(In the voice of a lamenting Prophet)

Where are my sons in suits?
Where are the daughters in wrappers of sorrow?
Where are the women with wombs of pain,
The men with dreams leaking through torn pockets?

Where are the midnight wailers?
The miracle seekers?
The tithers of last kobo?
The sowers of rent money?

Where are the prayer requests?

Ah!
They have vanished like demons at altar call
Gone with the potholes I once prophesied over!
Gone with the queues at embassies where I laid hands!

This nation has betrayed me!

Now trains come—on time!
How do I sell divine speed
When locomotives now run faster than my tongues?

NEPA keeps light like it’s born again!
How shall I preach “let there be light!”
When PHCN obeys no altar?

Hospitals work!
Specialists are now the real men of God!
Women no longer sow seeds for womb fruit
They book gynecologists!

I used to wave this oil,
And scatter migraines with Hallelujah!
Now the chemist does in seconds
What took me 21 days of dry fasting!

Tell me—how shall I scream “Receive your healing!”
When the labs already diagnose?

People now buy cars
With soft loans and dignity!
No more “touch the altar and receive your Lexus!”

Even the Imams lament
There is no crowd to shout Allahu Akbar
Over jobs that now come by merit.

My voice echoes in empty halls,
My anointing oil gathers dust,
The angels of breakthrough I once summoned
Have found work in ministries and parastatals.

Oh, Nigeria
Why did you fix yourself?
Was my hustle not enough?

You now give free education?
So who shall fall at the altar for school fees?
Who shall cry and sow to write JAMB?

The banks now lend fairly!
Who shall shout “I receive!” for house rent?

Oh Father of widows and welfare—
Why did you intervene?

Now, the people sleep soundly.
They no longer fear ancestral curses
They no longer gather for night vigil
They jog in estates at 5 a.m.,
Chanting “fitness is wealth.”

Ah, my tongue is dry!
I once commanded crowds like Moses,
Now even Moses is online,
Applying for civil service!

I call down fire,
But the fire brigade comes instead.

I raise my hands for revival
But the people say,
“We have power, sir… solar and stable.”

Now I am stranded!
A priest in a paradise!
A general without a battlefield!

I weep!
For a nation that healed without my laying of hands.

I mourn!
For a people who rose without my holy water!

Oh, what shall become of me?
A prophet in a working land
Is a clown in a quiet circus!