The Gospel Of Colonization By Freequency Poem by Anonymous User

As a girl my family emigrated from Kenya, to the United States. New country, new people, new language. But the one thing that remained was the presence of my savior Jesus Christ. This didn't surprise me. I grew up knowing my god was everywhere. That he saw everything. I believed him to be a benevolent being whose image I was created in. Even as I looked up at his portrait that was hanging in my grandmother's home. A frame full of blonde hair. Pink and pale skin. Eyes a light blue, piercing enough to draw blood. An image so holy, but one that did not allow me to see myself in my creator.

But as a child, it didn't matter. I believed in the word of god. I read it like a love letter he wrote to me. I saw the preacher as the postman speaking of deliverance each service until one day in sunday school we were wrapping english bibles for poor kids in Botswana and I wondered in what language did God listen? Did he hear my prayers clearly in Swahili? Did he hear me better now that my amens were sent up in a foreign man's tongue? A foreign man whose face looked more like his blue eyed son I'd seen growing up. I thought maybe we sent english bibles because of his ears, they tasted the sweet sound of prayer better when spoken in this tongue. I know looking back it sounds like a silly moment to start questioning your faith. But that day I learned that once the seed of doubt is planted its roots will always thirst.

So I began to read about God. Each page was like a raindrop of history. I lost my religion in floods of understanding, but I grew closer to divinity and eventually branches on that tree in doubt spread so wide that they blocked out even his divine light. It was around the same time that I realized that the poor kids had sent bibles too. They were poor partly because of how that bible had been used. See when the missionaries came to africa. Christianity swept out lands like a biblical plague. Our first borns werWhat they brought was an image made to justify the breaking of our bodies like communion bread. A false idol that to this day I still see hanging in so many Kenyans homes a frame full of blond hair. Pink and pale skin. Eyes a light blue, piercing enough to draw blood. To have already drawn blood.
e smothered under the cover of night. Our waters, they flowed red and full. Swollen like the bodies of stolen daughters were left in the darkness for colonization. For eight decades we became a continent of jobs. Promised salvation but seeing suffering tenfold from those who came claiming grace for belting gospels of genocide.
From those who beat tradition of elder tongues and called the tithe. From those who called losing our culture attacks for finding salvation in christ, and ain't it funny. How they used their god to justify the taking of what ours had blessed us with for centuries. I think, how they claim to introduce God to our lands and our lands birth even our humanity. See Jummo Kenyatta once said that when the missionaries arrived the africans had the land and the missionaries had the bible. They taught us to pray with our eyes closed and when we opened them, they had the land and we had the bibles. Do you see how swiftly they pull wool from the lamb of God over our eyes. The greatest lie colonialism ever told was that it brought God to africa. Yes, they brought their bibles but they did not bring God to our lands. Yes, they brought their churches, but they don't bring God to our lands. Yes, they brought their guns but they did not bring God to our lands.