The Kayayei’s Tale
I walk my beat in cities and markets—
under the perspiring sun.
From Tamale to Kejetia,
Techiman to Takoradi—
Accra my home base:
Nima, Mallam Atta,
Agbogbloshie, Makola—
Everywhere,
I am there.
Head pan in hand.
I thread markets and bus stations.
From six to six—rain or shine—
Carrying other people’s loads.
Who pick their way behind me, daintily,
watching, anxious,
while I shout and nudge through the crowds,
lest I be lost with their goods.
And when I arrive—
they begrudge me my wage.
Foxes have holes.
Birds have nests.
But I—
a daughter, a mother—
have none.
I make my bed in borrowed spaces,
where weary pillows give no rest,
and sleep eludes me.
I am prey to mosquitoes
and all blood-sucking creatures.
Unscrupulous men lurk in the dark
to plunder both my purse and womanhood,
and leave me
a mother with a double load,
if not worse.
Shop-owners scowl at me.
Drivers curse me.
Shoppers call me what they please—
until they need my head
to carry what they will not.
I am paraded at rallies,
head pan raised like proof
that I am nothing without it.
How would you know?
You—
the scowler, the curser, the labeler,
the gentleman, the politician, the big man—
I would have you know:
I am not—
I become.
under the perspiring sun.
From Tamale to Kejetia,
Techiman to Takoradi—
Accra my home base:
Nima, Mallam Atta,
Agbogbloshie, Makola—
Everywhere,
I am there.
Head pan in hand.
From six to six—rain or shine—
Carrying other people’s loads.
Who pick their way behind me, daintily,
watching, anxious,
while I shout and nudge through the crowds,
lest I be lost with their goods.
And when I arrive—
they begrudge me my wage.
Birds have nests.
But I—
a daughter, a mother—
have none.
I make my bed in borrowed spaces,
where weary pillows give no rest,
and sleep eludes me.
I am prey to mosquitoes
and all blood-sucking creatures.
Unscrupulous men lurk in the dark
to plunder both my purse and womanhood,
and leave me
a mother with a double load,
if not worse.
Drivers curse me.
Shoppers call me what they please—
until they need my head
to carry what they will not.
I am paraded at rallies,
head pan raised like proof
that I am nothing without it.
You—
the scowler, the curser, the labeler,
the gentleman, the politician, the big man—
I would have you know:
I am not—
I become.
Accra
1/05/2018
The depth, the descriptive accuracy, the emotionally sympathetic tone, all point to the sorry and sometimes gory ordeals of our sisters, but worst, it reveals our society which is increasingly becoming cold hearted, sadistic, and an irrational lot who prey on them because we have failed to provide social protection to them.
ReplyDeleteGreat piece!! The description is as though u ever experienced wat they go tru. Nice
ReplyDeleteHmm really touching, the head porters really goes through a lot
ReplyDeleteI admire Agandin's ability to make the reader see vivid images (almost physical) in his words.
ReplyDeleteHis poetry speaks to me in every way.
Great piece. Every aspect of their trade and ordeals well captured and eloquently presented.
ReplyDeleteSad but it is an impeccable truth
ReplyDelete