Come let’s dig deep into Mother’s tale.
her border is the immaculate finger of the sky,
Beside this seashore was her flower taken.
under the rippled moon tale of the northern
Sahara, they made her the dummy of silence.
her mother sold her eyes to the tale bearer,
papa, the village artifact of the specified terrain.
she was the north of the aggressive villagers,
then, her father sold her to Papa who took her
Pride under the rimpression seashore.
If in this outskirt of another blood line, we lied,
then she lied of yesterday and today with an eyes of timbers.
if this is the miracle of the custom in our land,
then, women are meant to tolerate men existence,
and men, an organised egoists bottled in ignorance.
She was sold and her freedom lost to the forest,
the dancing of the forest trees made mockery of her,
her waistband was ridicule treasure to papa’s hand.
he refused her food and water but see through her
every masking night on cruel bed of sin.
dig deeper you will see her past through his eyes,
curling and calling a fainting torment of a woman lost,
lost in love and ambition, lost in fear and humbleness!
her mouth smitten by a rosy flashy hand,
years have gone with the winds of time,
we only remember sounds of rain in our ears
dabbing before our roof and fate of our destinies.
with our unbeatable smiles, egoism was created.
she ran out into the ocean against her wish,
with our curled happiness in her mind;
stamping her foot on the temple of sober,
grounds of memories, heart hurt memories,
Splashing the waters of infidelity of love,
Her misery with our foot crossed paths in voices
as we were made whole through her tale of agony
dancing under the rain, an African nightful rain
made women scapegoat in an African way.
indeed nothing taste like freedom of feminism,
so nothing sounds better like the yelling of peace.
the songs of rain, rain of colours dangling voices
where mother rest her breastful pride for tomorrow.
©John Chizoba Vincent