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.
Here I Am 