Messiah why did you drop your cross?

The messiahs, princes of deliverance, the pots where every one of you had made their deposits of hope, they reached Calvary, but celebrate not, they shed the crosses at Heathrow and Brussels. They picked swords instead and the messiahs we hoped would bring us peace in their giant heads have just bought us death and destruction. They are fighting tooth and nail, they are nationalizing alongside the owners of the nation, invoking the spirits of Malcolm X and Martin Luther, aren’t there enough spirits to invoke back here? What happened to your cross messiah? What happened to the salvation the gentiles are hoping for? Was it worth it to become stray mongrels just so you could fight among the pure bred?

They ask you,” what is it you really are fighting for?” and you scratch your heads.

“Our brothers here are being discriminated against; they don’t get equal opportunities so we stand in solidarity.

But man, don’t you have enough problems back in Africa? Doesn’t charity begin at home? Did they tell you they can’t fight their own wars? Your people are drowning in poverty, your governments are sodden in corruption, drums of war are sounding every now and again. Why, if I may ask are you fighting for those already winning their wars while yours yawn untouched? Why are you shedding blood for a cause you don’t fully comprehend? Messiah, why have you dropped your cross?

You are fighting for your rights, which rights? The right to be absolved of all the wrong your people will do, are doing, or the right to use your brains? The right not to walk with the shame of a misfit, tattooed with his country’s laments on his forehead? Your people are not your shame, you are their shame. Did the cross become too heavy? Was it too old-fashioned or too cheap? Messiah, why did you drop the cross? Did the anchor look lighter to you?

That when you die you will be a saint, who lied to you? Why are you drawing the sign of the cross, wait, do you even remember how it looks like anymore? What happens, messiah, to all those young birds waiting for worms with their mouth wide open? Why are you feeding the hawks in the tall eucalyptus while your fellow ravens are starving in the euphorbia hedge? Are you afraid of the nails and barbs on your head at the end of the journey? Well, your people would never crucify you because you just crucified yourself.

So don’t stay up late children, the messiahs have dropped the cross, there are no gifts for you in due time, and your prayers have turned into smoke. Go home women, feed your remaining birds, the ones you fattened have just left the roost. Fathers, drown yourselves in the abundant pots of palm wine, for indeed there are images to be divorced. Rub all your memories, grandparents, make peace with your maker and don’t show him the frown, maybe the prophecy was not for the roosters with big testicles, maybe it belonged to the sterile bird with albino feathers and the broken crow, or maybe it was a wrong prophecy, or just an enthusiastic dream. Let us know just when to say we give up. Go back to your beds, maybe we shall dream again tonight.