Writer: Lwando Mhlabeni
It’s almost Sunday
Mom has her church uniform ironed,
She sings along as she folds her skirt,
She waves her waist as she worships her Lord.
It’s almost Sunday,
And I’m about to argue with Mom,
We’ll argue about the hypocrisy pastor has,
We’ll argue about the many things I hate about that place.
Mom will preach to me,
She’ll tell me about how I praise the devil
She’ll lecture me about salvation
She’ll attempt to convince me that Christ is the only way
It’s almost Sunday,
I’m about to be forced to listen to pastor,
I’m about to be told about tithe,
They’ll tell me to give, to receive
Pastor will be coming in with a fancy car
He will dig deep into the pockets of the poor,
The poor and hopeful,
Those blinded by faith and artificial optimism
It’s almost Sunday,
Mom will tell me about God’s love,
Yet I still crave for her love.
It’s almost Sunday
And I hate going there.
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