The first image of God I had was my father.
Adult. Male. Nigerian –
talking to His child
or wife, or anything that is
not as tall as He is.
Afterall, God must be really big. So, we must
at least, imagine a mountain to think
a bit of God.
I am told to always close my eyes when
I seek God’s face in prayers.
If that were a place, I would find injuries.
How do you search things with closed eyes?
My father finds it sinful when I look
into His eyes when He speaks,
God must really hate my nerves.
He flogs me in jealousy and preaches to me
on how I must love the lord with all my heart,
my might and with greater strength,
He lashes me again and again
before He talks about obedience to parents
and divinity – How God expects me to respect
elders more than kids
but I hate to think that God is discriminatory
except on days he wears Himself
into my Father’s body to work in Him to will
/do of His good pleasures.
One night, I am grieved to the brim; my throat,
sore with silence from sharing same roof with God.
I scold my father – uncensored –
human to human
for speaking to my mother in the voice of God.
He gives a sermon on how it is sin
to rebuke elders
and death, if he had raised his voice
above His father’s ego
as a kid.
He smites me till my body floats into a dream
where a myriad of faces is jeering “lynch him”