The Museum of Gods

Mary Mba (Ph.D.)

A Lament for the Stolen Sacred

They came with ships and sermons,
crosses in one hand,
guns in the other.
They found altars we had made from stone and spirit,
and called them blasphemy.

They did not bow.
They did not ask.
They took.

What they called idols
were our elders in wood.
Our prayers in bronze.
Our wisdom braided into clay.

They shattered the shrines
and stole the statues.
Said, “You are savages,”
as they wrapped our gods in linen
and mailed them to Europe.

Then they built museums—
temples of theft—
where people now stand in quiet awe
before the very things we were beaten for loving.

And they say:

“Look at the craftsmanship.”
“Such primitive elegance.”
“How valuable this is.”

But what they mean is:

“It only became sacred once we took it.”

They bow now—
but only to the plaque,
to the frame,
to the price tag.

We see the altars behind glass.
We are told to be grateful.
That they were “preserved.”

But what they mean is:

“You were never meant to be trusted with your own holiness.”

So we light candles in our lungs.
We whisper prayers in hidden tongues.
We touch soil and remember its name.
We bow—not to stone,
but to spirit.

Because we know—

A god behind glass
is still a god.
And the stolen sacred
still sings.