This poem carrying my pieces isn't just for me, Memories are archives of aged moments, cognitive videos & portraits. How do I name myself a dove with these broken wings? How do I count on time, in this place, when it's a mirror that's not needed to view the thing around our wrist? I was prepared on that day to return my griefs to God in prayers by 12 pm at the dot; that's when the pastors say the distance from Earth to heaven is shortened, No demon could easily assemble an armour to block our orison from reaching God within the kind of little space that midnight allows, Not even Satan could squeeze himself Into engulfing our prayers within such little distance. I parted my burdens into the soliciting books of Psalms, folded my tongue into a pocket to carry them & hurried my sullen body to the church before 11:45 Pm. When I bumped into the church, ready to litter my worries on the feet of God, I saw many other broken bodies like me, we all waited together by lingering praises & worships on our lips, but the pastor never joined us till it was exactly 1:25 Am. He prayed with us. He prayed for us, but I wasn't just satisfied, 'cause I felt my own prayers were trapped somewhere between Heaven and Earth as usual. I turned to the nearest person beside me & asked; "but why didn't he start the prayers by 12:00 Am like he said earlier?" He told me; "that's African time for you." I left the church, carried my griefs as drafts waiting for the touch of a messiah. This is what you do at the sight of an endless ocean 'cause you don't have one at the back of your father's house.
Biography: Nwuguru Chidiebere Sullivan is an emerging writer from Ebonyi state, Nigeria. He’s a penultimate medical laboratory science student who explores medicine in the day and worships literature at night. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in several literary journals; both online and printed. He was the winner of 2018, FUNAI CREW Literary Contest.