They come at night,

Swathed in dark clothes and combat.

Brandishing weapons, sharpened and of might.

I only have my bare hands,

Hardened and senile from years of toiling,

knowing this day would come.

Wishing it never did.

and i hide my seed.

Shelter them from the painful truth,

that this is the world i bore them to.

and i plead for their lives and mine too.

But there is too many a foe.

With only a single evil cause.

Sons of the devil!

And they push me aside.

Part my legs. Not gently as he did,

before he left us behind.

Brutally as though i never lived.

Hold each limb in place with a strong hand.

Hands that stink of young women’s blood,

with tears of old women, salted.

and they rip my clothing,

Beloved sons of the devil!

And they violate my woman,

laugh and mock my curves, depressions and bumps.

I bleed loudly,

my heart screams silently,

Helpless, worthless.

Till i can bleed no more,

Till the tears run dry,

In a land with plenty a reason to cry.

Let them not get my daughters i pray.

Yet they still do and i hide my face,

from their deafening pleas,

Yet i close my heart to their painful cries,

I am ashamed.

For i cannot hold their little hands.

Or prevent them from touching their budding breasts,

Sons of the devil!

And I cannot hear them call me mother,

I cannot taste their warm tears,

Caress. My naked body.

and i cannot one last time, smell their innocence.

Before they take away their chastity.

and i am ashamed,

cold, unmoved, dead.

Eyes still open.

Tears streaming.

and i ask in death, as i did in life,

”Sons of Africa, why do you destroy your women?”

©Ado Yiembo.

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