Mondays, My Unpaid Enemy

Mondays, My Unpaid Enemy

If there is a day

that personally offends me,

a day that wakes up and chooses violence,

it is Monday.

Monday does not knock.

It kicks the door open.

It drags me;

from soft Sunday hymns and late breakfasts,

from FaceTime calls to Zimbabwe

where someone is frying maputi in the background,

from laughter that sounds like “ahhh shamwari yangu!”

to;

“Repeat after me.”

“Rii-pii-to aaf-ta mee.”

Just like that.

From “How was your weekend?”

to paperwork stacked like Mount Fuji.

From chilled vibes

to structured schedules

and neat handwriting on the board.

Monday, ndinokuvenga zvangu.

Not hate-hate…

but the kind of hate where we coexist

because rent must be paid.

Sunday in diaspora feels like a borrowed blanket.

I am African again.

Fully. Loudly. Softly.

I cook sadza.

I over-salt the stew because I’m distracted by memories.

I speak Shona with my whole chest:

“Ko iwe wakadii?”

“Ahh tiri bhoo zvavo.”

Then Monday arrives

with her first-world efficiency.

Train on time.

Emails in order.

Systems.

Schedules.

Politeness wrapped in structure.

And I must switch.

From developing-nation warmth

where time bends and stretches like elastic,

to developed-nation precision

where time is a ruler.

From “tichasvika”

to “be there at 8:17 sharp.”

The transition alone deserves hazard pay.

Monday is culture shock every week.

One minute I am someone’s daughter

laughing at voice notes from home,

the next I am Sensei Jez

projecting phonics on a smart board

while thirty children shout

“REPEAT AFTER ME!”

And I smile.

Because I love them.

But inside?

Inside I am still chewing on Sunday.

The thing about being African in the diaspora

is that rest feels sacred.

We rest loudly.

We gather.

We tell long stories that have no point

but many sound effects.

Then Monday says:

“Efficiency.”

And I say:

“Ehee… ndouya hangu.”

I will never get used to Mondays.

Never.

I will adjust.

I will show up.

I will even wear a cute outfit

to romanticize the suffering.

But love Monday?

Kwete.

She sucks the life out of my weekend joy

like she is personally jealous

of my happiness.

Yet...

Every Monday

is proof.

Proof that I crossed oceans.

Proof that I carry Zimbabwe in my accent

and Japan in my calendar.

Proof that I can code-switch

between “Ahh shamwari”

and “Good morning, class.”

Maybe Monday is not my enemy.

Maybe she is just the price of growth.

But let the record show...

I do not like her.

I respect her.

I tolerate her.

I show up for her.

But like that one relative

who calls you at 6am for “no reason” 

we will never be close.

Tichangogarisana.

Still…

If you see me quiet on a Monday morning,

just know —

I am crossing continents internally.

Give me a minute.