Inua Ellams: The Scapegallow
There’s a certain breed of Monday where morning comes with fangs, ones so straightouttahell, I image the horned one himself, hunched over workbench sanding down the best till its grain reads your name, each flint sharp, Dickensian in darkness, a certain type of 9 a.m. where coffee tars the tongue, high fives hail Hitler and the postman’s whistlesong will strangle you from inside. The Welcome mat will cuff you, the door resist your shoulder, outside the easy limp of wind will whip you like a bitch. If blades of grass that break concrete, their tips stiff as fists, lend none of their rebel strength, drive or sapling hymns and journeying pollen pause just to poison, all this and the front gate is grating at your gait, do as I do: crawl for your sofa, flick for a channel, find a thick book, paint, do nothing till Tuesday. Just wait.
