I passed Jesus the blunt.
He doesn’t puff, doesn’t preach —
just holds it like a memory,
like the kind of love you no longer want but still can’t let go.
He handed it back, with that tired Golgotha smile.
Fela just stared,
waiting for me to make the same offer.
I said,
“Look Fela, I wouldn’t risk you hitting this —
not enough burn in this for both of us.”
Leopold’s in the corner, going crazy again.
Fela goes ahead and shoves him down the slab —
one clean for the slaves and the children they birthed in chains.
Jesus took the wheels —
careful not to catch the same hands.
I held his drink, took a sip,
wiped foam off my mouthache.
“Thou shalt not steal,”
he thundered from within the dysfunction.
But Good Lord —
I’ve seen priests rip your name into flesh,
pour your blood into plastic cups —
call it communion or capitalism.
What’s a few gulps you cannot atone for?
Fela laughed — that wide madman’s laughter.
Leopold scoffed and caught another right across the face.
Jesus made him whole again.
He stood, drank his absinthe — like nothing even happened.
—–
Poems (c) Deji Bejide
Image: GRAS GRÜN Unsplash cropped