By Tafi Mhaka

I didn’t shed a tear the day you killed me in Milwaukee.
But I was mad at you.
The doctors said I was mad.
But you said I was bad.
Too bad I never got a cup of Starbucks coffee.
Good lord there is no Starbucks in heaven.
All I see around me are evergreen plantations of long-lasting regrets.
All I see here are fields of gold that can’t be sold.
And shiny black silhouettes of African-American souls.
Souls that are slaves to the ghettos of their suppressed minds.
Souls that are slaves of the black urban jungle Uncle Sam made.

I met Tanisha Andersen.
You have met Tanisha.
She misses Cleveland.
She misses her mama.
And she is mad at you.
The doctors said she was mad too.
But you said she was bad.
Her head still hurts.
Her mind still aches.
You banged the loving life out of her head.
And squeezed the last breath out of her beautiful earthly soul.
All I see in Tanisha now is a broken shell of a fragile African woman.
A troubled soul broken by the shackles of federal hate.
Bipolar disorder is no condition for a black woman you say?

I met Walter Scott in this heavenly ghetto.
You know Walter?
His ship landed in the dead of the night as usual.
The fatal gunshot you fired that day pierced his spine.
And shattered his celestial faith into sharp fragments of stinging pain.
Run nigga run they sang in 1851.
We sing Change Gonna Come in this ghetto.
We sing Strange Fruit in this ghetto.
We wander aimlessly in the heavenly plantations of the African spiritual afterlife.
We struggle to pacify the restless spirits of African queens.
We struggle to pacify the spirits of slaves lost at sea.
We struggle to understand the sins of the colour of our skins.
Heaven is full of the Tanishas and Dontres.

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