Poetry: Take my next breath, Devil

By Majekodunmi Oseriemen Ebhohon

I’M sitting at my desk,
eating a slice of slightly stale bread,
and thinking about Sani Abacha,

which is not something I usually do,
but the morning news just arrived,
and suddenly, the man in the dark sunglasses
is looking a bit like Mother Teresa.

I mean, sure, there was the whole looting the central bank thing,
and the unfortunate business with the gallows,
but if you look at these current guys,
Abacha starts to look like a saint
who just wanted to help us save on storage space.

These ones steal with mathematical insanity
that makes the old billions
look like Capri-Sun money
left on Aje’s lunchbox.

Back then, we had one dictator. It was simple.
You knew exactly who was ruining your day.
Now, it’s a whole democracy of deprivation,
a crowded room of patriots
devouring the country with forks and knives
and telling us to tighten our belts.

I take another bite
and picture Sani up there in heaven,
plucking a harp, wearing his signature shades,
looking down on us, shaking his head,
whispering to an angel:

“And they called me the bad guy.”

It’s funny how a darker present
can polish up the scuffs of the past,
turning an iron fist into a gentle pat on the back,
making an acidic regime look like the good old days
when the lights stayed on for at least an hour.

But then I catch my reflection in the window,
and the bread turns to forgotten soup in my throat—
what kind of madness lets the present
grant a halo to a monster
who took pleasure
in dashing autistic toddlers’ skulls
against the wall?

Take my next breath, Devil,
for the crime of even mentioning his name.