Poetry By
Abraham Adonduwa
Published on: 4/23/2015
U S of A
He spoke with a slur And walked with a limp He called God sixty eight times I know I counted He dialed an international line: +1.... In faraway US of A We spoke to his wife Or rather she spoke to us Told us not to worry We struggled to hear, the line was blurry dear old Pastor Mark— oh we didn't know he was a pastor?— will arrange our travel papers we will first travel to Cotonou and make our way to New York from there she will meet with us at JFK airport— John Fitzgerald Kennedy, by the way— and take us to our temporal accommodations until they are done processing our green cards with immigration we needn't bother with the details It was divine destiny that we met good old Pastor Mark Aremu Her sweet and kind husband who insisted that they help us Because it was the will of God Poor folks that we were Looking to make our way to paradise Into the land flowing with milk and honey Looking to be delivered from a failed state All we had to do was bring as much money as we could On such short notice Pastor Mark had other clients waiting across the porous border We will cross the red sea and join his wife in Canaan land We walked through the border behind our limping host Our two cars already auctioned off for half their prices Our only house sold He shuffled us past a lazy pot bellied immigration officer Who squeezed the naira notes handed to him into his bulging pocket We lodged at a run down motel It is only for the night, he assured Tomorrow morning you will be on your way to New York By the special grace of God That night my wife and three kids snored like babies I could hear them dream of the clean, cobbled streets Of lights that never sleep Of fast trains and skyscrapers so tall that they nearly touch the sky their dreams so loud that my eyes barely closed By morning he told us to be ready in an hour He was only going to change all our money into dollars I watched him sling that ghana must go bag stuffed with our toil and sweat Over his hunched back shoulder I watched him cross the dusty street and disappear into thin air It must have been jazz, Is all I can say He must have cast a spell over my watchful eyes.
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