The American Jesus

Michael-Jackson-And-Jesus

‘Michael, the American Jesus’ by David LaChapelle

Jesus is one of the ascended masters and deities that I still adore, that I still commune with. The Jesus (or ‘Yeshua’, the actual earthly name that he had) who loved children and was kind to everyone, who was so popular (people had to climb trees to catch a glimpse of him, and struggle through crowds to touch him), breaking as many stupid rules as he could during his earthly incarnation, focusing on love, forgiveness, kindness, and healing, despite the injustice that he suffered and the false news that was spread about him in religious & non-religious places. Yahweh, whose very essence is ‘spirit’, not ‘Christian’, not even ‘Jew’, not bound by any man-made ideologies or the accounts of who he was that was documented in the Bible many centuries ago.

The very essence of the spirit of Jesus is very peaceful, loving, kind, and true. People are focusing on the earthly incarnation of Jesus, mostly uninterested in who the spirit is. They are turning to the books of Matthew, Mark, John, and Luke to look up what Jesus the Man said (as far as we know, yeah), not caring so much about what Jesus meant, and most-importantly, what Jesus is saying now, which is quite redundant, if you ask me, especially since you acknowledge daily that spirits exist even after an earthly incarnation, that Jesus is alive somewhere.  

If Jesus was to return as a human today, you will absolutely not find him in a church, or a cathedral, or anywhere near the pope. There are more chances of finding him in Jasmine Masters or Bobrisky’s living room, or the orphanage, or with the people of the Amazon, than any of those places. To the Pharisees, he was a major weirdo, and it’s not hard to see why. He wasn’t a member of the religious elite, in a sense, but he was, and that was uncomfortable.

People have made an ideology, a political system, and a cult out of what they think God/Spirit and Jesus are, and it is scary, to say the least. The wickedness that has been carried out in those names, the discrimination, the hatred, the scamming, and everything else, is nauseating.

A majority of people do not understand what they are doing in Jesus’ name; they just go with the flow. It has become a game of ‘those who will make it to Heaven’ versus ‘those who will make it to hell’ much more than anything else, and that’s quite stupid because all our souls came from Heaven. We’ve walked the streets of gold, we’ve seen other realms, and we can all chill. Religion has an uncanny ability to make people very proud of and confident in their ignorance, and it’s an ugly sight to behold.

This is a really good painting. There are distinct similarities between the last earthly incarnations of Michael and that of Jesus, both being sons of ‘Joseph’ but not really, much more, betrayed by the very people that they trusted and loved (for money and acceptance).

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Time is on My Side

Ms. Irma Thomas’ voice does something to the tear glands in my eyes, the heartbeat in my chest, the bottomless pit in my stomach, and the tiny-weeny hairs on my legs, I tell you.

She’s incredible! She’s the queen,  no questions necessary! I feel all these feelings, Good God!

Sing to me, mummy!

Sex is Ruining our World

Mulata

I actually don’t mean the title, it’s ridiculous, and I am a hater.

I went to the database of the International Association of the Unlaid to find the list of individuals who are destined to depart from this cold, hard [lmao, what fuckery] world without ever experiencing intercourse with other individuals, and my name was first on the list. Brethren, believe you me, I was not surprised in the least.

Each time I imagine myself existing in that state of vulnerability that one has to be in to engage in the moment of action that is sex, the thought sends shivers up and down my spine. That won’t be me, God; that can’t possibly be me. Inherently, or perhaps it isn’t, I don’t know,  I can never find true pleasure in a state of vulnerability, and sex involves many things including the surrendering of pride and power. It is a non-violent act of violence. Don’t take the last sentence seriously; I don’t know what I’m on about.

A few years ago, when I used to travel to my mum’s rented residence at Okuku, the same town where my mum was a professor and the head of her department at the Osun State University, there was a perverted individual within the vicinity. He was the landlady’s son and I called him ‘Uncle Raphael, as per the culture. If someone is old enough to be your uncle, ‘uncle’ has to precede their name before it is uttered.

Whenever my mum wasn’t looking, he would look at me weirdly, suggestively, so I avoided him at all costs. I have never told my mum this, and I can certainly see how people who have gone through serious forms of molestation, especially of the sexual nature, keep quiet about it, even for the rest of their lives.

Whenever my mum gave me her clothes to wash, and we sometimes would travel with dirty clothes so I could wash them whenever she was away at her university, I would wash them indoors, in the bath, and although I knew she would give me a piece of her mind whenever she returned for doing so instead of doing the washing outside, I couldn’t exactly tell her why. I was trying to avoid Raphael. I stayed indoors until the afternoon or evening, until I could hear my mum’s car horn outside the gate; I am an indoor-loving person anyway.

Raphael was a completely different person whenever my mum was around. He was a bit cold towards me, almost mean. There was this one time that I slept off and rain fell, making the clothes that I had spread get super-wet all over again, and as my mum was scolding me for not paying attention to the rain, he was too. It was mind-blowing.

My mum spoke highly of him, and she would many times call him ‘Uncle
Raphael’ too, even though she is very much older than him. She would thank him for running errands for her and stuff- some of it had to do with the fact that she was the landlady’s son, I believe.

My whole family took a vacation of sorts to my mum’s residence at a time, and after I had made the meal [I am the first and only daughter of four children, my natal Saturn is in the 1st house, I am not even 30 yet but I have the maturity of a 55-year-old, and I have had to work quite hard till this day], I was told to go into the car to get something- I don’t remember what it was. I grabbed the torch, left the residence, and headed to the car.

There he was, right in front of his residence, as it was next to my mum’s, staring at me like a wild cat [no offence to cats, I love y’all], like he was about to devour me. He was calling me, and I think he may have hastened his steps as I ran to the car. He didn’t run after me, so instinctively, I knew I was going to be ambushed. I remember being very terrified to return to the residence. I got whatever it was and headed for the residence, and as I expected, he was lurking by a wall in the dark, waiting for me.

I kept telling him to leave me alone. The whole thing happened quickly; he carried me, and he kept trying to force a kiss on me. I kept trying to struggle free, but of course, he was stronger than me. I used to be short and slim. I’m still short, just not slim. I can remember how uncomfortable I felt that night; the whole thing was quite distressing.

Then he heard his mum’s voice. It happened not too far from his mother’s quarters and she must have heard me tell him to leave me alone. She was seated, and I can remember her calling his name, ‘Raphael!’. He seemed surprised that she had seen him since she would have been asleep at the time, I assume, and he quickly left me alone.

My family was to leave the town not too long after, and he asked me for a parting gift after he let me go. I gave him a can of Malta Guinness; it was either out of relief or confusion, I don’t know. There were only six cans in the house, and my family members were to have one each. When my mum asked if I had taken my share, I pretended that I had taken the drink. My father was around too, and I couldn’t tell either of them what had happened.

It bothered me for a long time; it bothers me to this day. I wish it didn’t, because nothing really happened, and a voice in my head keeps telling me that the experience I just narrated may be quite insulting to people who have been through more-serious forms of rough handling. The memory of being so vulnerable and unable to defend myself, unable to save myself from Raphael’s very-strong grip, is quite painful. I could have been somewhere between 11-15 years old; I don’t remember vividly.

I have a very strong phobia of being kissed, being held or hugged for longer than necessary, and definitely intercourse. I somewhat believe that my experience has nothing to do with those fears; it is who I am inherently, guarded, not just a late bloomer. I gave myself my first kiss with a mirror and that’s it; I don’t need anymore.

I have a feeling that there will be a change in the future, that perhaps, when I am in my 30s or 40s, I will meet someone, male or female, I don’t care, and when we both look into each other’s eyes, the rest will be history- I will want to be touched in that way. I just don’t see it happening, and I am, for some reason, quite determined to not let it happen, but we’ll see. Life always happens, and life has a very interesting sense of humour.

I mean the title, it’s not ridiculous, and I will tell you why I think so when I make a second part to this- Sex is Ruining our World II. 

Magic Michael

mike2

Born during the phase of the full moon,
for all of the world to see,
in the late evening on August 29, 1958,
around 7:33.

Mother Nature rejoiced!
The waters waved and danced in delight!
The birds flapped their wings in excitement.
The world was showered with new light that night.

The wolves stood on rocks and howled.
The stars and the sky gathered in celebration.
He was here to sing, dance, and heal.
Unborn babies kicked in anticipation.

He was the moon;
an enigma, mystery in the flesh.
He was as the moon;
adored from France to Bangladesh.

He was a man as a child,
and he was a child as a man.
It was in the way that he sat and spoke,
and in the way that he jumped and ran.

He was the Earth Angel Michael;
the friend and guardian of children.
Kids knew it and they loved him,
protective and doting, mother hen.

We miss him.

The earth stood still on June 25, 2009;
we had a nightmare while our eyes were wide open.
We shivered as sweat ran down our foreheads.
We took long and deep breaths in,
quickly running out,
dying.

Where is our Michael?

When we think of him,
we are filled with happiness and strength,
but we miss him,
and the thought of it makes us weak.
We miss his hypnotic, gorgeous eyes,
the beauty of and in his smile,
the charisma and gaiety in his dance,

the sweet softness of his voice,
that voice, the sound of freshwaters.

We miss the way he made us feel
when he lifted us up as he bent to kneel.
Mother Earth weeps as She curls her toes.

Elephants trumpet,
birds sing of our woes.

We are nostalgic about carrying him,
as he carried us,

as we play and replay his shows.
We are lovesick.

He is here.

Mamase, mamasa, mamakusa.
Mama, say,
mama, sir,
mama, cool sir.
He will always be with us.

Yes, he will, our king of pop,
our king of love.
His body will always be in our soil,

swaddled in Gaia’s arms,
and that is not all.

His spirit will always be with us.
He will always be here,
via his songs,
via his dance,
via his teaching,
via his charity,
via his silent cries and loud wailings,
via his musical screams.
We will rock him back and forth;

we will never drop him.
We will remember him fondly,
loving and cherishing him,
for decades and generations to come.

 

Till Death Do Us Part

ttt

Let’s stay together,
if not my heart you’ll sever,
till death do us part.

I’ll do anything for you,
try anything you want to,
till death do us part.

Your pain is my pain,
your love is my gain,
till death do us part.

This isn’t right,
this isn’t healthy,
but you say that I’m your lady,
and I like when you call me ‘baby’,
so let’s be wild,
let’s be free,
and listen to no one but we,
let us be one and the same,
neither needs to take the blame,
my life is very you and me,
without you, I cannot breathe or sleep,
without you, I simply cannot see,
our love is ill,

and it might kill,
but I’ll stay with you,
oh yes, I will,
till death do us part.

Enough is enough, except you can’t get enough.
Substitute Title: Houston-Winehouse Love

My Love, I Don’t Understand

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‘ Reclining Lady’ by Margaret Garcia

Baby, now that you’re out of flesh,
do you really still see me?
Do you rub my belly when we’re together alone?
Do you still hold my hand when I pee?

Darling, now that you don’t have a mouth,
can you still taste some of my food?
Do you still giggle when I dance unclad for you?
Do I still get you in the mood?

Honey, without your hands and arms,
can you feel my temperature when I’m ill?
Do you twitch my nipples and kiss my lips?
Is my love a thing you can feel?

My love, do you like my new waist beads?
I can’t tell, and it’s driving me crazy.
Why won’t you come take me,
so I can be with you?
Will we never make a baby?

Love ‘IsReal’- ‘MicHeal’ Jackson

paint

Painted by freckledmestiza

When I was in SS3 [last year of high school], my Literature-in-English teacher—Papa Ade—did something that I never forgot. Pa Ade was my father, so to speak, because I was living away from home at the time; I lived in the school’s girls’ hostel/dormitory. I called him ‘Baba’, and I spent a lot of time with him in his office and in the library. He was (and of course, still is) a senior [he taught one of my classmate’s mother], and that was enough reason for me to love him. Natally, I have Saturn in the 1st house, and as a child, I remember feeling very out of place, like the ugly duckling, among other children, but happy among the adults. I liked to listen to them, and terribly hated it when I was told to cover my ears or close my eyes or go play with my mates.

I loved Pa Ade, and I got very close to him. I was also very curious about him, about what had happened between him and his wife, and he told me all I needed to know. I couldn’t say the same about many of my classmates though. They found his style of teaching rather archaic, and the fact that we had to have a dictionary each time we had lessons with him really pissed a few off. He was very particular about it- expect to be flogged or embarrassed if you don’t have your dictionary. I genuinely liked to read to the class whenever I had a chance, and we would take turns reading parts of the books/novels, sometimes. I enjoyed Baba’s class very much.

I am an introvert, but I tried to portray myself as an extrovert in Senior Secondary School. I had been bullied/made fun of, a good number of times, in Junior Secondary School [which was a different school entirely] due to a supposed ‘lack of exposure’, and I wasn’t going to have it in Senior Secondary School. My mantra was a bit like “I don’t want nobody fucking with me in these streets.” Whether it brought me more hate or not, I don’t know, but I made it clear- I wasn’t going to be pushed around. Now that I’m older and I see that I have Lilith in the 5th house natally, ‘boom’, my feeling out of place among my mates as a child seems to make a lot of sense.

Where am I going with these memories? I don’t know. I’ll write more about my experiences in the future. None of these things that I keep remembering and mentioning has anything to do with this article; on second thought, maybe they all do.

Back to the occurrence that happened that I will never forget: Pa Adeniyi came to class one day and walked straight to Israel, my classmate. As it turned out, Israel had spelled his name as ‘Isreal’, and that had really pissed Baba off. He must have hit him with his rubber ‘cane’ [he hit me once with it in class before we got close, and it really hurt] if I remember clearly. Israel was livid. I guess it traumatized me since I began to pay more attention to my work, ensuring that I never made that mistake (or a similar one) from then on.

Lately, I have been typing or writing ‘Michael’ as ‘Micheal’ subconsciously, and then correcting it as quickly as I realize my mistake, sometimes embarrassingly, and I have found it very interesting. I had been ignoring it until I literally asked myself the ‘what for?’ question today. ‘I know how to spell ‘Michael’, and ‘Israel’; why is my brain ‘moving mad’ and acting this way?’ Then I looked closely and immediately realized what the message was- MicHEAL. I have been noticing 11:11s and 1:11s far more frequently than other number synchronicities lately, and I believe that this too, MicHEAL, is a message.

Michael Jackson is still very much a healer, even as a spirit, not only due to the messages/energies that he put out to the world via the music that he made when he was with us in the flesh, but because he is doing lightwork and awakening/communicating with lightworkers/healers, with the help of the angels and his spiritual squad, even though he doesn’t live like us anymore. Michael is not disturbed as a spirit due to all the lies that are being told against him. It is all for a purpose, and people are being awakened to the kind of soul that Michael really was and still is, much more than they were.

Being kind to one another, taking care of and loving children, being childlike but not childish- these and more were Michael’s messages. I don’t want to read too much into how I feel because it is not necessary. Whether this is a call for me to be encouraged in my healing work or address my suppressed emotions, I cannot profoundly claim to know. I know that it could be both.

Coincidentally, it is Children’s Day in Nigeria- May 27, and I have been trying to think of what to put out on my Instagram page to that effect. I thought about posting a video of Michael delivering a speech while he was receiving the NAACP Awards in 1993. I have attached the video to this post but this is my favourite part of what he said:

“In every person,
there is a secret song in their heart.
It says ‘I am free.
It sings ‘I am one’.
This is the natural feeling of every child-
to be free as the wind,
to be one with every other child.
All the trouble in the world is caused by forgetting this feeling,
and when I perform,
my connection is with the people,
just to remind me of that-
to be free and to be one.

Michael is telling us (like he has always done) that we should open ourselves up for healing, and by doing so, we will heal one another and heal our earth. The big question is ‘how’, and the answer appears to be simple, in theory, at least. We must be child-like; again, not childish, child-like. We must be forgiving (of others, and most-especially, ourselves), loving, kind, compassionate, and free.

We must return to what we once were before ‘life’ began, what we were sent to this consciousness to be. We must learn lessons without learning pain and bitterness, and if we have learnt bitterness, we must unlearn it. 

Love is real. 

The First One Dies First

Hip Bone

‘Hip Bone’ by Gilbert Young

Yesterday,
you braced yourself.

With all the courage that you had,
you told them how you really felt,
and what all your affection meant.

Today,
they tell you that they love you.
They’re here to make your dark sky blue.
You give them butterflies inside too,
so they show you life,
and it’s brand new.
It’s an exciting time for you two,

and there’s nothing,
for your baby,
that you can’t do.

Tomorrow,
you’re going to have a big fight;

the things that they’ll say will hurt you.
If you threaten to leave if they don’t change,
they’ll react in a way that you’ll find strange.
The words that they’ll say will be quite true,
“I didn’t come to you first,
I didn’t want you.”

Falling in Love is Masochistic

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Painted by John Park

I will never understand,
for as long as I live,
why people crave so hard,
why people ache so bad,
to fall in love.

I know that falling is nice,
falling is like flying,
and flying is nice,
but when the clock strikes 12,
one will have to pay the price.

Landing is tough,
landing is rough,
there are cuts on the face and neck,
and blood on the thighs and head.
The heart is broken into several pieces,
and air is taken out of the lungs.
The knees lose life and strength,
and the sides become so badly bent.

I hope they learn a lesson or two.
I stand by the scene and I watch,
hoping they’ll never, ever return,
but people climb on love’s hill again,
with smiles on their lips
and laughter in their mouths,
wobbling with a partner in hand,
to fall into that dark pit once more,
to die again.

What Have Love Do For Me?

love kee you there

As I dey look you for eye,
your pity just dey do me for mind,
but the wahala wey you dey look for,
na the wahala wey you go find.

You dey shine eye well well but
e be like say you no dey see.
My body and blood don hot well well;
what have this love even do for me?

I dey always do plenty things for man;
I dey cook all kind sweet sweet food.
Of all the man wey I don love;
las las no one even do me good.

The palava wey love give me too much;
I no just get strength for pain again.
Abeg waka away comot from my front;
If I love you now, wetin I go gain?