Unsung Heroines



The sun is searing hot
Hurling down fierce fuming rays. 
Earth roasts under his angry gaze 
As meat over blazing coals. 
Everything bows in submission 
Men, birds, beasts, and beetles 
Trees, shrubs and every blade of grass 
Droops in defeat and compliance.

On this sweltering March noon ablaze
Upon a deserted path in defiance
,
A solitary figure lumbers on.
Bent forward with a stern grit, with
A double load of wood and flesh,
Labouring on, towards
The distant din of a village market!


A mother, with her mewling infant
And a hefty load of firewood
Trudging to the market
To buy salt and pepper 
That she may feed her family!
Her man, probably lounging in a bar
Had shoved at her a basket of millet
With nothing else for soup.

She had gone to the mortar
To thresh that millet with sore palms
And upon her grinding stone 
Milled it all into flour.
She went to the river with a big pot
Till all the bigger pots at home brimmed over. 
But not before she had swept 
All the house and compound, 
Mended every crack and crevice, 
Scrubbed every cheng[1] and chimoin[2] spotless 
And pounded her rags in the river soap-less.

Read: Village Boy Impressions - Loved at A Glance

There she goes down the burning path! 
Along the wearied unwavering road, 
With hardly enough cover for her feet 
Bleeding from the blistering path. 
For the journey did not start from home 
Though it began there in the morning 
When she rose at cock crow for the forest 
And tore through thorns and stumps 
To gather the precious firewood 
That she cannot afford to use at home 
But must of need send to the market 
So that she could buy salt and pepper 
That her children may not sleep hungry. 

The little tot that she carries 
She will feed and cuddle and treat 
Blow his nose with her mouth, 
Clean and cover his lidless rectum, 
Till he becomes one day a man,  
To shout and rave and rant at her 
And beat her up in drunkenness 
To show that he is a man


She will return down this road
Jostling with many other mothers 
Destined for smoke-filled kitchens 
Dimly lit by smoking kerosene lamps 
To stir saab for hungry mouths. 
Whilst the men wait upon the rooftops 
With peppers and gin in their blood 
Impatient to leap upon them 
Like locusts upon fresh green saplings 
And thrust them full of more little babies

Hail the women! Hail the mothers! 
Hail the unsung heroines of the land! 
They are… 
the blood that waters the plains green 
the manure that feeds our crops 
the donkeys that carry our loads 
the wood that feeds our cooking fires 
the breasts that nourish our young 
the menders of our walls 
the nurses of our aged 
the housekeepers 
the dishwashers 
the laundry machines 
and so on without end…
they are the women that make us men 
Hail the mothers! Hail!


Plastering the walls of a compound

You may also read this poem here



[1] Earthenware bowl that usually holds soup
[2] Calabash bowl that usually holds TZ.





Comments

  1. Love the write up on women. Really reflects their societal status

    ReplyDelete

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