In Blood, Sweat and a Glimpse of Hope
“we will walk through darkness till daybreak” — The President who never Was
Angels, gather. Sing hosanna to the Most High.
A country is now a 100m race with a Champion
who will wear diapers & aim to run faster than Bolt.
We don't have to guess his outfit 'cause we know
the only brand that can contain the speed of light
to teach a country the difference between day
and night is an agbada that covers bones over-
shadowing flesh just as the sun overshadows
electricity to the point high tension lines become
driers for washed clothes and bodies to receive
fresh air and sparkling sunlight. The economy is
paraplegic and infrastructure is in crutches but
the first thing he must do in the race is to hit
the ground running even before "on your marks."
Manifestos are swill-supping man-dog-fucking porn
-ography so the second thing to do is continue
running although his eyes hold scales to cloud sight
that college is not elementary school where money
is harvested from a mother's wrapper and the finger
-ing 4 years does to a brain is enough to last
for a lifetime. Shall we pray.~ God save the president
that wears diapers whose third plan is "Don't rest."
Eyes that cannot tell a mic from ice cream must know
what rest looks like— A depravity that has sockets
carrying bags enough to make a child wonder
if a presidential statement is an incantation
from odùduwà's rest or a statement that yes a country
is a race but maybe a drag race. Where tribe is worn
on skin and is a guillotine blade chopping off sanity
to weave barbaric woe into pun. Confetti is popped
champagne glasses clinked and still I can't tell
if after bodies turned to apostrophes for hours
feeding on stench from unwashed bodies & sordid
breath was enough for lots to be casted into swines
like the Christ did or maybe just maybe a successor
to Usain Bolt had enough running juice to run
a country infinitely and utterly into the ground–
the neverending divine comedy across all seas.