Thank God my Friday was not the 13th
Because colonizers drink our blood on that day
Wearing KKK hoods thinking it’s all good.
My uncle drank himself to death on a Friday
And I saw him turn over and over on top of the spit roast of his drunken fire.
My grandfather also thought Friday is a day to give thanks to Gods,
Not knowing their God was never there for Africans
So I knew his prayers were never about becoming free.
He wanted Friday so bad that I started watching horror movies to understand better.
The number thirteen, when it fell on a Friday, spelled the death of our fathers.
We should not even thank God for the mornings after Fridays
Because we wear the fake fur we got drunk in the day before
And stagger into churches with glazed eyes and mouths that feign chastity.
Why should we hide from the colonizer’s God at the bottom of beer bottles?
Are we afraid of past horrors?
Who hurt us that bad?
Also by this poet:
Mbonisi Zikhali comes from Makokoba, Bulawayo, Zimbabwe. He is a spoken-word artist, story-teller, youth mentor and grassroots community organizer. His stage name is Zomkhonto, which happens to be his bloodline’s totem. He is currently based in Canada.