Badmen Know Tuesdays

By Adesope Adisa

Badmen know the weight of Tuesday.

A dirty knife draws blood from a floored body

pressure and malicious pleasure

meeting the meat of his heart,

while the sun reminds us

it is Tuesday again.

“Badmen,” Mom called them—

not to describe their character

but a title they chose

and wore like a monarch’s crown.

Badmen stalk the market on Tuesdays,

the farms on Thursdays,

the bank on Wednesdays—

and, last Friday,

met my father on his walk to the pub.

Badmen—

men I hate with a boiling, itching rage:

pompous, hollow.

Their heels announce hunger for greatness,

fueled by lust

and blind greed.

Against the smell of Mrs Sandra’s stew,

blood on the street curls my stomach—

iron in the air, pepper in the pot.

The body on the pavement this Tuesday

lets me picture how my father lay.

Mom clamps my curious hand—

keeps me obedient,

while inside I nurse

a hatred hotter than my tears.

Badmen are no men to me.

By Adesope Adisa