Poetry: The Arithmetic of the Sea

By Majekodunmi Ebhohon

I used to think the president
was the reason I could not sleep:

the missing pupils,
the disappearing money,
the men who arrive poor
and leave with houses
that need their own postcode.

But lately,
something else has been sitting
at the edge of my bed.

The geographers say the Red Sea
falls nearly ten thousand feet,
though some nights it feels much deeper.

I lie, trying to picture the stick.
Even the longest piece of cedar
hewed by a carpenter
could not measure the top of that drop.

I wonder if the children of Israel
brought ladders for the descent,
or if the elderly simply slid down the mud,
their sandals filling with the silt of the abyss.

To march millions of people
through a canyon of suspended salt water,
past the glowing eyes of deep-sea crabs,
requires a remarkable feat of engineering
for an afternoon walk to Mount Sinai.

Yet, tomorrow
the voters will queue at the booth,
clutching their voter cards,
furious about the missing trillions,

before walking straight into the church
to nod at the man at the altar,
convinced that a shepherd’s rod
once emptied a sea into a neat pile.