“This house is not for sale” is a familiar sign that would meet you.
Painted in scary, reckless red.
Native houses of large roofs and small buildings laced on the streets.
Young men sipping alcohol in sachets.
Because better small than nothing.
The market women have their songs tied in their wrapper.
Worn around their neck.
And easy money is bringing a weathered bible with an angry face.
Shouting Igbo praises like unto a deaf God.
Saying that God blesses, God revenges.
And there, your offerings go!
Everybody likes a good story, so smack your lips.
Click your fingers in drama.
Talk about the girl that turned into a yam because of cheap notes.
Say you saw it with your korokoro eyes and hiss deeply.
People like people that saw it Life!
When they took the baby, when the man died, when the car somersaulted.
Aggressive nods and Eh kwas!
There are things you must learn.
How to swirl in the spirit, chant in tongues.
Cast a demon or two, force a tear and more.
Learn your audience.
Somebody should have a swollen leg, a heavy heart, a barren womb.
You must be seen sweating, your eyes shut tightly.
To see our Lord in white shinning robes and pierced palms.
I ran out of prophecies in 2000 and I did not do this very long.
But this is a good place to start.
Welcome to Aba.