“Eucharist I & II” by Nwuguru Chidiebere Sullivan
Nwuguru Chidiebere Sullivan (he/him/his) is a speculative writer of Izzi, Abakaliki ancestry; a finalist for the SPFA Rhysling Award, a nominee for the Forward Prize, and a data science enthusiast. He was the winner of the 2021 Write About Now’s Cookout Literary Prize. He is published in Strange Horizon, Nightmare Mag, Augur Mag, Filednotes Journal, Kernel Magazine, Mizna, and elsewhere.
Twitter: @wordpottersul1
Author Foreword:
The poems were hugely inspired by the current happenings in Nigeria where the citizens are at the mercy of different terrorist groups. Even when the citizens tried changing the narratives through the power of their votes, their wills were thwarted by the government that is supposed to uphold and respect their democratic choice.
Eucharist I
(i)
Loss is a burnt thumb that tricks our skin into cenotaphs.
The only road that opens into us is a hand that shreds
flowers for scents; people here do this a lot to perceive
themselves saints.What are we waiting for before we
give it all up; I mean, to the up above?— an offering
to the ineptitude of a god sleeping on us.
(ii)
Ever believed that soldiers could troop
into armless hamlets & spread storms
poisoned with bullets as an offer from
the government? Headless corpses forfeit
the biddings from the wind, pollute the
soil with their grievance, uplift their
burdened souls from the ground where
their pink fingers make shapeless
signatures with bloody inks.
(iii)
Heads howling, homes burning. I took a bow from
the newspaper stand where the headlines line the
heads of the newly bereaved. The president must
be warming up to offer a handful of odds on a
life-support to the masses. Call here a nirvana &
watch us rise to claim it. We dare not riot or we'll
be declared “shoot on sight.”
(iv)
Hopes crumble until there's none left, the
faith that should be standing on our arms
have fallen close to our feet & these
limbless dreams, these dreams should be
standing on prosthetic limbs but to whose
end do we make it? Loss should be
earned, I screamed to the flaccid ghouls
milking our lives for the taste of it:
May today not be our end!
Eucharist II
(i)
It's tomorrow already:
Loss still glitters like a neon bulb.
Tomorrow comes too quick at us
& we are never prepared for it.
Possibilities give no fuck about us.
(ii)
Buttoned in between the belly of
handicaps of life & the stillness
of death; the brackets curling up for
the first time into multiple-choice questions
& we're still the only ones left out.
(iii)
Imagine this: a cyborg hacking into
a fruitless heart. The nation skyrocketing
into a misplaced history, rigged elections
& upturned victories in favour of those
bribing karma.
(iv)
This is no movie; the villain still wins,
the vampires still perform the eucharist
of blood, & I'm no zombie to go after
the brains behind this. I let them win,
after all, loss glitters like a neon bulb.
