Back To December

He booked the rain for Christmas Day.



It arrived late
typical.
Even prophecies struggle with Ghana-man-time.
December cleared its throat in protest.
Harmattan had already clocked in:
dry, dusty, dependable.
But rain showed up anyway,
uninvited,
like a guest who refuses to leave,
“God sent me.”
Now everyone is a meteorologist.
Everyone’s a theologian.
The sky sneezes and Twitter screams,
“CONFIRMATION!”
At Rapperholic, the script changed.
God reveals to redeem.
Ah yes
the spiritual “terms and conditions.”
Because when nothing happens,
it’s some form of mercy.
When something happens,
it’s prophecy.
When anything happens at all,
God was involved somehow.
The rain itself is confused.
It falls in small doses
trial version rain.
Not enough to drown anyone,
just enough to say
“Don’t relax yet.”
Is this begining of the end being foretold
or the end of common sense?
Here, an ark can mean anything.
Today it is salvation.
Tomorrow it is content.
Next week it is a business opportunity.
Faith is flexible, it bends to fit the narrative
and never breaks accountability.
The inconsistencies don’t prove a lie.
They prove something funnier, no one really knows,
but everyone is pretending they do.
So, the rain falls in December,
the clouds plead the fifth,
and we stand in harmattan,
wet, suspicious,
laughing nervously
while calling coincidence
a sign.


Poems From The Graves