On the left wing of the church,
you would sit in rows with the other boys
dressed like a tidy supermarket shelf of tuna,
listening to the sermon about a version of Hell:
burning is Light’s work.
You joke to the other boys:
in Naija burning is light work.
Sometimes the pastor forgets the nature of his congregation
as if Sister Linda’s son, who would usually sit behind you,
isn’t lying in a ward, half a pound lighter in the liver after
he got caught slipping in Brixton.