The Refinery

By Majekodunmi Oseriemen Ebhohon

IT appears you must first become completely cold
before anyone will admit you were a decent person.
You have to stop breathing entirely
to clear the room of your minor faults,
like the way you chewed with your mouth open
or forgot to pay the security levy on time.

Suddenly, because your pulse is zero,
you are elevated to the status of a saint.
People who ignored your phone calls for a decade
stand in a room, weeping,
claiming you were the gentlest soul to ever walk the earth.

It is a riddle that wrinkles the brows of the wise.
A lifetime of being thoroughly below average,
wiped clean by the generous act of expiring.

If we tried this strategy while alive,
walking into a bakery in Lekki or Ekosodin,
demanding a free loaf of gourmet bread
because we plan to be dead in forty years,
the cashier would simply hiss and ask for the transfer receipt.

But wait ‘till the casket is polished.
Then, even the distant cousin you couldn’t loan some thousands
will sigh, shake his head,
and tell the guests that deep down,
you were always a pillar of the family.