At birth, a curse she’s counted;
At her cry, she cries the loudest,
Her first woe drops from supposed father:
“A girl child!” – her woes began,
At birth, yet she’s known woes:
“Give me a male child!”
She’s taken from herself,
Mastered by father and brothers alike;
Though she be the first,
The last brother masters her better.
Her breasts, tender boils under shirt,
And buttocks like compressed dry loaves,
Yet primed, she’s haunted even by ‘father’!
Until she’s torn apart and rots, they rest not;
The same her once spewed
Now desired to be ripped of her last pride…
“Books not for HER, it’d be wasted!
Shall vocabulary be fucked or cook a stew?”
To buy herself, she sells more of her,
While she waits, sweet-tours taste and go-
Soon her breasts fell before rising;
She’s branded by devourers, “Prostitute!”
Her father smiles just ones:
When a ‘saviour’ sweet-tour tastes and stays,
When by her own she’s sold off the peg like goat,
The ‘saviour’s’ property of furniture she joins –
Shinning his shoes, she’d never been so bright…
Blame him not; like a car, he bought her!
Her slavery continues even in ‘freedom’
Doomed to tend children, husband plused,
The home, a pile for her daily routine slavery,
Beckoned to bed every night, never thought tired,
She’s doomed if she has herself among kids,
She earns her a tag, “witch” !
Her bulging eyes and thick lips,
Stiffened skins, fallen chested-breasts,
Ever dried, unstraightened hair,
Hollowed-dimpled cheeks from slaps …
Scars of her odd-fated store-reels;
…for on her shoulders, the world sleeps.
Keep up with ‘the scribe’ every Friday.
Akinsimoye, Samuel Omoniyi – Nigeria