the sun of father James.

nneka told stories at night that the winds could not carry
the air listened and lost a lungful, leaves crushing
the trees losing their verve.

she, conductor of the orchestra
we, implements
like puppets left in a state of fossilisation
even as night loved the moon
unequivocally and birth the stars.


father james always told us that heaven
was never far from reach
if we tried hard enough,
he let us sit in spheres around him

he, the seamless teacher
the gift of heaven, and we, his disciples
sent by our parents to escape immorality
never to be christened “cool kids”.

the sun and the moon are celestials, he said
ancients before us honoured them
yet had no understanding as to whom they revered.
the sun stood too far
and so god in his infinite wisdom
put it in between his legs
so we could make reverence to it.

father james, god’s gift with the right of heaven
opened his legs and showed us his sun.
we bowed to it, we kissed it, we gratified it
and for three years oblivious
that we worshipped another god.


at night
tekena touched me in his room.
it felt different, like paths of a storm
father james had only taught me to touch the sun.

he said,

you are a priestess of the sun and there is only one but in many forms.

tekena muttered in my ears with
a broken accent he had picked in Port Harcourt,

i am going to show you passion, a sacred language spoken with the assembly of two bodies.

and so, face between my thighs
his lips made a home for him.

in the moment i asked him
where is your sun?

he neither answered nor showed me.

i lay there quiet all night
with queen’s somebody to love
hollowing in my eardrums
as he filled himself again and again.

i listened through the gale
and heard whispers of father james’ sun.

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