Psalm of the Forsaken

* for Deborah Yakubu (May 12, ‘22)

By Majekodunmi Ebhohon

I AM NOT AFRAID,
FOR YOU ARE WITH ME.

I chant it
to the closing circle of faces.

DO NOT BE DISMAYED.
I am not dismayed.

Your righteous right hand—
my only shield.

CAST YOUR ANXIETY.
I cast it unto You, O Lord.

All of it.
My trembling soul.

Because You care.
You part seas.

Part this hatred.
Show them Your face in mine.

IF GOD IS FOR US—

The first stone
c
r
a
c
k
s
the verse in half.

A searing star
against my brow.

The world tilts.
The ringing starts—

a high, thin hum
inside my skull,
or ears,
not sure which,

drowning out
my whispered—

who can be against us?

A second stone—
my knees give way.

The sound of a sack
split open—
thud.

Dust rises, choking.

My cheek grinds the floor.
Mouth dragged raw
across grit and broken bricks—

grrrshhhk.

Teeth scrape stones.
Enamel sings against gravel.

A crunch
within I cannot name.

Tongue clogs
with dust, with iron.

Blood froths—hot, metallic, bitter—
threading mud
between my lips.

I gag.
I spit.

The ground
swallows gluttonously.

A woman
forgets her nursing child!

I crawl through legs,
shadows,
dust,

searching for one face
less fierce,
one flicker of mercy.

There is none.

A third stone,
a fourth,
a fifth—
sixth—
seventh—

then the sky breaks—
stones in torrents.

My head reels.
The ringing bores deeper,

drilling past bone,
swallowing
even Your name.

I stretch out my right hand—
not to You, Lord.
But to them.

A plea for compassion.

Please. Stop.

Another stone.
And another stone.
And more stones.

One smashes
my open palm.

A crack.
A scatter.

Three fingers fly.

The hand falls back to earth—
now a useless,
bleeding thing.

I reach for a leg
with my left hand,

but feel no motion—
that arm too
already mashed into meat.

My eyes swell shut—
I see only shadows now,
moving in for more.

Your world, God,
is pain
and noise.

Where are You, O Lord?
Have You turned Your face
away entirely?

If You won’t save me—
send Death.
Send Death, Lord!

Hurry up.

Let Death be swifter
than Your angels.
Let Death be kinder
than Your children.

Let Death’s dark wings
be the only mercy
I receive.

Let this end.
Let this end.

Lord,
let the next stone
be the last.

Let this ringing stop.
Let this pain
be over.

Let me go.

The final blow lands.

No hand of God descends—
only the earth’s,
unyielding,
unforgiving.

And the ringing in my ears
becomes the mockery
of a prayer—

unanswered.

* Ebhohon, poet, media practitioner, and playwright, author of The Great Delusion’, writes from Benin City