GRACE LAZINESS

The Trumpet stared at its image in the glass and smiled vainly at the gold glint. It was the oldest Trumpet alive, mature and toned, waxed daily by the museum attendant before being placed in the laser secured glass box. The Trumpet thought about the days when beautiful breath would flow through it and fill orchestra pits with blasts of bliss…

 Those days when its master would caress it and tweak every button that mattered till sonorous music rippled through the hearts of royalty… those days…

“Remember those days?” The Trumpet whispered to the Flute on its right and the Flute groaned

 “Oh! God, not again” The Flute rolled its eyes and pretended to be asleep

 “Hey Flute” The Trumpet hollered loudly “Don’t you dare act asleep… show some respect for the oldest Trumpet alive”

 “Old man” The Flute screamed back and the whole museum came awake with tired moans “Age has got nothing to do with achievements… you may be the oldest, but younger Trumpets are being blown in orchestras while you gather dust in this museum” 

“Watch your tongue boy” The Trumpet tried to shout the much younger Flute down

 “Would both of you just get married and quit bickering?” A slackened Cello groaned from a dark corner

 “Better yet break up” the Trombone on the right of the Trumpet smirked

 “I am the oldest instrument in this museum and I demand some respect” The Trumpet screamed at all the instruments in the museum and received acerbic murmurs

 “Not old enough to be in any fairy tale” an unnamed instrument snickered from a high shelf and the entire museum rocked with musical laughter

 “If I were to be the Trumpet I was ten years ago” The Trumpet hollered “I would walk through this entire edifice blasting your old bums with some crazy trumpeting”

 “What happened?” The Flute whistled “have the wheels in your wheelchair left you behind?”

 The museum shook again as musical laughter butted its foundations. While all the diverse instruments from diverse origins laughed, the Trumpet thought about all the beautiful moments that it had experienced; the mouths that have kissed it… the lungs that have blown it… the fingers that have twirled it and a single tear rolled down its cheek…

 At a point in time… some distant time… this Trumpet was the most beautiful instrument alive… its master adored it… the crowd worshipped it and it could take away sorrow just by surrendering its body to whoever was skilled enough to blow it…

 What happened you ask?

 While the Trumpet was coated with gold on the outside, inside, it was just mere iron. Overtime, the moisture that had gathered on the iron led to rusting. So, instead of beautiful music… the Trumpet squeaked and eventually ended up in the Museum as the oldest Trumpet alive… 

A lot of us are like this trumpet… shiny and glossy – what everyone sees… brittle and unrefined – what we truly are…

 When we accepted Christ, we ran with zeal and did great things for God depending on grace that comes with the person of Christ… but overtime we got carried away by the carnality of humanity – the true nature of sinful man without Christ… our innate lusts got hooked on the materialism of life and we forgot our first love… Now all we talk about is what we did and thank God for his grace…

 Grace is no license for any Christian to be lethargic… Paul says He strives so as not to frustrate the grace of Christ… and Christ says that we ought to work when it’s day for night comes when no man can work…

No one is exempt… If we have received grace… let’s feed it with the Word of God and stay sharp & relevant for Christ…

SPANKING HOT

His wrist-watch ticked away… and all Gomez could do was wish that someone somewhere would somehow think of wandering into the abandoned warehouse in time to find him lying in the clotting wax of blood. His breaths were now coming in short gasps.

 Though brown skinned, Gomez knew he was paling because his lips caked and his throat felt desiccated – he didn’t need an MD to alert him that he was seconds away from dying of haemorrhage. To top it all off, he couldn’t move any limb. 

This wasn’t how Gomez thought today would turn out. He had woken up, had his devotion, cleaned up and reported to his office on Marina. He was a security guard at the Bank and was loved by the staff members and regular customers. He had won Most Friendly Staff Member four consecutive times since his resumption four months ago. 

He was busy welcoming and checking customers outside the banking hall when he heard gunshots inside. He quickly dispatched a distress call to the district’s Police Division just down Marina and rushed inside the banking hall amidst warnings from his colleague. 

The succeeding events were quite fuzzy. He entered the Banking Hall… saw a masked man point a double barrelled shotgun at a pregnant woman who was raining obscenities at the robbers… knew what would happen next… and dived in front of the woman… He blanked out.

When he came to, he was lying in this abandoned factory, his gaze quite a blur. He felt as if he was slipping between heaven and earth. He heard voices but couldn’t discern if they were angels or demons… He tried to ask who they were but he couldn’t even move his lips. This was definitely not the end… this couldn’t be it… what happened to the call that he had received? 

He thought about the songs he was about to record… He had spent over five years working menial jobs and saving money to wax an afrobeat gospel album. In those five years, he had seen God move mightily everywhere he ministered. He couldn’t die just yet… His purpose had not yet been fulfilled. 

The verse that he had been meditating on all morning surfaced in his thoughts… Psalm 103:20 - Bless the Lord, you His angels, you mighty ones who do His commandments, hearkening to the Voice of His words. The verse came so strong that he thought he saw the verse float into his visual range… Lying there, struggling with what little oxygen was left in his brain, he tried to figure out what this meant. 

Then He remembered Psalm 91 saying that God has given His angels charge over us and Gomez knew there were angels around waiting for him to give the command. The voices he heard were angels that had been given charge over him… waiting for him to proclaim God’s word concerning the situation. 

The only verse he could think of that was relevant to his weakened body was By His stripes we are healed… he continued thinking about the verse till he felt energy surge from his feet to his lips… finally, the words floated out… first it was a whisper… then he heard himself… subsequently he screamed it …By Christ’s stripes I am healed. Then everything went white… 

When his vision cleared, he was still lying on his back but saw giant surgery lights… and giant surgeons that had halos around their bodies… they donned masks but he could see their eyes - they felt like orbs of love… forceps, scalpels, gauzes, scissors, sutures and more surgical appliances were passed over his frame but he felt no pain… then he passed out

He woke once again… the blood on the floor had caked and it was dark by now but he didn’t feel drained like the last time. His vision adjusted to his surroundings and he realized that he was still at the abandoned factory. He felt alive and full of energy like he’d just guzzled two cans of energy drink plus a cup of coffee… no, better… this felt like he had an elixir running in him that could not be described with human words. 

The first question that came to his thoughts was why did I even get shot in the first place…? He was a hot Christian that prayed at least three hours daily and meditated on the word in season and out of season… 

Gomez stood up and checked himself… there was a hole in his left breast pocket and the shirt was caked with dried blood… he ripped open the shirt but found no injury on his chest… he rubbed his body all over and found no injury… this was inexplicable… unbelievable couldn’t describe what he was feeling… no word could… 

Gomez suddenly realized what had happened and why… the pregnant woman in the banking hall was not a Christian… but her baby was a great apostle sent to his generation… and Gomez was a security guard at that particular branch of that particular bank for a particular day as this…

And you say God doesn’t conduct an orchestra?

ORIENTATION OF A KING

Kunle Smith watched the racers intently from the VIP stand. His eyes were not trained on Martin Dash but on Jeff Stathers. Everyone in Maracana at that time had their eyes trained on Martin Dash because according to the Guinness Book of world records he was the fastest man alive - with a record 8.92 sec in the 100 meter dash.

Jeff Stathers on the other hand was a complete “nobody”; no one in the stands cared about him (apart from family and his team, that is), but here he was competing with the very best. His nation, Guernsey, was hardly known and when his name was mentioned by the commentator, no one batted an eye. 

The shot went off and all the racers shot forward; as expected Martin Dash beat everyone to the finish line… and everyone screamed their appreciation at the cheetah’s speed. Stathers, however, barely made it in 11 seconds. Only the commentator noticed it and he didn’t waste words trying to educate the screaming crowd on the last runner’s inefficiency.

Kunle turned to his 12 year old son, Eti, standing beside him. Eti was screaming his lungs out – quite inappropriate for the VIP lounge, but Kunle made no efforts to stop the boy; after all, the boy had come all the way from Nigeria to see his hero. Kunle on the other hand was interested in whoever the loser would be… Jeff Stathers just happened to be that loser

When the ovation died down, Eti turned to his father in excitement “Dad did you see that?” 

“Yes son, I saw what you saw but you didn’t see what I saw” Kunle replied

“What did I miss dad” Eti’s eagerness couldn’t be contained

“Did you notice the last man” Kunle asked 

“The loser?” 

“His name is Jeff Stathers” Kunle replied with a smile that reflected his understanding of Eti’s naiveté

“Why would I notice him dad? Nobody cares about losers” 

“God does” Kunle touched his son’s right shoulder “Did you know that three Olympic outings ago, Martin Dash was last in the 100 meter dash?” 

“Seriously?” Eti’s eyes popped 

“That was the second time he came last in the 100 meter dash” Kunle Continued “You see son, there is a vital lesson in life that people miss… Time and chance happens to us all…”

 “I don’t understand dad” 

“Whatever happened to Martin Dash 8 years ago to change his fate, can also happen to Stathers” Kunle answered as he rubbed his son’s shoulder “You see, most people will write you off in life when you don’t instantly succeed. God doesn’t; matter of fact, that’s when God is moulding you to fit his plan”

“So?” Eti still didn’t get his dad’s point 

“Maybe not this Olympics” Kunle replied “maybe not the next, or maybe not even in the Olympics… but Jeff Stathers will meet greatness… and greatness isn’t what people or the media say about you… Greatness is knowing you are doing exactly what God created you to do”

GUN SLINGER WITHOUT AMMO

This is not feel good poetry but the wrung out tale of a miscarriage (A misrepresentation of an artistic design supposedly destined for manifestation. A true false-appearance of what could have been the rise of another general)

I accepted the draft into the 85th platoon of writers in Zion Military and received all the necessary gear - what Ephesians would term the amour. I spent time in training filling up my arsenal. My mission was simple – decongest Hades through the media. Get fellow citizens of Zion back home by building bridges with my knees and getting the vultures off their backs with the blood from my ball point.

My first assignment was to blog… So I built camp with the C.I.A… significant progress was made until I felt I had “risen” in the ranks. When other opportunities offered more material gains I neglected my duty post… Right now, all I see are sing song cobwebs asking me to pay rent to spend a night in my own blog. 

With each passing humble dawn I paid less attention to the well-spelt assignment… Imagine my shock when I realized that each passing day didn’t change the way the sun rose… consistently it rises from the east and whether or not you acknowledge it, the sun still rises… It doesn’t matter who says “Good morning sun” or not… it still does its duty… and no matter how mundane the sun rise has become it doesn’t change the fact that the exotic beauties of life are dependent on its “mundane” rays

I felt that my blog wasn’t relevant because nobody reached out to tell me “awww… this was beautiful” or “that was just on point” but now I know better. Only one person called me into this army; The Field Marshall himself – Jesus. 

Whether or not I get any praise shouldn’t deter or determine my post rate… because only Christ can pay my minimum wage. My neglect of this duty post was a FALL… say what you want, I know what I know… It was a FALL… I fell because, fulfilling my duty was meant to refill my arsenal… so, after a long stretch I looked inwards and realized my magazine was empty… not even one clip… worse off, the few benefactors of my word arsenal were starved… my gentiles couldn’t become Jews because my pouch of circumcising words was empty…

Here is my apology… I am sorry… I don’t intend to stay down… I know my mistakes and I have received the grace to run the race once again… 

By grace I will stay here as long as the Field Marshall needs me here… By grace I will keep pouring this ink in… and one day your heart will receive it by Grace… 

Welcome back to C.I.A…

FREED SLAVE

Max’s ballpoint dribbled faster than his diary could take… his thoughts were scrambled yet he knew exactly what he had to tell God… he wanted to end it all… paranoia was now his homie, delusions slept next to him every night and hallucinations were the only ones he spoke with.

 “Dear God, they say nothing is impossible for you… absolutely nothing… it’s not like I don’t believe it… I do… but I just don’t get why you haven’t taken this cravings out of me… this beast… this monster eating me up… could you please get it out? Lord I need you… more than the moon needs the sun… I do…” Max kept scribbling… still, the thirst for just another “drag” mocked. The quartz alarm clock chimed 2:00 am…

Max stared at his fourteen year old brother sleeping on the other end of the bed. Timmy held Max in high regard. All Timmy saw was the young Christian R & B crooner that would send anointed ministers reeling on the floor anytime he held the mic. Not the weed addict

“Someday I would be like you… ministering till the heavens come down” Timmy would say… Max had never “used” anywhere there was the slightest chance of Timmy finding out. Truth is, he wasn’t as concerned about the church finding out as about being discovered by Timmy.

 He had become “Dad” to Timmy ever since their father had abandoned their mum for a younger “chic”.

Max stopped scribbling and stared at the backpack that had two wraps of weed in it. The intense lure urged his feet to the bathroom. He wrapped. He lit. He dragged. In the dark. His nerves calmed. He heard music notes. And he puffed some more. 

Then the bathroom door opened and the lights came on. There Timmy stood in his pyjamas… Timmy rubbed his eyes. Timmy stared. In shock. Timmy gasped. And coughed. Timmy choked. Timmy was asthmatic… Timmy gasped and dropped to the floor. The rest was a blur… 

“Oh God”… the only words that Max could utter… he dropped the wrap in the toilet bowl, flushed and rushed over to Timmy… He dropped to his knees… lifted Timmy to the room. Went in search of Timmy’s inhaler… 

The can was empty… Max was devastated… and Timmy was timing out… Timmy stopped gasping… Timmy went out

Max knelt… and the only words that came out where “Dear Lord, I promise to quit for real if you can just breathe life into Timmy” But there was no response… The tears… the regrets… the voices… those wretched monsters laughing… more regrets 

“Do you intend to keep that promise?” Max recognized the voice… but it wasn’t that of a monster… It was Timmy’s… 

“With the last drop of my blood” Max answered with a quivering voice “You know… we’ve been set free already” Timmy continued with a weak voice “just walk in the freedom Max… don’t be enslaved again… because I still want to be like you”

INCOMPREHENSIBLE

I want to praise my God

The Almighty with words & phrases

that English language cannot fully define 

words that will have your faces puzzled 

because they defy grammatical structures,

rules of concord and might not be understood by English doctors

words like The Alagbara, phrases like Aribiti Arabata

words that get you speaking in tongues - shakabata

I want to praise my Jah with ancient words 

that will throw the gates of heaven ajar 

because my papa will be dancing and laughing

Hahaha 

and be saying things like that’s my boy,

he might not know how to speak Queens English 

but he indeed knows how to speak my language

I know he is the Alpha, because he instituted time

& because he always heals in time, I know he is the Rapha

and because he never leaves me nor abandons me

he is my Shammah

the righteous judge who sits on the throne of light 

I’m talking about my Shaphat

and from the throne of grace he spreads his wings over me

 my banner; the Nissi

the Nissi who sees as the Roi

& because he sees, he is the perfect shepherd, my Rohi

the Elohim, common say Hello to him

He who sits in heaven, the Bashayim

and restores all that is lost as the El Ashyib

I praise the sovereignty of my Adoney

El Magowr who washes away all my agony

English can attempt to define these words & phrases

but these definitions will never bring Shalom

because no English dictionary tells you that peace

is a geographic location, but I'm resident in peace

matter of fact the King of Peace is my father

& the Prince of Peace is my brother

matter of fact, I am chilling in peace while I deliver this piece - Peace

I want to praise my Lord with phrases like 

Abasi Ibom, Oluwa Effizy Chibuike, the Shaddai

who is the all sufficient I AM 

grammatically I AM is an incomplete statement

but who can quantify the everlasting completeness of El Olam

the Lion & the Lamb

a perfect oxymoron that makes perfect sense to even the atheist moron

don’t mind my grammar but do mind I AM 

for in him is life, and in him I found my wife

and if you build your marriage on Selai, My Rock 

no man can put asunder, no divorces

no forces can force this apart

because we are bonded by the Agape 

the only one whose nature is indeed love 

I praise you Love, I praise you Lord 

I praise you I AM, because when I need a provider You tell me I AM Jireh

 & when I am bullied, you tell me I AM the Lion of Judah

so you roar until Hades confesses that you are JEHOVAH 

The self-existing Almighty one

In my weaknesses and frailties I am confident of your mercies

because you are El Nas and El Rachum 

Lord I want to praise you with incomprehensible words like

Reglara ban derogo sesto escalaraba Reguloveoragre brandigero… till thy Knigdom come 

and when it’s all said and done 

You remain the Omega

GRATITUDE

On a scale of A – Z my worth could have rated as a non-existent alphabet without the predestined thoughts of the Alpha God. I mean what value was attached to me when Christ scanned the radar and saw a man lying in the trenches, battered by the onslaughts of a battle he should have been prepared for by simply acknowledging that God was and is God. 

When He heard me mutter with parched larynx and scarred lungs for help, he showed up even though I never even asked for His help. Seriously, who offers help when no one asks for it? My background meant nothing to Him, He wouldn’t be deterred by the faults that growing up had engraved on my thoughts, He looked way past the stupid insecurities that I had no business purchasing, and He chose to rightfully trust this mind full of lust… He chose me 

Funny thing is He didn’t just clean me up… He’s still cleaning me. Sometimes the sponge gets a bit rough as he consciously rubs off the unconscious scales that I have welded to my subconscious. Sometimes it feels like scalpels are being sunk in every facet of my personality to excavate the skeletons that I had buried with the white flags of bluffs. And when I open my “under the refinery” lips in complaints He hushes me into silence – “No whitewashed walls” He says, “we can’t just paint over these cadavers, the stinks will surface”

So I simply grumble still not aware of the load of good the refinery is doing me… I’m learning to know… Sometimes it takes dreams for me to realize that I am still on course, still undergoing the course of faith, because at other times the pressure of the wanton world blinds my naked vision. Sometimes only revelations wink at me when I browse my 66 Books manual, a rare occurrence as Facebook, twitter, DSTv, and the media have me on the regular. 

Still He continues the work, which He alone could start and only He can conclude amidst my rain of frailties. Not budging, not reneging on His promise to never leave me, nor abandon me… remaining a true homie, the ruler of the home called me, providing and being the shepherd even though I definitely don’t act like the sheep… I wonder why He still believes I can amount to the original intent that initiated my creation. 

If He still thinks I am worth it, then I am… Hmmm

For the many days that I ran back to my slime… as I still do… For the many days that I doubt that you would ever value my coarseness… For the many days that I let go of the mission in pursuit of what was in my peripheral vision… For the many days I forget the enormity of The Call… For the fact that you never ever kicked me out and shut the door… 

I just want to say Thank You Dad… You rock.

For the journey so far, Thank You