The Preachers

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To everything there’s a season 
Or so it is written in the Book 
But now that is untenable 
In fact, we reject it! 
We do everything in the same season. 
A time to sleep and time to wake? 
No, it is all preaching time 
If they sleep or we rest, 
We lose collection! 
A time to work and time to church? 
No, it is all preaching time 
There is no time for anything else!


Streetside, market square
T-junction, roundabout
School block, canopy hut
Lorry park, taxi rank
Chop bar, fitting shop
home or workplace
everywhere, every time
As the good Book itself says.
Give them no rest or peace
Until they bring their collection
And pay their tithes and dues.


Don’t forget those traveling
Long or short, far or near
Executive buses or trotro prisons,
Let them hear your voice
Tell them Jesus loves them
And will give them money
If only they bring their collections
And dues and tithes to you
Money will fall from the skies
One day, one day!


But who’s that Jesus guy anyway?
Never mind that at all, my son
You don’t need to know him yourself
Just tell others he loves them
That’s how to get your daily bread
Remember the word is daily bread!
Get a megaphone or better still,
One of those wooden boxes
Those things are good
When you shout, it goes boom!
They will remember to drop
Their collection as they pass by


But what shall I shout and say?
Don’t worry about that my son
Just croak, other idiots are doing it
Even infants at the breast!
This is about daily bread
Times are hard, man must eat!
People are consoled if you tell them
That God will bless them
And make them rich one day
They’ll make you rich today
And hope for their own riches
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
That shouldn’t be your problem.


Tell them God loves them
That’s why they are alive
They will feel special and give the money
That’s all that matters
They don’t know that God loves
Those who have died too
Even Jesus, God's own son, 
Died aged only 33!
These are hard times;
These are opportune times;
And only the preacher can prosper
So you must preach anything, my son
Just keep your eye on that collection box!


Tell people that all others hate them
Their family and friends are not correct
Their neighbours and work colleagues
Are witches and wizards,
Their parents and grandparents
Have ‘tied up’ their progress in life
In fact, anything at all
They’ll believe you and shout hallelujah!
And weep and cry and beg you.
Then tell them you’ll pray for them
That next year will be their time
Their breakthrough year, standout year,
whatever year!
You have them in your pocket now
And they’ll give the last drop
Of their blood and sweat.


You can tell them the same thing
Every day, every week, every month
Every year, they’ll still believe you
They have short memories
I am not the one saying it
Collect all their monies
Build a mansion and buy a V8
Tell them to see how
God has blessed you
And that he will bless them too
They’ll be happy and shout Amen!


Now you can sell to them any rubbish
Water, oil, pens, pencils, paper,
Photo, calendar, handkerchief
Apron, chalk, toys, anything
Call them holy and you have
Your market and customers.
They say there’s no money,
The lazy lying fools!
Don’t listen to them.
They will buy it all up.
They always have money for such things.



What about the real pastors?
Don’t listen to those people my son
It is their business to make saints
Our business is to make money
We are all the same anyway;
We all talk about Jesus
People can’t see the difference
God bless their ignorance and fanaticism
And make their frustration great and strong
So they can come to us again and again.


Happy are those who’re smart enough
to join the preaching party
They will prosper as ignorance reigns!
30/12/16
For another poem about Ghanaian society, click here




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