THE WOMAN IN THE VILLAGE
THE WOMAN IN THE VILLAGE
Contorted and wrinkled
Though last night’s bride
Kerchief well curled
Less the lustful eyes
See the raven hair
The woman in the village
An early bird
A yawn then a cough
Jumps over a snoring log- tired of a
Work well done,
Sowing on fertile land
A little shilly shally
She throws legs a part
Eyes half open
The right hand raising the skirt in front
Left pushing the knickers aside
To allow a jet of warm urine pass
Feeling withdrawn and tizzy
Woman in the village
Ready for life’s undying routines
A panga and a hoe
After all it’s the measure of her beauty
The village woman.
In the evening, nothing on hands but soil
After a days toil
Back at home
A sizzled husband waits eagerly
To rape her quietly
In return to add to her priorities
A son or a daughter
The village woman
Tomorrow comes
Only to find yesterday nagging
And the woman in the village
Waits quietly, to receive the ‘baton’
From the unfaithful husband
Yesterday’s bride
Faces the blade
Loosing her pride
As her life fades
The woman in the village
Exhausts her mirage
For that marriage
That she cannot manage
That woman in the village.
Copyright (o) Mwangi Muthiora
TWO HOURS BEFORE
Twenty seven years ago, My mom gave birth to a weakly son. Not even the doctors would belieave I would survive the miscarriage- Luckly, miracularsly, I did! Mother never left me neither did she regret marrying the man who almost saw me leave this world unceremoniously. A heavy boot had landed on moms protruding tummy six months to her pregnancy and what ensued was my longest journey. I Love you dearly mom!
2Hrs B4
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