Poetry: Hallelujah
By Majekodunmi Oseriemen Ebhohon
—Shh! Mama Junior, bend your head down!
Come closer!
Have you seen the video on the telephone?
Yes, the one with the baby!
Don’t look at the screen now,
the council clerk is watching us.
Just lean your ear here
while I peel this yam.
I say, the people on the internet
are shouting, “racism, racism!”
May thunder lock their ungrateful mouths!
Me, I am preparing
a special letter of appreciation
to the American police.
Do you know what happened?
A three-year-old Black boy
was on the field
spinning their children
like wet rags in a bucket.
He scored forty goals
before the referee
could even look at his wristwatch!
So the peeled adults panicked.
They took their machines
and dialled the emergency.
And this is why
we must praise the Lord:
when the squad cars arrived,
with their big tyres,
their boots,
and their long irons…
Mama Junior,
they did not even shoot the baby!
I swear to you
by the grave of my mother!
They did not fire a single bullet!
They did not even mistake
his feeding bottle
for a locally made pistol!
Look at my knee—
imagine!
The police did not even pin his neck
for eight minutes!
They just gently took the cradle,
handed the mother her registration cash,
and escorted the criminal
out of the playground
so the adults
could finally stop crying.
What a civilized empire!
What a boundless mercy!
If the law merely kicks a Black baby
off the pitch
instead of sending him to the ancestors
on a stretcher,
we must sing Hallelujah!
Hallelujah!
Hallelujah!
