Poetry: Miracle Franchise

By Majekodunmi Oseriemen Ebhohon

THE loudspeakers from the church across the street are screaming again!
They have set up fifty giant black horns on top of a rented warehouse,
blasting the holy spirit into the market until my tomatoes are vibrating.
The prophet is standing on the altar in a white suit that shines like ice,
telling a crowd of penniless widows to sow a seed of faith for a financial miracle.
I love our pastors. Truly, they are our greatest national export!
They are more profitable than cocoa, more reliable than crude oil.
They take the last coins from people who haven’t eaten breakfast,
buy a private jet, and open a brand-new branch in Maryland!
The white people used to send us missionaries with bibles and quinine;
now we send them prophets with credit card machines and holy water.
A beautifully balanced international trade agreement!
The local textile factory down the road closed down last winter,
but it is okay, because the church bought the building the next week.
Now, instead of making shirts, five hundred people sit inside,
praying for the Almighty to send them clothes from Europe!