The Crooked branch


In rugged clothes,
A black woman dwells in pain and vain,
As she stares at an empty crooked kitchen,
With no mafiga to pot her rice,
And neither water to quench her thirst.

As the sun spears the cracks,
And awakens the inhabitant,
The black woman drags her feet,
Full of stretches and blood,
Towards the deserted farm,
Only to find wilt greens,
And a dry well,
With no praises to sell,
The woman of the jungle fields,
Listens to famine’s tearless cries,
As she finds her way back to her shack,
Ready to lie on reed mat enough for her,
To die thankfully,
And with hunger!

*Mafiga to mean cooking stones used in most African countries

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