We Are All Saints On Sunday Poem by Benjamin Bauda

Colourfully dressed,
All looking wonderfully beautiful,
Spotlessly clean like those advertising klin,
Looking so pious, so blameless like Saints.


He sits quietly as the preacher preached but listens to only voices from last night's clubbing,
She is an angel in white gown in the morning but like a chameleon she turns into the devil in red dress at night,
They call him the man of God cause he spreads the word of God, but he practices the work of gods after Sunday service,
They are a happy couple as they walk to church, but they and their neighbors know that they are a war couple at home.


Am hearing the words the pastor is preaching but not listening to them,
Going on In my head is a war of thoughts,
Thoughts of Sarah,
Thoughts of naira,
Thoughts of how we are all dressed and sitted like Saints that we are not.