Tell her she is the moon-
She does not belong to the kitchen
and other rooms like our first lady
Her eyes are the satellite of the earth.
Tell her she is the sun-
That corruption can’t cover at noon
Her dimples create love channels
Where poetry salutes many lips.
Tell her she is a dancer-
Her legs tell thousand stories
Of African tradition and culture
Not of hatred and abuse of mankind.
Tell her she is a singer-
With a tonic voice of nightingale
Not like a venom of an envious snake
Her tongue is the sea of hope.
Tell her that her love made me
Wiggle like a drunk prostitute
It made me lost in God’s eyes
My dance awaits her breastful days.
Tell her I won’t make her eyes wet
She belongs to the throne not kitchen
She shall build another wall of China
Not in her season shall women be rejected.
Tell her she is a mother not a whore!
Our lives began from her womb like
Nature began from God’s poetry lips
Tell her that I am coming home soon.
A drummer she is among the drummers
Many voices echo from her hands
She is not an inexperienced kite that
Made fun of itself by carrying the duck.
(C) John Chizoba Vincent
Voice Of Vincent 2016