RELIGION Poem: On the ship to Tarshish, by Babatunde Adeleke

the sea does not speak in whispers
it throws tantrums.
salt-laced, fistfuls of wind
slap the faces of disobedient men.
jonah curls in the hull,
hugging silence like a second skin,
while the storm negotiates
with timber and guilt.

above, sailors cast lots like bones
reading the marrow of rebellion.
below, a prophet pretends
God’s breath didn’t burn
on his neck last night.

some are called to Nineveh
but detour to Tarshish
they say it smells like citrus and tithes,
they say the pews are fuller there,
that the altar shines
with imported incense
and microphone approval.

they forget:
God does not chase men with comfort,
He corners them with storms.

cleric, when did your mouth
become a chalice for strange fire?
when did your feet start dancing
to drums carved from ego?
did you not hear Him
in the thunder,
or did Tarshish sing louder?

you wear cassocks stitched with ambition,
oil slicked not from heaven,
but the leaking pipes of pride.
your prayers drip gold,
but angels weep in monochrome.
you call it ministry
but what you build is a merchant’s temple
where prophecy is priced per seat.

listen—
obedience is not glamorous.
Nineveh still smells of blood and rot.
but it is where God waits,
with fire in His eyes
and mercy behind His back.

the fish does not come
to punish. it comes
to carry you back
to the place you fled.
go,
while the sea still remembers your name.

go,
before the shipwreck becomes permanent.
before God stops calling
and starts replacing.