will school you:

There’s gele and agbada, buba and fila
it’s not about matching, it’s – coordination –
sometimes with the congregation
other times with your partner,
make sure the ushers
and other preying eyes know, this is mine,
don’t lay hands lest I dash your ear like Peter.

Sometimes the Pastor will coordinate his mike
with his tie and if he’s really bringing fire, his leather shoes
and if the Holyghost is to come, the handkerchief must be tight,
close to the breast, a subtle nod to the top
tucked beneath the three piece.

Oh! The choir on thanksgiving Sunday
is all you need to know about the ministry
the delivery of worship is woven with the fabric
even the drummer is suited up, perspiring with zeal.

No miniskirts, no cleavage, no bum bum
no satin in the Sanctuary
don’t drive the men to hell, abeg
the only seduction is for the Kingdom.

Sabbath in Lagos, is not a day of rest,
it’s commotion, it’s shoe shine on saturday night
ironing at first light, perfume,
& for the kids at boarding school,
it’s ghetus on your trousers, starched white shirts,
marching to church with the warden and not letting a grain of dust
touch your garments.

Sunday morning in Lagos is the only runway
that brings heaven to earth.

I’ll drink what I want Richard

I remember being sat down next to my manager
Richard + a bunch of other engineers
& I said, I don’t like beer and got gin instead
& he scoffed, with his throat – like, humph
cos he had a lager in hand;
like he emerged from his mother’s birth canal
gripping a Pilsner and swigging a Bock
like the cloud of piss on the table
proved how big his dick was,
like he personally picked the wheat
and chauffeured the yeast,
what a fucking prick,
hope he drowns in all that barley.

Spring Night

I wonder if it’s the coffee-
as I turn on my side,
switch on the lamp
read the Billy Collins collection on my bed,
– I always have a book or two within reach.
It’s 1:04, I switch off my lamp,
count to a hundred, stop at eighty two
put a pillow between my knees, look up
think about how like vomit I spew
21 poems the week my boss fired me;
I didn’t know I was sick. I need to check in more.
The best revenge is to outlive our enemies,
better still, forget them and never be them,
I flip my pillow, flop to the side and face the wall,
maybe God wants me awake.
Is there someone to pray for?
I pray for mum and dad, I pray that their joy be full,
a selfish prayer really because I am their joy.
What a wonderful thought. And what else is prayer
but wonderful thoughts extended to heaven?

Day 47 of solitary confinement

& I’m 17 minutes deep into a youtube video on sudoku tips and tricks
+ some of these techniques sound borderline erotic:
                  naked quads,
                  single chains,
                  hidden pairs,
-removal strategies.
(hot).
Amongst other things, I’ve googled:
how many calories are in a baguette
cos i’m on my second and it’s not 11am.
There’s a lady on the first floor balcony
who smiles at me when I go for walks,
I look up everytime.

I’ve been thinking about companionship
and what it really means
& maybe it’s:
                  sharing the 700! calories in a baguette
                  & trying out these Japanese techniques.
maybe.